Mitchell's Mustard Blog

October 12, 2017

Confession of an angry man

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 5:57 pm

‘I have options’.

I’ve never been the easiest person to get along with, my armour is incredibly hard to penetrate. I don’t give anything away easily, my mind is a locked box of troubles and turbulence, tears and anger.  The inner me wants to see things burn, see myself burn. I’ve been like this since I gave up drugs. I’ve learnt to bite my tongue and swallow the blood. Sometimes I think I fear confrontation but in honest truth I fear never knowing which way it may go, how far I will go. I fear saying or doing things that can’t be taken back. I went through depression for a couple of years and came to terms with my troubles. We shook hands and agreed to stay on our own sides of my skin but every now and then I find myself questioning my decision. Maybe I should embrace my inner anger? I’m not too worried if people don’t like who I am, but I am worried that I won’t like who I will become. To meet me I have a calm and placid facade, jokes and tomfoolery. But like an old penny, I have another side, a side laced with melancholy thoughts, an anger that resides, kicking and screaming to be heard.    

But, just like that old penny I always remind myself that there are two sides, there are options. At any given moment I could go in swinging, frothing at the mouth, but I am thankful that I can compose myself. Walk away with my head held high while I extinguish the fire that licks the back of my teeth. I have options.

I understand that the voice inside that wishes to see my world in flames isn’t going anywhere any time soon, but I do hope that he eventually finds peace in the decisions I make because one thing he will never take from me is the other side of that old penny.

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November 20, 2015

The Junkie Boneyard

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 3:19 pm

I will always remember the day I decided to turn a corner . .

 

The air was so heavy I could taste it, a mixture of mould and the unkept. The room was dark and dank, a patchwork of plaster and brick on the walls, urban artistry that occurs only from being unloved. The only thing that broke the silence was the creaking of ropes that held up the hammock I was laying on. On further inspection, this hammock was about five foot from the ground and held up by pulleys connected to two of the walls across the corner of the room. God only knows how it was holding my weight, also I’m hoping he might know how I got here, because I had no clue. In fear of moving too much I carefully checked my surroundings. To my right I could see the room was littered with cushions, candles, and sporadic limbs protruding and entwined with sleeping bags. Hoping these limbs are still attached to their bodies. To my left was a window, a battered and ripped blind masked the sunlight from outside. I could see dust dancing in the rays of light that beamed through the cracks. The window ledge was covered in dust, burnt out candles, spilt wax, and the one main thing that caught my attention, a bloody hand print. ‘Where the fuck am I?’ I thought to myself.

   I had been wearing the same clothes for 3 days, my skin felt like it had forgotten about it’s love affair with water. My jeans clammy from sweat, my skin sore where my clothes had started to pinch. My mouth was dry, my nostrils on fire, whether that was from substance abuse or breathing in the close encounters of the room, I wasn’t sure. Craving fresh air and a warm shower to wash away the loathing, I needed to move.

   Before testing the strength of the hammock I looked underneath to make sure if I did fall, I wouldn’t be landing on something or someone. There wasn’t even anything I could use to climb down onto for a safe dismount, there was no way I could do this quietly or gracefully. I lay there for a moment trying to execute a plan in my mind, I didn’t want to find myself in a position where I’d have to converse with another human being, I just wanted out. In one swift movement I was sat upright with my legs dangling below me. If I gently eased myself off the hammock I felt like I could land quietly with great precision, like a ninja. Oh how I was wrong. After breaking what could have been 4 glasses of water, knocked over a couple of candles, kicked a metal tin across the room, and standing on someone’s hand, I had successfully caused the room to stir. All the movement under the sleeping bags and cushions played games with my mind, I felt like I was in a scene from the movie Tremors, the floor looked like it was moving, I panicked, I did what every straight laced mind wouldn’t do, rather than run I sat down cross legged and closed my eyes. For a fly on the wall view this would have been quite amusing, the floor moving and crashing like waves around me as I sat cross legged in the middle, eyes closed while humming to myself to find the calm inside.

   I don’t know how much time had passed, but the room was deadly quiet again, and my heart wasn’t trying to leave my chest. Looking around me I could see all sorts of drug paraphernalia, the ones that caused me to think long and hard about my current circumstances were the used hypodermic needles that littered the floor. There was a fine line between a bohemian drug haven and a junkie boneyard, this was a glimpse into the latter and I wasn’t interested. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what the smell, taste, and feeling of this room was. But I knew I didn’t want it to be part of my life. My current lifestyle was hanging above my head like a noose, so the decision was easy to make. With this new found motivation, I got up, I found the door, and I got out. I remember stepping out into the sun, feeling warmth. I walked up the path and turned back to look at the house. I had never been there before, and in more ways than one, I have never been there since.                   

No turning back.

          

January 28, 2015

Am I Manly Enough?

Filed under: Just a Thought — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:16 pm

Am I manly enough? This question has been on my mind in recent months, in this modern day, what falls under the category of a manly man? And does it really matter?

