An Open Letter to Obsession

So, as I sit here on Day 2almost3, I have spent some time considering obsession. The thought. The concept. The action. All of it.

It takes many forms, obsession. Don’t think that you’ve seen it in only one guise or as one phenomenon. It is all that we know as addiction, or infatuation, or gut wrenching anxiety or even hope. All of these are obsession in their own way. And don’t think that they are all of one ilk. There is no dark and light in obsession. There is a sea of gray and myriad white lies that it tells us and oh so many fantastic ways it can insinuate itself into our psyches.

Is it addiction? I’ve been addicted to smoking for years. I was/am a smoker. Sometimes proud, sometimes shamed. Sometimes just indifferent. It was my companion. After stress (the one time I was held up, I had a smoke immediately after). After sex (even if I had to sneak one in, I knew it was out there for me, waiting). But also with the mundane. Coffee, and after dinner, and just to get a break in the action. It was there, and could still be. And I know that there is much to blame on the “thing itself”. But I’ve used many addicting substances, both occasionally and exclusively (coffee, anyone)? And I don’t blame Maxwell House. I just love it. And now, when I just can’t do it anymore, I realize that… although I do have a headache, and may find myself irritable, it just doesn’t bother me as it has in the past. My obsession was overcome by my bleeding gums. Obsession is convenience.

Is it infatuation? Certainly this rears its ugly head time and again in my happy world. I’ve been deeply in love. I’ve been distantly in love. I’ve been spurned and have spurned (mostly, to be fair, I’ve been spurned). I’ve been convinced that my life will never fulfill it’s destiny because of this missed opportunity or that ill-timed advance. But as it happened, the world hasn’t stopped spinning yet. I haven’t become a pauper on the street with no hope of immortality. I’m not alone. But lord had you told me that 2 months ago, or 3 or 4 years ago, or 13 years ago, I would never have believed you. Maybe I have missed something that time will eventually reveal to me. But, as of tonight, it appears to be obsession.

Is it anxiety or even hope? Here, my friends, is the trickiest of questions. Anxiety is my constant companion. My familiar. The creature on my shoulder reminding me to be worried about this, and take heed of that and consider if maybe, just maybe… it was something I did. Or didn’t do. Or could have done differently. It drives me to drink and to smoke and to scream loudly in my car when no one is watching. Or at very least when the only people watching are those I could give a shit about. Is it obsession? With my life? With my concern of lack of life? Am I just obsessed with what, what, what the fuck is wrong with me? And here’s the interlude- what if it’s also hope? Obsession might be the tiny rabbit breading the voices in my head. But maybe it’s also the little hive from where my hopes emerge. You know the ones I’m talking about. Or maybe you don’t. Those little random hopes that walk hand and hand with my anxieties, like two happy children in a playground. One reminding me of what went wrong, and one telling me that – don’t worry boy, it’ll all be OK in time. My most recent obsession was female. She is ultimately irrelevant. Laden with baggage and likely shallower then a tide pool. But for some stupid reason, I adored her. And then of course, my friends from visited. Skipping into my heart and mind they kicked my soul around, laughed and pointed fingers, and then, just as they’re leaving, are sure to remind me that “It might have been something you said. Maybe you’re just really bad in the sack.” But it’s sure to leave with “what is meant to happen will happen. You never know what next month/year, etc will bring”. Like I need some fantasy running around in my head to amuse me. It’s not amusing dammit! Haven’t I made that clear in the past HALF of my life? You know what fantasy I need? That between now and Thursday I win the lottery and they invent some device to beam mature bone into my mouth that automatically spawns new teeth. That’s what I want keeping me up at night. Fucking obsession. Never does pay attention.

I don’t know. Is it just me? Maybe I’m the only one who is confounded by this strange creature. But I doubt it. Is it the spectre of the post-modern? Perhaps I can don my derrida cloak and deconstruct I will find some light at the end of my obsessed tunnel. But that’s hooey, and I think we all know it. Some fantastic notion that, if properly broken down we’ll find some inkling, some shred of the obvious and viewable and epistemological that we’ve missed. Some reason that we feel this way, that we’re owned and controlled and wander off in our heads during the day and are kept up at night. But that’s not it, is it? In the end we’re just victims of ourselves. We’re just obsessed.

Perhaps Obsession, perhaps you’re like a broken bone. We all hate you, and you’re painful as fuck, but invariably you happen to almost everyone once. And we heal with time and patience and some immobility. Or perhaps Obsession… perhaps you are like a bowel movement. Perhaps you a stinking pile of shit. You smell and are disgusting and not typically to be discussed. But you happen to everyone, everywhere in the world every day. And if you stopped happening, we’d all die.

