What year is this?

Years... it's been years since I've even thought about writing.. okay, maybe I've thought about it.  I've thought about it enough to hear the voices in my head that say.. "Forget it! You don't have a voice that can be translated! No one cares what you say: you're erradict and scare people though your writing like you do in real life. If someone wants to hear what you have to say~they'll tell you!  But less you forget, they won't."  It's the same voice that crosses over to pretty much every aspect of life.. the "You best be finding a gym girl, that ass is dropping and those quads are equal to your average 70 year old. It's the voice that says "You should have taken back end on that album and put your name out there!" "You're a fool for worrying that people will think you're bragging or 'sleeping with one of the band,' so you fucked yourself and now you can't even look at that.

Maybe the voice came along because of the ADHD; the struggle to remember how to fly the same rig day after day and not knowing why.  It was certainly added to by the person you respected that asked if you were a heroin addict because you lost and found 50k all in one day.  Yes, physically lost 50k.  Later, after you ran from that person, friends and the city that was helping you make a name you started realizing that there's something more and that the Dr. might be right.  By then, bridges had been burned and taking the meds would help daily but they don't reconstruct those bridges.  They don't fix the damage you did to yourself.  Something you did, something you said with a broken filter.  The image you've created in your head from glances that weren't even meant for you.  But they might help you look in the right direction.  Maybe..

After all of this, you now find yourself in the amazing position of not being able to identify with the things that made you feel whole, powerful, happy, fulfilled, proud of you as a being.  Why?  Well, now your disabled and most days feel like you should just spare yourself and others the joy of your leaving your home.  Pity Party for One?  YES.  Yes, I'll take it.  I'll take that bitch and ride it like a Brahma Bull that's late for dinner and not amused by the flies.  It's not that my disability is worse than any other, it's not that my disability is even worthy of a second glance.  It's that the bitch took all that I worked for with those fucking meds, and constant battles against who may have the biggest dick, because, of course, when you don't have one yours has to be bigger.. Bigger as in large enough to swing over your shoulder and wave it around.  It's best if when you whip that bad boy out and it slaps the stage you don't whince because it's hot.  Just smile and throw it over your shoulder like a warm scarf in a blizzard.  Don't worry they'll call you ice queen so the analogy will fit.

After you've worked your way through the mourning of your old life, (yes, the one you finally got a grasp of) and accepted that you now have this ridiculous issue that warrants the use of a Service Dog. After you've dealt with the crippling doubt brought on by everyone assuming the beast has to be for emotional support, that you have to be faking it because you're working on lifting your ass off the floor and finding your quads again.  Thats when it hits.. you don't know who you are.. you don't know where your support lies.  you don't know how to become a better person again... you only know that you want to hide.... The voice now, it doesn't berate you, it doesn't have to.  The voice now says "if you'd moved left instead of right, you might be fine.'  The voice doesn't help you to feel patient, or fine.  The voice is still your tiny nemesis