I was born in the early 80’s, experienced many things I shouldn’t have in the 90’s, when television, rock music, and drugs were better, not forgetting, back then, a man was manly.
From an early age, I had never been interested in tinkering around with an engine, building things just to destroy them once finished. I never had the aggressive devil may care attitude. I was always more worried about the people around me, kept myself to myself, I had no intention of being the toughest person in the room, I still don’t. I like to think of myself as a modern gentleman, which I’m quite happy with, but does this cause me to be less manly? Is the definition of a manly man becoming extinct?

Growing up side by side with my brother, who in my eyes is a manly man, a mechanic by trade, married with four beautiful children. Nothing seems to phase him, from one issue to another, I’ve only ever seen anger, I can’t actually think of a time I’ve seen him worried or scared, in the 32 years I’ve been blessed to know him, I’ve only seen him cry once. Everything about him is manly, his posture, the way he communicates, his appearance.
Where as I’m on the other end of the scale, I’m the creative type, the thinker. I’m in touch with my emotions, but don’t let this deceive you into thinking that I’m the kind of person who will cry at the end of an Eastenders Christmas special. When I say I’m in touch with my emotions, I mean that I have no problem feeling worried, loved, fear, or sadness. I don’t always express it well, but I will sometimes let that emotion engulf my existence for a while rather than sweep it under the carpet for a rainy day.
I take care in my appearance, I would rather think about what I’m going to wear before I get dressed, rather than just throw on the nearest t-shirt after sniffing the armpits. I use skin products, I moisturise, exfoliate, because I believe the older I get, I should look after my skin. I have no issue with going clothes shopping, whether for myself or with a girlfriend, I’m completely comfortable in that environment due to it being part of my profession. Having quite a few female friends means that I find myself in a lot of female company, which in turn gives me confidence around women. I don’t have aggressive mannerisms, and I’m comfortable with that, but I’m not in fear of being aggressive if I need to. I find beauty in the simple things around me rather than be oblivious to them but that comes with having a creative mind.

Does a woman prefer a manly man, or a modern gentleman? Do women occasionally want to see the emotional side to their partner? And does it lead to more trust or less attraction?

I’m not your average manly man, but does this make me any less of a man, or does it just mean I’m a modern gentleman?

June 3, 2014

Skint and Sober

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 6:22 pm

He sat, pondering on the things in front of him. The way things flowed past without his involvement. He could step forward and be part of the movement, the intimidating movement. It was the intimidating part that kept him in his seat, his weighted body, carrying the thoughts of yesterday and fears of tomorrow. His pint was sour. Before it had reached him, it was poured by beauty, a golden glow that enticed the many. In his hand, it was a weapon for his thoughts, a reason to sway in and out of a path he once stumbled. The days he was unstoppable, uncontrollable, invincible. It’s when the crowds stop cheering, your audience stops following, your band stops playing. It all changed, it all stopped, it was only his addictions that carried on. It had taken him years to conquer heroin, the substance that drained him of his money, his fame, his friends, but worst of all, his marriage. The rock that held him together walked out and left him with the only other rock he knew, the narcotic kind. He hadn’t seen his wife and children in nearly three years, he didn’t even know how to contact them. He feared she would one day see his name in the obituaries, and then keep turning the pages without a blink. His pride wished she knew that he was clean now. In the Hollywood life style in which he had been sold, she would come back to him, hold him and tell him all was ok. But he knew the Hollywood lifestyle was a farce, a rabbit hole he had tumbled down, with every bump, he had lost a little of him and gained a little of them. The ones that love and surround you until you’re skint and sober, dropped like a hat in a coastal wind.
The beauty that poured his last pint asked if he’d like another. Not realising he had finished the last, he had been rolling the empty glass between his palms, his wedding ring making a rhythmic chime. This is probably what caught her attention.
The new golden glow of the glass stared into his eyes, the cold on his hands, he thought of her.
He needed to pull his life together, find his family, recreate his existence. He told himself this everyday, but as always, the beauty behind the bar kept working, the stool he sat on stayed warm, and the golden glass kept staring into his soul. Once an addict, always an addict she had said. As always, she was right, wherever she was.

