Glenna McCarthy's Blog, page 7

The self-publishing author dilemma

 

[image error][image error][image error][image error]I always wanted to write a book and eventually, I found a way to orchestrate it and get published on Amazon. Now I am not going to lie, I was picking out my new penthouse apartment online and trying to make sure I would be safe in my poor neighborhood since I was going to wealthy and famous…then reality set in and my royalties started to almost disappear. Marketing feels like prostituting and pushing and pushing yourself on others and I have a problem with due to shame from my past. I still am very happy that I did write a memoir and I have another book I am releasing in about two weeks but if anyone has knowledge about RELIABLE MARKETING TACTICS please enlighten me because so far I am my own best customer in sales and I need exposure.

Living a lie

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Humans are social creatures

and sometimes we can settle

we can try and save someone

we can try and change someone

we can try and please someone

and we can lose ourselves in the

process

Co-dependency is a mofo

and while being alone in this

crazy busy world

might seem non-effective

or non-existent but I have

learned that to love someone

the old saying is true

you have to get right with yourself first

and then you can spend time with

someone because you want too

not because you need too

NYC SUBWAYS (w.t.f)

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Silence feels like torture to my nervous system but subways are the ultimate battle. I put on my headphones, trying to block out the situation, or play games on my phone—but when my battery runs out, I almost feel the anxiety of someone being held against their will.

The claustrophobia of subways has only worsened over the years, becoming overcrowded to the point that people do not even turn around when they are blocking the entrance. I have been driven to just rebel and say, “Yo, can I get on the fucking train?” or, “Stop breastfeeding the fucking door and wean yourself off to the middle of the car.” I would continue to mumble, “Motherfuckers are probably going to the next borough but still have to stand in the fucking door.” Mind you, I said this loudly but indirectly. I never made eye contact, since I rode the trains before everyone had phones and it was all about eyeball wars. The usual altercation started with, “What the fuck are you looking at?” and all of the other one-liners, like, “Why you all in my mouth?” (for those eavesdropping on a conversation). We also had the infamous Guardian Angels who stood in the doors of the subway, not to block traffic but to be a security measure. They would not be able to stand in the doors of the train now since nobody fits and gets to pose anymore. I remember I used to always stand against the door, not wanting to be close to anyone but also wanting to be seen. My drugs made me feel important and aloof at the same time.

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Now the game has changed. There is no longer an arm’s reach rule where someone cannot come within striking distance while arguing because that would be considered a fight. Everyone is now on top of each other, and totally self-absorbed, relying on their phones like oxygen. At first, I made fun of people on phones, but eventually, I followed suit. I came to recognize that these behaviors come from discomfort and not knowing how to cope. I have also grown up a little, realizing that I am not the only person in NYC who feels like they are having a nervous breakdown.

I was now drug-free and like a child, learning to walk again. The basic norms of society, which I had never wanted to learn, had evolved while I was self-medicating. I had even lost my street slang from being sedated for so long. I did not fit in anywhere anymore, not even the street culture. When you feel powerless like this, you have to do something powerful, so tantrums are right up an addict’s alley. Addicts like myself make a whole lot of noise as an illusion of winning when everything in life feels like a loss.

My ego lived off of fumes supported by “fuck this, fuck that.” I really did not know how to process the world and my environment. I also did not know at the time that I had PTSD, which probably did not help matters. PTSD is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and was not even recognized as a condition that could affect civilians until recently—as if the streets are not another battleground. PTSD can be found at home, too. Look at all of the children who have been traumatized by struggles in their own homes, and—I hate to say it—by poverty, too, which has been proven to add to domestic violence and addiction. While I was growing up, nobody looked at what happened at home. If you were dysfunctional at school, it was your fault, and you were labeled a problem child. I am glad people are now looking closer into what children are exposed to in their home environments. Now I was back in the “real” world and trying to operate myself within it—yet even watching the news was so disturbing that it could have made someone want to jump off the planet (fuck the roof).  I had been on and off methadone for about 20 years. When you are on methadone and doing what is called “harm reduction,” it means that you take your sip of methadone and it blocks the urge to get high. I consider this bullshit; methadone is just a legal drug. My hands-on experience tells me that “harm reduction” is a dangerous game to play; it can be misused and enables drug addiction and stagnation.

