I had plans to go to a gym next week and get started on a new exercise program. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get out of the apartment building garage, but with the ice on the streets that might not be doable. That’s right. I’m iced in. Typical North Texas wintery mix storm. Almost an inch of ice covered with sleet and insulated with snow.

Still somewhat laid up with sciatica, but it is getting better. Yesterday I only had one muscle spasm and that was in my right hip. It’s a bit sore this morning, but I’ll put some heat on it later and see what happens.

My biggest problem is getting up in the morning and being able to walk. The pain is excruciating, It’s all I can do to walk out of the bedroom to the chair at the counter. I cannot think about walking into the bathroom to pee. I’ve got a bucket by the bed to take care of that problem. I suppose I could go to the doctor, but what will he do except put me back into physical therapy. My problem is not getting enough exercise. Actually, my problem is not getting any exercise.

So, I sit in the recliner typing this, exercising my fingers wishing I had the means to get to a gym.

This certainly hasn’t been a happy New Year for me. It started on my way home from my son’s home where I spent Christmas. I had rented a car from Budget, but unfortunately I didn’t check out its condition. The top half of the driver’s side windshield wiper was separated from the rim. But the real problem was an empty wiper fluid tank. The highways to the airport were covered with a mixture of ice, snow, slush, and sand, which was near impossible with the tools I had to clean the windshield. Luckily traffic was slow, but that meant sitting in the car for an extra amount of time.

Then I got into the terminal where there were tons of people. It took me a while to find the end of my line, but that didn’t mean anything good. The line was so slow. Then a serious problem cropped up. For the past couple years I’ve lost the ability to stand for any extended amount of time. I could see the ticket counter, but I knew I wasn’t going to make it there. Luckily the wheelchair station was between me and the ticket counter. I felt like a fool for having to do it, but I went up and requested assistance and I got it.

My wheelchair went around the main ticket counter to the special ticket counter for employees and disabled. Soon it was at security and going through that was a snap. The guy pushing the wheelchair helped me with my computer bag and hoodie. Didn’t have to remove my shoes. Didn’t have to walk through the scanner. Soon we were on our way to the gate, which happened to be the last gate on the concourse. Lucky I had a wheelchair.

I got home without too much trouble, but I noticed pains in the back of my thighs and calves. I went to the store to get some milk and cantaloupe. The next day I did my laundry. The day after that I was going to go to the Dallas VA Med Center to get my new compression stockings, but as I opened the door to go out, I knew I wasn’t going to make it there and back home. The pain in my back, thighs, knees, calves, and feet was so bad I just went back to bed. I was stuck in my apartment for eleven days. I went out the next day, got my mail and Amazon packages, figured I go to the Med Center the next day. Well, that didn’t happen, but maybe tomorrow.

The answer in simple. It’s the sciatica acting up again. I suppose it might’ve been better if I had asked the guy sitting next to me to let me out to stand up, but I didn’t. He was watching something on his tablet and I didn’t want to disturb him.

I’m thinking if I go to my son’s place another Christmas, I’ll take the train. At least on a train you get to stand up now and then. You even get to walk through cars.

I almost finished this year’s novel in time to send it off to Jericho Writers for analysis. Actually, I finished the writing, editing, and doing rewrite stuff, but didn’t quite finish the final read through. Just nine chapters to go, but maybe I’ll finish them before bedtime. The problem of an actual final read through remains because the first final read through turned into a editing and rewrite fest. So, the final, final read through will occur over the weekend.

I truly think this year’s novel, The Companion, has a chance of being picked up by a traditional publisher. I went back to the Argottean Empire that was created in stories posted at gayauthors.org back in the aughts, of which only three short stories (Annihilation and Sterilization, The Last Watcher, Walkabout) and a novel length story, A Very Schticky Thing To Do, remain from the software change that occurred in 2011. That was after I had that nervous breakdown in Jackson, Tennessee, and ended up in Dallas, Texas, only to be sent to the Texas State Hospital in Terrell for three weeks.

The Companion is about Willi’rs Brixti, a Schtickist high school senior who earns the chance to go to university, something that is a rarity in the empire. He’ll be in a program where he’ll be paired with a Normal at the same university. The story follows Willi from getting his parents to sign the application to being paired with Laury’ol Snank, who is the Viscount Bongos because he’s the son of the Earl of Melder.

The Earl of Melder turns out to be not who he seems and Laury almost dies as a result. Willi on the other hand becomes involved with the ‘xrsc, the pervasive computer systems that exist in the four physical dimensions and two recondite dimensions: here-there and now-then.

