The Blur

 

Missing Days

It's 5:31 a.m. and I've been having difficulty with my sleep patterns...

The graveyards aren't for me. Not even the real ones, but the ones where I have to work during the typical graveyard shifts. I'm not made for it. This is temporary.

I've been having trouble with eating patterns, eating what I need to, watching my blood sugar, and trying to keep myself together physically while adjusting to these schedules.

Yesterday I had taken a prescription sleeping pill along with a muscle relaxer. It still wasn't enough because my sleep pattern is so far off. Eventually I followed it up with over-the-counter sleeping medication. By that point I was loaded with all kinds of sedatives and still spent most of the day staring at the ceiling exhausted before finally getting some sleep.

Now it's 5:33 a.m. and I'm awake because this has become my daytime. Being awake all night is something I can't do, but it's something I plan on doing for at least the next three months until school starts in September, assuming everything falls into place with tuition and enrollment. I'll keep the graveyard job, but hopefully not at the level I've been working it lately.

So much has happened since my last entry. If you've read the previous Storm Logs from May, then you know it was an abundance of chaos. Starting these jobs only amplified everything. Financially, the padding is good. Mentally and physically, the cost has been noticeable. My health feels stretched thin. My mental health feels stretched thin. But sometimes we do what we have to do for a period of time in order to get somewhere we're trying to go.

I've been trying to put together the missing time between May 22nd and May 31st. At first it felt like a blur, but maybe that's because it was. So much happened during that period that everything blended together. Working, sleeping poorly, building, creating, surviving, trying to stay healthy, trying to stay productive, trying to stay afloat. When I look back at that stretch of time, one thing stands out above everything else: the music.

My music project has grown enormously. I now have eleven songs in production spanning multiple genres, exactly as I intended. I never wanted to be confined to a box. I never wanted to be forced into a single genre. I want the freedom to create whatever serves the message, whatever serves the emotion, whatever serves the story. Because of that, I don't plan on discussing much of the music itself here. I want the art to remain pure. I want the music to remain pure. No chasing validation. No chasing recognition. If someone finds it, they find it. If they connect with it, they connect with it.

Maybe that's what happened during that missing stretch of time. Maybe while everything else was falling apart around me, I was pouring myself into productions, connecting with musicians, producers, singers, and artists from around the world, building something one piece at a time. 

I created a website. I built the infrastructure. I created the framework so that when the music is finally realized, it has somewhere to live. I have a bio. I have merchandise. I have systems in place so that if someone connects with the music deeply enough, there's a way for them to engage with it further.

The funny thing is that from the outside, it probably looks like I'm planning for a future. It probably looks like I'm making moves, executing plans, setting goals, building businesses, writing books, creating music, attending counseling, preparing for school, and moving forward. And maybe that's true. Maybe I am planning for a future. But the length of that future remains undetermined.

All of the books I've written can be found on Amazon. The Book of Carlos is available in Kindle format, paperback, and audiobook, narrated in my own voice. The books served a purpose. They were an outlet. A record. A testimony. A snapshot of what was happening inside my mind at the time they were written. Nothing polished. Nothing manufactured. Just my truth, my history, my thoughts, and my experience as a human being trying to navigate life.

Now I find myself working through a new outlet. Music wasn't something I cared much about for a long time. There was a period where I didn't even want to listen to it. I certainly didn't want to write it. I didn't want to sing. I didn't want to hear it. Then something happened. I wrote a song about losing my mother, and that single song opened a door I wasn't expecting. It led me back into music. It led me into writing. It led me into creating. And before I knew it, an entire project had formed around it.

I now have a music identity. A brand. A direction. Another outlet for the grief, pain, confusion, and questions that continue to follow me. Maybe that's all it is. Maybe it's simply another place to put the things I carry.

I had a deep conversation with my father yesterday. Or maybe deep isn't the right word. It felt more existential than anything else. More internal conflict than conversation. More crisis than discussion. That's where I'm at right now.

Someone recently told me that I'm dark. They said they visit the darkness from time to time, but they don't live there the way I do. The reason that statement stuck with me is because I think it's true. I don't visit. I stay. I don't know how long that will be the case. I don't know if that's permanent. I don't know if that changes. But for now, it feels like home.

I still pray. Not as much lately, but I do pray. I still see God moving in certain areas of my life and in the lives of others. I still see moments that remind me He hasn't disappeared. But at the same time, I see the darkness too. Maybe this project I'm building serves as a contrast to that. Maybe it's evidence that some part of me still believes there is something on the other side of all this. Maybe that's optimism. Maybe it isn't.

I have a counseling appointment on Friday. I have a list of things I want to discuss. I've always been direct. Whether it's a counselor, friend, family member, or complete stranger, what you see is what you get. I've never been interested in pretending to be someone I'm not. You're not getting a polished version of me. You're getting the real thing, flaws included. You get my teeth. RAW! The always uncut version. Me.

Five of the eleven productions are nearly complete. Studio time is approaching. The first recording session isn't far away. The songs are saying the things I need to say, just as my books did before them. Operating Without a Manual (6-book series). The Book of Carlos. My testimony. My walk with God. The I’m a Traumatized Human series. Grief First Aid Kit. Different formats. Same purpose. Eleven books, eleven songs. I guess eleven is the number. 

And now it's 5:45 a.m. I'm ending this entry and attempting once again to get some sleep. Maybe the sleeping pill finally kicks in. Maybe it doesn't.

The countdown begins.

Eleven songs.

My goal is to execute one each month.

What happens after the eleventh song, I honestly don't know. Maybe there will be more. Maybe there won't. Maybe another project takes its place. Maybe something entirely different emerges. Maybe nothing. Maybe the finale.

People like to call difficult periods of life seasons. If you want to call this one a season, that's your choice. I'll probably disagree. A season implies an ending. A season implies something passes.

For me, this doesn't feel like a season. It isn’t a season.

It feels permanent.

It feels endless.

At least until I exit.