It was scary to face life without drugs, but I knew that drugs cost money and that a person had to go to extremes to get them. It is like burning yourself to earn the right to get a day of relaxation. It had stopped making sense.

Facing the subway without drugs was an added source of stress. (Reword this however you like. You just need a sentence here that connects the paragraphs about drugs/PTSD with the subway theme.)One night I was coming home from school after a three-hour Friday night class. It was going on 10:00 p.m. and my train went express to 125th Street in Harlem. I needed to get the downtown local since I lived on 110th. There seemed to be a hold-up, so I put my back to a pole and observed. Before gentrification started in Harlem, I remember people getting on the A train by accident at 59th Street and panicking when they saw they were going directly to Harlem. Now, due to gentrification, white people were walking around like they were untouchable.

A black gentleman was walking around with one crutch he did not need. My radar went off as I watched him pacing. He finally went and hit an Asian man in the head—not that hard, but he still hit him. The Asian man went to defend himself, but his Asian friends defused the situation and got him to walk away.

When I got on my train it was fairly empty but for a lot of young people looking like they were dressed to go out for a Friday night.

Again, I saw the man with the crutch. He was walking up and down the car, stopping at various women sitting alone, and jabbing his crutch within a few inches of their faces. I said to myself, “This motherfucker ain’t crazy. He’s picking his victims and they’re all the easy ones.” He did it to a young black woman and then to a young Puerto Rican woman on the other end. He had the nerve to go by a group of young men and try to fist bump them; so far they had remained neutral. I was only traveling two stops and I was pissed, looking at the rest of the people on the train and thinking, “For real?” I purposely walked down the car, stopping near where the man with the crutch was standing and waited for my door to open. As I assumed he had gestured towards me, I went right into a fighting stance, planning to block the crutch and try to take it. To my surprise, when the train door opened at 110th and I walked out, he came out the door with me—not by choice, but by force. The whole car had just needed a green light; he got punched, kicked and thrown out the door with his crutch.

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Now it was just me and him as the doors closed and the train left the station. I said, “How does that feel? You still feel dangerous?” I hoped he did not, and I walked up the stairs while keeping an eye over my shoulder. He came up behind me, following me out of the subway, but he just walked off into the night with his one crutch. I watched him walk into Central Park and realized he was a man without a destination. I wondered what had happened to him in his life to make him like that. I almost felt bad for him. Though I had a place to go, I still knew how it felt to be a nomad. I had been couch surfing in someone’s condo for 15 years, so it was not my home. I had just met someone who thought my piece could fit their puzzle, so I became part of it. I told him I was HIV positive when we first met, and he put me on the couch and never touched me again. I know that must sound horrible to some, but it felt safe to have a place where I knew I was not desirable.

Being a subway vigilante did not always have such a good outcome for me. When I was 21 and living with my boyfriend in Newark, New Jersey, I would go to NYC every day to work. One day, I was on a bus due to problems with Jersey Transit, and I heard a commotion in the front. A black woman a little older than I was had begun ranting and cursing at someone. Finally, I said from the back, “Would you shut the fuck up?” Do not ask me why I have these impulse issues. I know that when I was a child, my mother was prone to tantrums and this made me feel powerless. I never forgot that feeling, and when people became out of control, it acted as a trigger for me. After I yelled at the woman on the bus, she stopped ranting and grew very calm. She forgot the person at whom she was yelling and told me that since I was a tough guy, she and I were getting off at the next stop to see how tough I really was. I saw the crowd watching and said, “Okay, no problem.”

The bus pulled over. We both got off very calmly, like we were going to a business meeting. She and I were facing each other, so I started to put up my hands, but before I knew it I was on the floor with a busted lip, black eye and sore nose. “Aww fuck, that’s embarrassing,” I told myself, “but I have to get up and try again.”

Before I could stand, she said, “Do you know what I do for a living?”

I responded, “No, what’s that got to do with anything?”

