Brian Lingard

You found me.

[bhlingard]

I am sorry.

My Tumblr posts were so fucking cringey. I apologize; both to myself and to anyone that had the misfortune of viewing any of them.

God damn.

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

Mona.

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

Early March Update

I am compiling/editing/curating all of the poetry that I have written over the last several years. It’s a daunting yet exciting project.

I can usually write a couple poems everyday, the thing is–since I have so many poems written, I need to go over all of them again because I don’t want to rehash content that I forgot I may have written two years ago.

I get this feeling that I may become redundant with my material and that keeps me from writing, so that was a big motivator in this whole affair.

It is also interesting to see how my poetry has evolved/changed/transformed through the years. Both in content and style.

Once all of my poems have been accounted for and edited and organized, …man, I would love to attempt publication. That’s entirely foreign territory though. I’ll take it slow I suppose.

It scares me because I am so fucking sensitive. We’ll see.

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

If life is composed of moments, and moments can be considered (or thought of) as layers, and these layers when stacked one after another from birth to death form the life that one lives, then this singular layer is a treasured addition to my composition.

I’ll always love you Mona.

[bhlingard]

[bhlingard]

After I Left

She had asked me all the questions that have now become so fucking mundane and more repetitious than an inky-milk sunrise.

“How long have you used?”

“…and you don’t want to quit?”

“You know the risks that are involved with what you are doing?”

All of these asked with a face that didn’t seem to care and with a mind that was probably thinking whether her new boyfriend was fucking that girl she caught him texting the night before.

“I hate being amped.”

“I finished rehab to help out my case in court.”

“Benzos get me through the day.”

“No, I’m not ready to stop using them.”

“I don’t like Gabapentin. I don’t like Mirtazapine.”

“Why not?”

“It gave me nightmares. I’d wake up with an impending sense of doom.”

She nodded her head like one of those plastic toy birds, the kind that were magnetized and balanced on a point.

I didn’t dislike her; she was just so damn homogenous. The conversation; it’s all preprogrammed responses and nods of feigned concern.

In vein I asked for my prescription of Ativan to be reinstated, as a back-up plan if I ran out of all my other benzos, so that I wouldn’t have another seizure. Of course that was immediately negated and I felt sheepish for even attempting it. I didn’t view it as drug-seeking behavior; in my mind I felt it would be a legitimate safety net. Maybe the sick don’t always recognize their own sickness.

I walked out the door, feeling more than a little dejected; subjugated.

“Dr. J.? Yes, it’s Dr. M., I’m doing fine and yourself? I’m calling because I just finished the consultation with the patient that you had referred me to; yes, Brian Lingard ****.”

“Well, he is still actively using benzodiazepines. No, no he was fairly brazen about it. I suggested alternatives but he declined.”

“This doesn’t surprise you? He told me that he had been mixing alcohol with his benzos, and that also he could not give me an accurate estimation of how many he takes on any given day.”

“I see. Well my recommendation is for one-on-one counseling, though, excuse me for a second, yes—I’m checking his records and it shows that he has been through several counselors in the past several years.”

“So we wait until he is admitted to the E.R.? He asked to be taken off of Trazodone but I informed him that if he is not suffering any side-effects then it would not be advisable. Yes, he also asked about increasing his dosage of Buspar.”

“What are your thoughts, Dr. M., on Brian and his current situation?” Dr. J. finally asks once he swipes the clinical fog from his desk filled with effigies of Eastern religions.

“I think, bluntly, he is a lost cause. He has been through several rehab programs through the V.A. at this point, and nothing seems to change his behavior. Add to that that he is unapologetic and unconcerned with his usage and what I believe is that we are wasting our time.”

“We are obligated, Dr. M., to treat our veterans no matter how dire the circumstances.”

“Yes. I referred him to addiction counseling and I will forward his medication requests to your inbox.”

“Thank you. I will review them. By the way, what did you think of Mr. Lingard; his state-of-mind; behavior; responses?”

“I think he once was someone with potential. He is in a self-induced stupor though. What’s worse—it’s where he feels comfortable. He also seemed nervous and agitated.”

As I walk to my car after hugging L. because she is such a warm soul, the light outside hits me, and the Valium running through my veins helps to soften the brightness.

I honestly don’t give a fuck what clinicians, psychiatrists, psychologists, and counselors think about my life and my behavior. No one lives inside my head but myself. No one lived through my childhood trauma but myself. No one has to understand why a pill deemed addictive and potentially dangerous can give me so much relief and help me get through day after relentless day.

Still, I show up to my appointments. I play my part. I try, instinctually, to cover up the depth of pain and answer questions that don’t mean a damn thing in the long-run.

I love to be poetic when I write, regardless of the subject matter, but this shit was just too damn bromidic (I’d use platitude, if I could conjugate it).