Spent most of the week prior to St. Pat's Day in the northeastern section of Eastonwood. Still don't know much of what, if anything major, transpired in regards to the alleged zed uprising. All I know is that I get a seriously sickening knot in my gut when a non-communicative survivor takes residence in a hidey hole in which I was the only squatter. Let some freak corner me into a bank vault and go psycho on my ass? I think not!
I was taught long ago to trust my gut intuitions and instincts over the input of other influences like my brain, heart, and loins. There's a saying in the recovery community that we alkies and junkies are also affected with having our instincts out of whack. Thanks, Higher Power, the last 3,936 consecutive daily reprieves (and a million nights) have helped rectify that issue. One key element for when dealing with gray areas: when in doubt, leave it out.
And the other personal "comittees"? Well... The brain can analyze itself into a tailspin. The heart? Sadly, there's little room for sentimentality where rock-bottom survival is concerned. And the libidinal issues? Shyeah, riiiight. Malton is the last place for a romantic encounter, and I gave up the whole "friends with benefits" gig when I met my husband.
God, I miss him! And our kids, pets... everyone! I can live without a good deal of the trappings of my life before the epidemic, but it feels like I've got a growing chasm in my soul. Its size increases every day I'm apart from my loved ones. It feeds on my worries about how they're faring and my fear that we may never be reunited. Many 12-step old timers would equate this with the "God-shaped hole" concept. Sure, I'm not discounting that, but my family of both the blood and of the heart are intregal in my recovery. They are not my Higher Power, however, they are ingrained in the Gestalt sense. It is my love for them that keeps me going, one day at a time.
I'm getting ready to leave Eastonwood. I've been doing research and making inquiries about other suburbs. I still haven't met any other "friends of" Bill W. or Jimmy K. in Malton, and at this rate I don't know if I ever will. I keep hearing certain slogans and wisdoms in my head... "You may be the only copy of the Big Book a person may ever encounter." "Our primary purpose is to carry the message..." "...priciples before personalities." "Discretion is the better part of valor." (Shakespeare) "Build it and they will come." (Field of Dreams)
I will always be alert in the hopes of meeting other 12-steppers within the midst of this insanity. Likewise, I'm keeping a mindful eye that even non-12-steppers will pay attention to the writing on the walls- literally. Unity + Service = Survival ∞ SA ∞ In the meantime, the razor sharp blade of my fire axe is glistening, firearms are all clean, locked and loaded, first aid kits are stocked, and other survivors can contact me when the towers are running. After all, my gratitude does indeed speak and I am definitely responsible...
Past few days have been spent wisely, scouring the suburb of Eastonwood. During this time I managed to grow strong enough to learn how to gain entry into buildings that would otherwise require a wrecking ball to quickly get inside. What a relief to finally be free from being either barricaded in or out of these structures.
Ran into an interesting group. No names mentioned, but they're partial to this tag: =][= Glad they're fighting for our fellow survivors, but some of their tactics seem a bit controversial. They (and many others) would do well to focus more on strategy than in-fighting. The zeds have been deliberately getting revived and now walk virtually unnoticed amongst us. It's all too obvious now. Those who have seen less actual lurchers near their strongholds had best start paying close attention to those with whom sanctuary is shared. The forewarned St. Patrick's day zed uprising could become an all-you-can-eat buffet for the unprepared.
Speaking of preparedness... Cha-Ching!!! Recent scavengings have been paying off big time. Of course I'm not stupid enough to completely list my current "special" gear, but I've found much more than just bandages, old newpapers and crude weaponry. However, some of my cache requires tandem items. It will take some time, but I'll eventually make good use of it all. The best score though, was a pocket-sized survival gem. (Can you hear me now?)
Time for a history related observation from the trenches. The whole premise of St. Patrick's day is that he allegedly drove the snakes from Ireland. Here's the clue-by-four: Ireland never had any indigenous species of snakes prior to the whole "St. Patrick" fairy tale. The "snakes" are a metaphor for those who did not practice Christianity. For centuries Ireland's native practitioners of the Old Ways survived by converting only in an overt manner. They kept their true path covert. Anyway, it's just one example of unenforcable control a la NWO. So... I suspect that there's a hefty degree of symbolism for the timing of this upcoming zombie-rama. If anyone thinks for a second that we survivors will yield to a zed NWO, they're in for a surprise.
On that note it's time for this worn-out dopeless hope fiend to give thanks to the Higher Power who's been merciful enough to grant her another 24 hours clean, sober, and alive. If another survivor should happen to find this journal before my next entry, I pray that the deity of your understanding keeps you alive and well.
It seems to me that there's been an increasing number of zombies posing as survivors. They act a lot like newcomers who get court ordered to attend meetings. They lurk in the back trying to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. They don't say much, if anything at all. They contribute nothing towards the well-being of anyone nearby. Then all of a sudden we find that one of them has trashed a building's generator, then having the gall to justify it with an "Oops!" before leaving to spread more cheer.
I wish I could allow myself the luxury of copping a major resentment, no matter how valid my anger is. The truth lies in that by judging these zed double-agents' behavior, I have to be honest about what a fucking waste of space I was once upon a time. But, damn- even at the worst of my active addiction deliberate sabotage was never my style. That's just some low shit no matter how you slice it.