Just because...

OK, I promised some gory pictures, and now that I'm home I will try to deliver. Further commentary on these will come later, but for now i give you this... one actual gore, one personality gore. Actually, the second one is my Dr Zauis look.

No, no... I know now..

It's not that I look like a monkey. It's more Planet of the Ape-ish. I'm Dr Zauis! That's it! But less proto-hominid and more just kinda puffy. Also, I'd need my facial hair back to look really Ape-ish.

Anyway, that slight interlude brought to you by percocet, boredom, and the letter's T & Z, and the number 2.

Day 1.5 - Friday is TV purgatory

So I'm back. Why you ask? Because seriously, what the hell else am I going to do with my time? It's Friday night... and I'm sitting in the room i grew up in at my folks house drowning my sorrows in milkshake #2 for the day. The most interesting thing I found to watch was a Bill Moyers special, and I'm far too emboldened with painkillers to consider opening that Pynchon novel I brought with me. OK, so I could have done some better planning, i admit that now. But hindsight being 20-20 and all that.

Yeah, don't remind me. A cold beer and a shot, and a steaming, relaxing drag off the world's longest cigarette are what i need right now. But that's not gonna happen, so I'm left considering some things. I did hope that much of these weeks would be spent in illuminating self-analysis and provide several moments of enlightenment. I'm not sure that this has happened yet, but it's still early, so we'll reserve judgment.

However, so far I have learned a few more lessons:
-) No matter how much you've prepared, you can't possibly be ready for two things: How boring recovery's really are, and how incredibly unprepared you will invariably be for living with your parents again, even if for only a couple of days. Don't get me wrong, I love my parents dearly. They're wonderful, fantastic people. But if my mom suggests for the 8th time that I just "have a piece of that cheesecake, without the crust of course", I might seriously go postal and fling the damned cheesecake across the kitchen

-) In the realm of emotional stability- never underestimate how swelling, pain and excessive physical discomfort can sooth the troubled emotional mind. I had this fucked up month or two, which was spent regularly trying to check my head (apologies to ad-rock) and focus. Now, even if I reach out to think about those things/people that were buggin', the best reaction i can muster is... "eh!". So there's some healing right there. Amen! Hallelujah! and all that jazz.

I wish I had a cool cane now. Like one of those with the duck head handles, or something that turns into a sword. Damn, I could really make a new fashion statement. Monkey face, brash bold cane play. I'd be like Errol Flynn, but uglier, slower and less amusing to watch on film.

Day 1- The aftermath begins

OK, technically this is day 2. unless you consider surgery day 0. Which is a terribly Mayan thing to do. So I will. And considering it was a lost day, with little to show for it except an iced coffee, 2 milkshakes and 2 hours of surgery, we're going to stick with the original nomenclature and call this day 1. Oh and like 5 percocet. Damn do I love percocet.

Well, I'm disoriented, bored of daytime TV and I look not unlike a monkey. And it's been like 26 hours. That doesn't bode well, does it? And in addition to the standard pain I expect I now have a non-trivial headache. I blame the lack of smokes! Fucking cigarettes. Once again I'm reminded of how insidious the damn things are. All the shit I have to feel now, and they plug me with a nicotine withdrawal, as a final middle finger to my otherwise glorious day! fuckers. How glorious you ask? Oh so fucking glorious. I've had a banana and peanut butter shake. and water. and I'm considering how fantastic a bowl of tomato soup will be. In all seriousness- I really like tomato soup. The canned kind. It's the only way to fly. If all goes well, I plan to end the day with mashed potatoes. It's a culinary wonder here in east county.

On the bright side, i have no laptop. no work cell. my entire company could have burned to the ground today and I'd never know the difference. Although in fairness that would be like 20 different offices around the globe burning on the same say. Perhaps that's too fortunate to hope for.

Non-sequiter: An earthquake? In Illinois? Are you kidding me? I've heard of trying to emulate a better place, but that's a bit over to top, don't you think?

So, lessons learned so far? First off, remember that the obvious thing isn't always the most important. I had a large swath of my mouth cut into, drilled and sewed up. But after all is said and done, it's the one inch hole in my hip that they harvested bone from that is the REAL bastard in this story. Seriously... ouch. That fucking hurts. I can't bend over. I can't get up and down from a seated position without wincing. I'm walking around with my gramma's left over cane. It's really remarkable. Lesson two - never underestimate the power of a cane. Lesson 3- in a competition between a 22 inning baseball game and narcotic painkillers, the narcotics will win every time. OK, that's all for now. I'm going to try posting 2 pic's here. One of monkey tim, and one showing the star of our adventure, my mouth...

Day -1: really seriously the last cigarette....