On the whole, though, 2021 has been an okay year. I’ve got the IRS Installment Agreement almost paid off. Then I’ll pay off the car. Then it’ll be pay off the credit card. There’ll be a new laptop somewhere in there. Then I’ll save up to move back up to Washington. It was a total mistake moving down to Texas. I could’ve found an apartment if I had looked harder, but I was so delusional that people were watching me because I had tried to become friends with that boy. Oh, well, I’ll only go back to Gold Bar to visit the dogs once I move up there.

I flew up to Washington to spend Christmas with my son, Nate, at his home in Gold Bar. I lived with him from October 2011 until September 2021. I left due to mental incident brought on by convincing my psychiatric medication provider I no longer needed to take my mood stabilizer. She actually said, “I like it when my patients can go off medications.”

Crazy people like me are able to live in society by taking various medications to keep them from bouncing off the walls. I look back on my life and can see each point in time when a decision had to be made, but ended up being distorted by either not taking medications (pre-diagnosis) or going off medications. So, now I have to manage my life so that I can move back to Washington. I won’t be living with my son for the simple reason he lives too far from VA medical facilities I need.

Okay, enough of the crazy stuff. For Christmas we spent it with Nate’s semi-official foster family who he lived with after leaving home at 15. There are three brothers and the oldest hosts the party every year. His wife cooks a prime rib roast, lays out hors d’oeuvres, and provides the dinner roles and dessert. The wives of the other two brothers bring the side dishes: green bean casserole, mac and cheese (cottage), and an ever-changing attempt at baked sweet potatoes (never with marshmallows on top). Refreshments are soft drinks.

It’s nice to have some place to go on Christmas. It’s nice to be included. I look forward to going to Christmas dinner there in the future when I move back.

It’s Sunday, and it snowed today. The temp is down in the 20s. This is okay other than I’ll be going back to Texas on Tuesday. That is if Alaska doesn’t cancel my flight because of COVID. It’s supposed to be in the teens when I drive back to the airport to turn in my rental. Hopefully, WADOT will have the roads clear and sanded. The last thing I need is getting in an accident. Oh, well, that’s life.

I can’t believe I’ve neglected this for so long.

So, I guess this is a new beginning and hopefully this will lead to more entries in the future, the near future to be exact. So, what’s up?

Story-wise, I’m putting the finishing touches on a sci-fi novel that takes place on three planets of a five planet empire. The basis for the novel is a eugenics program that ended a few millennia ago. The final result of the program were deformed stillborn babies throughout all life lines.

There was another result from the program. At the 1768th generation, 76 babies were discovered to have mutations on their sex chromosomes. These babies, and subsequently occurring babies with the mutation, were taken out of the main breeding lines and bred among themselves.

In the course of two millennia, the 1768 generation produced a new species under the genus Homo. This species is noted for the altered functions in producing offspring. The female’s ovaries produce one or more eggs that traverse the fallopian tubes to the top of the cervix. The male’s enters the lower end of the cervix and ejaculates. Sperm and eggs mix and are drawn back into the male’s urethra to an opening above the prostate gland. There the mix enters the male’s uterus. After five to seven months, the baby traverses the birth canal and exits at the perineum.

Probably to confuse the geneticists, the female only produces a eggs in response to sexual arousal. The and the male doesn’t experience a menstrual cycle. The uterus is a small insignificant organ between the urethra and the bowel until it is awakened in response to sexual activity.

This new species is called Homo schticksia (Schtickists) because at an early age, soon after gaining the ability to walk, babies will do pratfalls. After that, in almost quick succession, double takes, silly walks, pirouettes, and silly dancing are added to the child’s repertoire. Speech adds silly songs and silly jokes. At puberty, the male gains the ability to produce brightly-colored, sticky urine they use to express their dissatisfaction with life.

Schtickists are second-class citizens. Their movements, residences, employment, communications, education, etc., are strictly controlled by all government agencies. They can be summarily executed by the police for the slightest offence. If they are involved in an accident and the Schtickist ward at any nearby hospital is full, they will be humanely euthanized.

Times are changing though.

I feel I have come to a juncture in my life. For many years I have been a writer who has posted all his stories at the story site gayauthors.org (GA). In the past couple years, I got it in my head I could be a real writer and get my stuff published like a real author. If anything, it certainly got me to writing some serious shit.

Yesterday, I was thinking about how my life has gone and I had to admit my likelihood of becoming a published writer before my death is about as likely as living to the ripe age of 500. The evidence is quite plain. All you have to do is look at who is being published. I’d guess about 95% of newly published writers are people coming out of creative writing programs at colleges and universities, especially those that grant MFAs.