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She continued by telling me that she was a trainer in hand-to-hand combat for hostage takeovers, then gave me her hand and helped me up. I have a problem with someone being picked on and nobody caring, maybe because I feel that they are me in some way, but she told me not to recklessly play the hero like that in the future because I did not know what I might walk into.

As we sat and waited for the next bus, she showed me a few locks and holds and we actually enjoyed each other’s company. We parted with a goodbye and she made me promise that I would mind my business in the future. We both laughed, and I hadn’t learned yet anyway. She actually felt like a big sister, using her upper hand to show me what I did wrong in a caring way in the end. It was a rough lesson, but a lesson anyway.

 

IDENTITY

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I came home from prison

I look at my closet to see

what I had to wear

I am a New Yorker and the

streets can be brutal and

we know New Yorker’s are RUDE

it is a culture thing…

My closet had old hooker clothes

on the right and thug gear

on the left… my two identities

that lasted over 25 years

the clothes to sell your soul

by selling your body and

then the tough-guy clothes to

put on my other mask to go and

buy the drugs to make all the

nightmares stop, to make the pain

go away and

to be comfortably

NUMB

The problem was those masks

were stripped away from me

and it was my saving grace

because I did not have the

strength to face change and

find out who I really am

Now I love living a corny, square life

where I go home and watch NETFLIX

I might not know exactly who I am yet

because I have been living a lie for so

long but I know I like this simplicity

and learning how to live in your own skin

without the aid of drugs as a crutch

 

IDENTITY of a LATEBLOOMER

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After a 30-year drug run

After the realization that

I was not going to die

contrary to medical opinion

I had had the f–k its for

way too long and it was time

to see who I was and who I really

wanted to be.

I always felt that life

was overrated and could

never TRULY say that I was

happy to be here…

I now realize that by not

committing to myself and

my life I was cheating myself

Like they say life is what

you make it…

 

 

You have to believe the lie, to thrive

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I have a young friend in need

In need of direction and suggestion

I do have years and experience to share

but should I tell her how I really feel?

should I tell her how I  learned to have hope?

how I learned to care and value my life?

I had to believe the American lie

that we are a good Country and we mean no harm

that we have come a long way and things are going

to get better, but in truth, I fear the future

I fear the past and the present as well

If we cannot even admit our past how can we

believe in a future told by masks and hypocrites

Even the oppressed learn to be the oppressors

Does anyone really know whats really going on

Does anyone really know the truth behind the politicians?

because I sure as hell don’t

So all I can do is try to believe what I feel is a lie

As a counselor, I cannot pass negativity and paranoia

so I digest my immediate surroundings and do not try

to read the fine print…

POWER

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When someone feels powerless in a world of chaos 

When a person feels there is no

voice of reason present

When a person feels overwhelmed and

ready to self-combust…

A person will try to do something POWERFUL 

to compensate for the feeling of POWERLESSNESS 

the problem is that when you make an

impulsive and emotional attempt to change

the energy and odds stacked against you, unfortunately

you tend to make a powerful act of self-sabotage

In a STRANGE LAND

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The angry faces

The controlled spaces

In search of friendly places

I cross the street

and hear a car backfire

my body reacts like

I just got stabbed in my kidneys

I center myself and proceed

Got to get from point A to point B

in the hopes of finally being free

to enjoy a point C

To live your adolescents

trying to get peer acceptance

to find yourself in a lonely

space of adulthood trying to

see who will complete you

when all is said and done

and your relationships are over

and done and once again I

am back at one

I center myself and proceed

in my, Strange Land called LIFE

 

Save a space for me

Can I climb inside you to hide from the cold

Can I climb inside you to feel the warmth

we used to share on those good days

Can I join you because I am alone

Can I join you in death to make up for what we

weren’t able to capture in life…sound crazy?

I sat by my father tombestone and saw all the

names on the plot in the Belfast Cemetary in Ireland

My fathers had been added to the bottom since he

had been MIA for a long time and finally came

home to rest his soul

I might live an ocean away and have just met

my family here in Ireland but

I hope that they can make room for me…

not yet, not now because I have a whole

lot to learn about living before I join the dead

but just save a space for me for when I get there

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I am a folder in a file