OK, so it's 10pm the night before. Dishes are clean, trash is out, and I' m enjoying one last beer.

Alright, i get it. That's overly dramatic. it's not like I can't have beer. In fact, I'm sure that not a week will pass before I have a beer again. And maybe some Jaeger. Don't laugh, it's an aperitif. I'm sure I'll need it to settle my smoothie laden stomach.

I'm totally trying to do 5 things at once. I'm afraid that if I sit and watch TV and relax, that somehow I'm wasting precious time. But it's not like I'm joining a monastery tomorrow. I mean, a few days of discomfort, controlled substance pain killers and a blender. What's not to love? except the blood. and the puffiness. and the lack of teeth. OK, so there's plenty not to love. but still, i'm trying to remain optimistic here. Stop harshing my buzz.

Anyway, this one will be short. I have added pre-picture too... clean-shaven me, to be used for comparison after tomorrow's event. I will try my damnedest to get a day of picture taken. I will also try to use mom's diamond head drill to make tiny toy soldiers from my old teeth.

Teeth soldiers. That would be awesome. And I could make them French legionnaires, because they surrendered their position in my mouth. butt fucking quitters.

To the Hurt!

And so it begins....

I'm about to embark on what is probably a relatively benign experience, in the grand scheme of things. I mean, my jaws not being wired shut. I don't have to take IV nutrition. In the final analysis, I'm sure this is all just another month in wacky world of oral surgery.

So, some background. Years ago my father fought in the clone wars. No wait, that's not the story. Some years back, i fucked up my mouth. knocked out some teeth, had some new ones screwed in. A little extra gum here, and little root canal there, Viola! Normal mouth. Oh I knew that eventually, maybe in my 30's (GASP) I might have to have the whole thing corrected. But hell, what did I care? I was 18, 20 years old. I have a shiny new apartment off campus. Plenty of friends to get wasted and play pinball with. Life was good.

Life, in fact, still is good. For the most part. But hey, nothing's perfect, and I'm content with this. But that day has come. All the bionic teeth are finally taking a dive. And alas, it's bone grafting for me. So in two days time (technically 1.5), it's time to slice into the ol' face and cram some new bone up there. Fortunately (or so I am told), my very own bone. Borrowed from my very own hip. I've got plenty of hip to work with, so I'm sure I can sacrifice it (side note: I want very much to make a quip about how hip, or unhip or tragically hip I am. But for the sake of anyone, anywhere, reading this, I will resist that urge. Such a tired line)

Still, I'm a little nervous. I think I have the right to be. It's gonna be a pretty messed up process. 4 teeth coming out (two are already fake, 2 more are my own. Perhaps my mom can make me a necklace out of them). I will not have any replacements for about 2 weeks. And I can't chew food for a month! That's right, no mastication whatsoever! (no, you pervs... that's not what I said. I can totally do that. When's the last time you used your mouth for that?). And then, after months of healing, they go right back in there and screw some more shiny new teeth in. At least, that's the plan. Although not traditionally a planner, I'm really rooting for it this time.

Of course, there are some bright sides. Silver filings if you will. First off, I have to quite smoking. Like... really. For good. No kidding honest to god can't have a freakin' smoke at all. I'm hoping that severe pain will help alleviate the headache I expect to have in a few days. Secondly, I really hope to lose some weight. I'm going all soups and shakes and smoothies. Whey proteins, and flax seed oil and yogurt. The whole gamut. I mean, sure... there will be Campbell's Tomato and mashed potatoes in there. I'm not some friggin' health monk. But I think I can do it. As it stands I believe I'm currently the largest member of my family and extended family known to exist. Ever. 245 at least. I could gladly leave 20 lbs or so wrapped up in a bag next to my garbage teeth. It would rock. I have some pants I need to get into again. Shit, what's happened... 2 days before surgery and I'm becoming androgynous. Finally, I hope to use the time to heal mentally, emotionally and physically. To round out my tortured soul and troubled mind. Somewhere a voice whispers "ease his pain". Sadly, I cannot build baseball field in my 1 bdrm apt. But I can watch baseball. And write about it. And read poetic dissertations about it. But still.. somewhere there is a ghost of a damned spirit that will guide me through my angst, and allow me to ease my pain. Of course, it is entirely likely that when i hear that voice, it'll be the percocet talking. Either way, I'll be in the right frame of mind to listen.

And finally, based on the suggestion of a dear woman, to blog. To pour monastic seclusion into words. To amuse myself with prose. And maybe to amuse you. If you're actually there. How could I know? I mean, if a blog is written in the ether and no one reads it, is it really a blog? So I begin now, in earnest, to blog my face.

Next step, the before pictures....