Where does that leave me?

Well, quite frankly, I’m still publishing short stories at GA by contributing to the anthologies, so it wouldn’t be unrealistic to go back to posting long stories. I could start with “Flight of the Dodo.” While I was publishing that, I could work on new long stories, medium length stories, and short stories.

I’ll have to think about this because this thought pattern could just be a result of a period of depression that I seem to be in at the moment. To think that I get depressed while taking an antidepressant, so much for modern medicine.

Drum roll, please . . .

Ta-da!

In the far corner, we have the ever popular Carl Holiday, mostly unrecognized mentally ill (Bipolar Disorder I) gentleman originally from that city of many hills on the eastern shore of Puget Sound.

While in the near corner, we have the newly minted Schizoaffective Disorder, Bipolar Type, mentally disturbed gentleman now living in the modest city of Plano, Texas.

I know you have questions, so, without further ado, we’ll get to the top of the stack: Is schizoaffective disorder anything like schizophrenia?

Yes, and no. it’s like it’s more famous brother in that it is characterized by delusions, hallucinations, and disorganized speech and thinking, but it’s has an added benefit of a mood disorder such as bipolar disorder or just depression.

Is there any benefit to our victim? Yes, and it is quite substantial. The Department of Veterans Affairs has graciously awarded our victim a disability rating of 70% for his degree of suffering. He doesn’t qualify for 100% because he isn’t actively suicidal, frequently hospitalized, or homeless, and thank God for that.

So, what happens now?

Nothing much or shall we use the famous acronym SNAFU because that’s pretty much how life is going right now. He jumped out of the frying pan, which was Gold Bar, and is now in the fire, which is Plano. Actually Plano isn’t that bad. It’s comfortably close to Dallas and the DFW Metroplex has a host of entertainment possibilities. Plus, there is the writing. There will always be the writing. The only facet of life that has significantly changed is being formally recognized as having schizoaffective disorder.

This morning when I woke up and looked out the window I didn’t see Lake Chelan as I did on Christmas mornings as a child and young adult. Growing up, Christmas meant going over to my grandparent’s home in Manson, Washington, overlooking Lake Chelan. Granddad was an orchardist who grew mostly red and golden delicious apples on 8 acres in the main orchard and across Wapato Lake Road in the little orchard.

We (me, Mom, and Dad) lived in Seattle and going to Manson for Christmas was a big deal because we had to go over the Cascade Mountains via Stevens Pass to get there. Having to put chains on the car before going over the pass was a given. Having the pass blocked by one or more avalanches was not unheard of. If that occurred, we would have to go over Snoqualmie and Blewett Passes to get to Manson. I remember a couple years waiting at the foot of Stevens Pass while snow plows cleared the highway for us to go over the mountain.

The special thing about Christmas at Manson was the whole family would be there. The family included Grandmother and Granddad; Mom’s brother Uncle Lyle, Aunt Hilly, and their two boys, Bucky and Fritz; Mom’s sister Aunt Hollis, Uncle George, and their three girls, Launa, Donna, and Nelda; and, Mom, Dad, and me. The thing about us cousins was that at Christmas we were one year apart with Bucky being the oldest, then Launa, Donna, Fritz, Nelda, and me. When Aunt Hollis divorced Uncle George there were only thirteen of us and Granddad wouldn’t allow us to sit at one table for dinner and supper because thirteen is an unlucky number. Our problem was solved with Uncle Lyle arranging for one of Bucky or Fritz’s friends eating with us for those meals.

I suppose most family traditions have a time limit. Things just can’t go on as they did because kids grow up and move on to new families, parents get divorced, and people die. That was our situation. Christmas in Manson ended for me when Granddad died when my son was five. Grandmother had died a few years before, but once Granddad was gone, there wasn’t a reason to go over the mountains. Christmas moved to my mother’s home, but even that couldn’t last forever. Now, it’s just me and my son, and even that couldn’t last when my life with him unraveled this year at the end of September resulting in my move to Texas.

Now, I’m left to come up with my own Christmas traditions. I wonder what those will be.

In the latter part of 2019, I was feeling a bit delusional. I was in love. Unfortunately, the object of my affection was over 50 years my junior. I went to the VA looking for a psychologist. I knew I couldn’t go back to my VA psychiatrist because she had already cast me off, but I assumed (crazy people assume a lot) I could get seen by one of their psychologists. Unfortunately, my former VA psychiatrist responded to my request. I told her what was going on in my life. She said I wasn’t delusional, I was just daydreaming. But she agreed to send in a referral to Veteran’s Choice for me to see an outside psychologist.

