Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on May 9, 2019 at 10:36 am

Let’s walk back from my own suicide.

November 2016 I couldn’t shit.  I was ok for awhile after but by the same time the next year I was having explosive movements.  Painful, wet gas.  Not easy to deal with driving a box truck to W. San Antone or through the Samsung lot in the pre-dawn dark.  I know this is gross.  I can’t let that stop me–or any other kind of reservation.  I need to get this out, pun intended, and lay it on the line.

My libido has been touch and go since I was involved with a woman back home 10 years ago.  The issue was emotional but it came back with a vengeance.  It blinkered out again while on anti-depressants and I don’t think it ever got back up to speed.  I should mention I’m fine by myself, if you know what I mean.  I don’t wake up with a hardon much anymore, but–what male over 40 does?  I’ve also had a successful and moderately sexual relationship with a woman I admire very much.  Things got weird between us in this area though, and for this and other reasons we split.  I’ve had sex since I quit anti-depressants and it’s been fine.  Fine isn’t great, mind you, and mostly I’ve lost interest.  In the act even, I just hit a wall.  It could be my age.  It could be depression.

[EDIT:  After extensive, ahem, research, I’ve concluded that my libido is ok.  My woes are mental and not being able to relax.  Tell you something you don’t know.  😉  jt]

I’m working for a caterer in town.  It’s alright.  Exhausting, especially with my condition.  I temp out my weekends, with any number of other companies, and work like a pig for them for shit money–which is especially exhausting.  The main gig is alright.  I’m making good money with them, a raise of almost 100% from what I was being paid last year, and I like the gigs, mostly–and I especially like my boss.  I don’t have any plans for the summer which seems criminal considering what I did last year.  So I’ll work.  For money and otherwise.  Make plans so I won’t have to work and can be out of town as much as possible.  It is what it is.

I live in a garage apartment, centrally located.  It’s alright.  $750 all bills which is about what I’d pay living in a group house, or with roommates, and it’s all mine motherfucker.  The location is great.  It’s rough though, dudecore–a little musty in here, dorm room fridge; it could come up heaps by way of its comfort level.  I’ve a loft bed over a writing desk, a love seat, kitchen table and a chest of drawers.  The rest is gear, books and writing–mine and others, taking up and covering valuable surface space.  I often have to move to the love seat in the middle of the night due to my innumerable runs to the bathroom with painful, wet gas.  My stuff is everywhere and the place could stand some TLC as well as general order and organization.

I’ve a Japanese car, a Honda Element, with 65k miles.  I bought it cash, and will need to go on record as making enough money to get something else financed when the time comes.  This worries me.  It runs a little loud but otherwise fine.  A blessing I am most certainly counting.

Summing up–I can’t shit or I’ll have to shit uncontrollably and explosively, on the job and in the middle of the night.  There’s a bunch of things I simply cannot eat but that’s only bad in the sense that I can’t self-medicate with food anymore–although I try.   I have maybe 50% of my previous sex drive.  I’ve less to do or look forward to because sex was pretty high on the list of ways to spend my time.  Besides, a lack of a libido makes me feel like a eunuch and certainly not strapping or virile.  This alone keeps suicide higher on the list these days.  I work for money.  The money is alright.  The work is alright.  Or it’s grueling, thankless and horrible–in other words, catering.  It’s not what I want to do with my life but it is what I am doing with my life.  Of course it’s all in the meantime–what else is new?  I’m just getting by which is getting old.  I’ll work for an hourly, and drive my used car, and live like an artist in this space until I can get the grant I want, the travel stipend or plan and anyway find ways to fund and support swathes of time creating Art.  I won’t be distracted–I’m never at the bar, unless it’s to meet with Doc, and chasing women is the last thing on my mind.  If my lack of libido is mental/emotional then it’s because I fear rash and consuming amour fou.  I’d hate to have my Art and all the progress I’ve made be taken out in one fell swoop by an adrenaline dump of a relationship that’s toxic, dysfunctional and the greatest sex I’ve ever had.  I’m not comfortable in my apartment but I’m getting by.  I’m still living like a 20-something which sums up this post ain’t it though.


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Underneath it all, I’m 44, and I’m looking at the world I live in, wondering and even fully realizing the choices I’ve made to get me here.  I’m wondering if it was worth it and I am realizing fully that that time is gone.  Most of the time my regrets are great fuel but the pitfall of walking around under the whip of failure is–I can, at times, get sunk.  I can feel fucked.  Isolated and suicidal.  Y’all should know by now that I ain’t gonna and it’s the writing it that helps–just being able to say it.  My work has legs and I can’t deny that.  Posting here every week landed me a column, which is exactly what I wanted, and it looks like The Coarse Grind has found me a book deal. I’ve been talking with 3 different poets about publishing their work and they’re all onboard which means I’ll have plenty reason to clock in and out on the dayjob because my days will be filled with the real work and my nights lit up by the print shop light.  I’m inspired–I mean, I can see things now I couldn’t see before I took my European jaunt last Summer.  I know it’s a worthy goal and that without it there would only be the idea of suicide and no treatise or post like this to get it out and into the open.  Aw, Hell–may as well say it, without Art I would only feel trapped and if I felt trapped then I’d end it.  You bet.  Goodnight and God Bless.

Damn.  1,137 words.  I just wanted to include you because letting you know completes the circuit for me.  It makes these thoughts real and of course it releases them from my restless and warring mind.  I give it up this way, on the altar of Us and your Readership is indisputably what saves me–week after week and post after post.  Of course the decade of posting at Going For The Throat comes with an onus.  This blog is included, when I ask What the fuck have I done with my life?  These posts don’t make it easier in the add-up, as useful as they are in the get-by.  Perhaps I am phasing out the ‘get-by‘.  I sure hope so.  Depression has taken so much of my life.  Which is a strange comfort.  I won’t need to commit suicide, good Reader.  Depression has already taken my life.

You’ll see me next week, motherfucker.  Bet.

  1. What is “The Coarse Grind,” and how do I get my work published, too? (You would have to see it and love it, of course, and of course you would, but….)

    And what the hell is wrong with you? Can you go to a doctor? Is it IBS? Just fecal matters alone are enough to make a person suicidal, and I know that firsthand after constipation nearly killed me after a post-surgery morphine.

    • Hey You. The Coarse Grind is my monthly column on the creative life at Into The Void Magazine (link below). They are stellar and you should pitch or submit to them. Funny you’re commenting, I was just telling our mutual and beloved S. that I needed to touch back with you. What’s wrong with me? Anxiety probably. This and the next post dive in, hold my feet to the fire and further the cause of “framing the agony.” Thank you for reading and your comment. It means the world to me. Look out for a message from me soon.

  2. I look back at my old blog and I realize that there are so many things about my life I would have forgotten if I hadn’t written them down. In a world that lives by 280 characters (I remember when it was 140) my ramblings seem out of place, but as I wrote once, my blog was for me and to hell with what anyone else thinks. Knowing this, you would think I would write more but I leave that to you now. I enjoy reading Going for the Throat no matter how “crappy” it gets. Best wishes with the new book. I have yet to buy the last one. LIFE… Nevertheless, I look forward to the next one.

    • Indeed, Friend. I always enjoy your comments and appreciate your Readership tremendously. Writing is for you and what’s good for you is good for all. See you soon.

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