February 19, 2014

Relapse

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 11:01 am

Once again he didn’t recognise his own reflection, he’d been here before, he didn’t want to believe that he’d relapsed again, the way he’d been living recently, no one would be surprised. His eyes hollow and gaunt, surrounded by dark patches that danced in the candle light. A tiresome complexion stared back at him from the mirror he hunched over. Neat lines of cocaine waiting in unison, tempting him back into the warm comforts, a narcotic cuddle, protection from the troubles of the outside world. His right foot tapped away to a silent beat, rolling, and re rolling the twenty pound note in his hands while his body prepared for the next intake. Feeling as jumpy as a whippet in the traps. Dabbing at his nostrils with a used tissue to stop it from running, his bodies way of telling him enough is enough. Another warning that he would choose to ignore.
The mouldy, damp motel room walls needed a wipe down, the wallpaper bending back on itself in the corners, giving up hope. The room must have been decorated in the mid 80’s, but then left to defend for itself ever since, a defence of oranges, greens, and purples, a battle in which it had started to fade. The smell of must lingered around the room, pacing and unforgiving on anyone who entered. A crack of light entered the room from the side of the blind, stretching to cut the room in two. He watched dust dance in and out of the sunlight as it floated around him, occupying the space that only his body didn’t. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning over the coffee table, a candle and the mirror holding centre stage. A tribal dance of shadows darted around him like he was their fire, catching them out the corner of his eye, eager to follow them to a better place, they seemed happier than he did. wiping the sweat from his brow with his shirt sleeve, then positioned the bank note, he always favoured his right nostril, craned neck as he sold his soul for his desires. A beautiful bloom, a release of pressure before this foreign substance started to drip at the back of his throat, entering the gates. As he sat back on the sofa a cloud rose around him, a wave of dust, repositioning itself around him for a tighter grip. It drifted and settled just like his heart, relaxing back into its rightful place. The heat in this room sat on his chest like a weight, everyone dependant on him outside these four walls will have to wait. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

February 8, 2012

I Will Never Forget . . . .

Filed under: Random — Tags: , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 5:44 pm

I stumble through doorways into rooms filled with more unrecognisable faces, not surprising really as they were all friends of hers. I’ve seen a lot of drugs in my time but this party seemed to hold a huge amount that could have been the source of  an overdose for any inexperienced person. I loved the music that was bounced from wall to wall, that’s one good thing I took from the night. Everywhere I looked there were people, five people sitting on a two seat sofas, people cross-legged on the floor in corners, people sitting on tables and window sills, people trying to pass each other in the space left in the room. They all had the same expression, smile on the face but no thought at all. Tables laced with cocaine, rolled up bank notes and the occasional McDonalds straw from those who were skint. Everyone wanted to share their wealth but always expected something in return, watching young skint smack heads sniffing around the table for anything left over once the group had moved on. The more I watched this the less I wanted to claim my place at the table. Re rolling a £20 note in my fingers again and again just staring at the hounds around the glass table, something was stirring my addiction. My feet felt heavy but something dragged me from the room, paranoia made it as if the music was turned off as they all watched me creep out of the room with a firm grip on my £20 straw. They were all too busy and hammered to notice I had moved. In the hallway it seemed to be a more relaxed environment, this was where they must have come to chill out but the more people who needed a moment away meant that this room was slowly becoming as busy as all the others. I need to find her, not because I missed her it was more craving comfort of seeing a face I recognised. Again I found myself squeezing through rooms of people I didn’t know, the less I wanted to get high the more uncomfortable I became.

I found her after a while standing in one of the many overcrowded rooms, the look on her face was one I will remember as she looked lost and out of depth . She would never admit it to save face but in the years I’d seen her high tonight she looked troubled. I caught her eye and I hinted to us leaving, as I walked towards her she looked confused and her facial expression reminded me of a child that didn’t understand. As I stepped closer she seemed to lose her balance, in slow motion I watched her fall to her knees as people around her moved out of her way. I managed to catch her head before it hit the floor, people moved but they all still held the expression of a smile with no thought. A couple of people panicked like I did and one ran off to get some water. I sat there with all sorts of questions running through my head, what had she taken? What can I do? Someone around us passed me the glass of water so I sat her up to try get her to drink. She was sick into the glass as I held it to her mouth, it was lime green in colour and when that mixed with the water it reminded me of a lava lamp. She had taken something that disagreed with her; part of me wished I had got high when I had the chance. I’m sitting on the floor in the middle of a crowded room surrounded by strangers with a half conscious girl in my lap and people just worked their way around us like it was a normal part of the evening, what could I do? I thought of ringing for an ambulance but the last thing anyone under this roof wanted was one of the emergency services knocking on the door. I thought through my options and rang a taxi, no one seemed to notice or care that this was happening. On my way out carrying this girl in my arms I was stopped by a bloke who I thought was going to ask if he could help but instead he asked me if I had a lighter.

I climbed into the taxi carrying the girl and the taxi driver refused to have her in the car, I don’t know why he changed his mind but he looked me in the face and saw something. By this time she was trying to talk but making no sense, I was terrified of what was to come. The ride home seemed to go so quickly, I remember getting in to the cab and I was looking down and talking to her as she lay across the seat with her head on my lap and then within minutes we were outside my house. I paid the taxi driver and thanked him as I climbed out of the car with the girl in my arms. In the house we were in the warmth, I laid her down on my bed and made sure she wasn’t in the position to swallow her tongue. I sat next to her all night twitching at every noise or movement she made, every change in her breathing pattern had me on edge. As the night went on she made less movement, fewer changes in her breathing and I started to fall asleep in fear of what the morning may bring.

I stirred in the morning with the sun light bursting through the gaps in the curtains; suddenly all of what happened the night before came rushing back to me. I panicked for a second and looked around but to my relief she was sat up and looking at me.

“Rough night was it? You look like shit.” She said.

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