I started seeing this guy. He had a recent PhD certificate in Clinical Psychology on his wall, so I was feeling pretty good about seeing him. I guess he knew what he was doing because within six months I was feeling pretty good. I certainly wasn’t delusional (daydreaming) anymore. I clearly saw that my misguided affection was wrong and I needed to redirect my romantic energies in a more logical direction, so I started writing. That’s what I do to calm my raging mind.

An offshoot of my feeling good about seeing this psychologist was a crazy idea that crazy people often get when they’re feeling good. I got the idea I could go off-meds. Not all meds, just my mood stabilizer. I kept the atypical antipsychotic (keeps me on the straight and narrow) and the antidepressant (keeps me from being overly sad or suicidal), but I decided I was well enough to go off the really big one. Well, my VA psychiatrist got rid of me because she thought I was in remission. That’s a technical medical word meaning you’re no longer sick from what ails you. People with cancer go into remission all the time. Unfortunately, most cancer doesn’t actually disappear when people go into remission. It just goes into deep hiding in various places in the body where diagnosticians don’t usually look for hidden cancer cells. Fifteen years later the cancer has recreated itself and tries very hard to kill its mistaken host.

Not only did my former VA psychiatrist think I was in remission and no longer needed her attention, she also altered my diagnosis from Bipolar Disorder I to Schizoaffective Disorder, Bipolar Type. Schizoaffective Disorder is like Schizophrenia, but not as severe or debilitating. In other words, not only was I prone to mania, but I could also be delusional (or just severely daydreaming).

Anyway, I asked my psych med provider if I could go off the mood stabilizer because I was feeling so good. She said she liked patients who didn’t take too much medication. So I weaned myself off the mood stabilizer. Everything was good for a while. Then things started getting weird. The weirder life got, the more delusional I became. I knew I wasn’t simply daydreaming. I was positive people were watching me. People were intent on my destruction. I had to get away from where I was living or these people were going to do me in.

It got so bad, I decided to move to Texas. My son was understandably upset that I was moving, but people were watching my every move. I was a danger to my community. I told my son this was so, this was the reason I had to move.

The upshot of all this is I did move to Texas. The good thing, though, is I recognized how horribly my life had gone wrong by being off-meds and requested my new VA psychiatrist down here in Texas that I needed to go back on my mood stabilizer. Last night after dinner, I took my first dose of the mood stabilizer. Hopefully, life will get better soon.

I’m into my second month here in Texas.

This morning it was announced that Joe Biden accumulated enough Electoral College votes to win the 2020 Presidential election. Everybody is cheering. Or, at least everybody on the Blue side of the aisle is cheering. Now, we have to wait and see if the Electoral College process will follow the popular vote. There is a chance it could be sabotaged, but if that were to occur, it would, in all likelihood, mean the end to the United States of America as we know it today.

Back to me.

I’ve been goofing off, big time. I’ve been spending hours here on my laptop wasting precious time. Changes need to be made in my life. After all, I’m in the sunset years of my life. I’m not healthy. I’m overweight, technically obese. I have CKD (chronic kidney disease). I have high blood pressure. I need to lose weight. I need to get more exercise. Yes, I have neuropathy and my feet hurt. Yes, I have arthritic knees and ankles making it difficult to walk. Yes, I eat all the wrong things. But I need to get more exercise or my next address will be a plot at the Dallas-Fort Worth National Cemetery.

The Plan:

Get to a gym and get more exercise. Twenty to twenty-five minutes on a bike with heart rate at least 115 bpm. Then weights for an additional twenty minutes. Do that at least four days a week and I should be on my way to better health.

Add good food to my diet. Start cooking more food. Reduce amount of packaged food. Significantly reduce the amount of bad food in my diet. Yummy stuff is okay in moderation. Severe moderation is needed right now.

Spend less bad time on the computer. Look at the news and then move on. Work on my stories. At least 1,500 words a day should be sufficient. More is okay, if the creative juice flow warrants such an adjustment to time spent writing. Limit YouTube videos to no more than two hours a day. Less is better.

Get back to reading. I’ve been buying books like mad. I need to be spending more time reading them. Less time on the computer should avail more time reading.

Get out more. Yes, it hurts to walk, but I need to get out. Of course, with COVID-19 going wild it’s not a good idea to be out around other people. That is no reason to go to a park and walk as much as I can tolerate. After all, there’s a park with walking trails across the street. There are 118 acres of parkland in Plano and more within 20 miles.

That looks like a good plan. Now, all I have to do is implement it. After all, the choice is to have a long and fruitful time in my final years here on Planet Earth or not. The choice is mine.