Karma being what it is, the zed in survivor's skin will get what's coming to it. We legit survivors can't go around whacking folks based on suspicion, regardless of how strong. However, the insanity of this situation is that once a zed double-agent becomes full zombie again, it will continue taking out survivors. Then when it lurches its' way to a revive point it merrily resumes its subterfuge. I've heard of chronic relapsers, but this is really sick- and insidious.
I'm down to the last few empty bandage boxes from tonight's post-sparring patch-ups. Since we're so heavily barricaded in, and without power, it was a safe bet that there would be no surgeries. Besides, this place was getting pretty sloppy (and unsanitary) with all the med waste lying around. Fighting by firelight was the order of the evening, but the flames are done being stoked for now. Geez- I'm tired. Time to find a safe spot. I don't trust one guy here in particular.
I want to say that I can't believe this, but I have no choice. The morning following the last entry someone had spraypainted a new message upon one of the walls. It was an ominous warning about an upcoming zombie assault expected on St. Patrick's Day. The targets are supposed to be buildings bearing saints' names. This means all the churches and most of the hospitals are going to be crawling with these maggot-dripping freaks. However, the zed group attacks have already begun.
My current location and the one next door were hit very badly in the past 24 hours. One of those disgusting creatures took a swipe at me while I was sleeping. It's been years since I've risen swinging blindly before my eyes were even open. I was having a bad enough nightmare just then about... childhood stuff. The kind of subconscious re-living of past events over which I used to get FUBAR. Hell- I didn't survive 7 years of abuse, the next 2 decades of addiction, and the past 3,921 consecutive days (and a million nights) stark-raving clean and sober to end up as zombie chow!!!
I keep hearing others in the various hidey holes talking about how they got relief from a can of beer or a bottle of wine they found. Thanks, Higher Power for not letting me find either of those things. I still haven't met another 12-stepper in the wilds of Malton, and don't have any recovery lit to read. Neither of the newspapers I've found have had any meetings listed in the classified. And at this rate, the only regular places I might get lucky enough to locate another survivor in recovery are getting slammed by zeds.
Hmmm... I did spy a black cat not long ago. Those are usually pretty lucky for me. Well, the generator here got trashed earlier and I need to conserve what little fuel is left in my Zippo. If someone should happen to find these scrawlings, 12-stepper or not, please believe that we do recover.
It feels like I've been in one hellacious fog the past few days. Beats the heck out of how I was earlier this week- zombified. Coming back from that isn't too unlike detoxing from alcohol poisoning. The biggest difference I noticed was that instead of the sickly-sweet stink of booze seeping from my perspiration glands, I emitted the stench of rotting meat. But at least I don't reek of either condition right now. In fact, I'm getting stronger little by little.
I've been unable to keep up with this journal the past week mostly because when I'm a zombie my fine motor skills are zero. About the only things I can do are lurch around town, bite, claw, and clumsily swing an old baseball bat I found. I can't use my fire axe when dead, and honestly, dragging that sucker around in semi-rigor mortis sucks rocks.
Before my last death I managed to do a little wandering. Found some interesting stuff, too. I discovered what appears to be a crude "Zombiespeak" - English translation guide. I studied it closely and managed to formulate a message that might have gotten me healed faster. Thing is that I was unaware that usually the only "zeds" capable of barely rock-bottom communication are those who have been dead for a long time. So even if I'd managed to enter a building full of survivors, then best I could've hoped for would've been to keep blurting "Mrh?" until I was either revived or put out of commission again. Too bad the note I pinned to my jacket prior to leaving the cinema came off during my stagger-fest.
Anyway, just got done sparring with another survivor. John and I both decided we could use the training, so we agreed upon having a match a la "Fight Cl..." Oops- almost broke Rule One. Biggest conditions for this are:
Well, I'm getting tired. St. Anselm's seems sufficiently secure for the moment. Hopefully those of us here tonight can each get a little rest. Thank You, Higher Power, for another 24 hours clean and sober. Even in the midst of this insanity, it's good to be alive again.
I can't believe it's taken me this long to start keeping track of what's happened. There I was, just poking around a city I'd never visted before when I discovered that I was not only lost, but trapped. There's no getting out of Malton. To make matters worse, I got the rude enlightenment that this shithole is infested with zombies. Fucking lovely. I wish my travel agent had warned me. To add further insult to this insanity, I lost my doggone cell phone. Christ- this is what I get for trying to find a cool coffee shop in a strange place.
Survival has been literally a "one day at a time" affair. Oh- did I mention that I'm a recovering alkie/junkie? Yeah. No shit. It's been a long time since I've wanted to get completely wrecked, but I'd be lying my ass off if I said the thought hasn't crossed my mind. I've spotted a few churches and hospitals. Higher Power willing, maybe there's other living 12-steppers in this region. I haven't met another one yet, but this is now one of my daily (hourly) prayers.
I'm currently holed up in a 2nd story storage room an old cinema. There's no power in this building. Thank goodness there's a small window. At least the grimy glass is letting in enough light for me to see what I'm writing. I haven't heard anything from downstairs yet this morning. I don't know yet if this is a good or bad thing. For all I know the two guys who also camped out in this building last night are now dead and there's a zombie with my name on its menu. Time to grab my gear and get the heck out of Dodge. Maybe I'll make it back to St. Benedict's hospital in one piece.