One track mind…


I do believe this is my first visit back since my situation went from “normal” to surreal. While I’m not allowed (by order of a judge, no less!) to discuss this mess… I’m fairly certain anyone who knows me will be privy to the pickle I find myself in. Those people can talk about it all they want… actually, I encourage it.

Even I myself sometimes question what constitutes a “mental illness”. Well, does it matter if anxiety or PTSD are reactionary as opposed to organic and part of a person’s personality. It doesn’t matter… they arrive, they overstay their welcome, and it’s “mental”… not in the head like a less understanding observer might say, but mental that they are indeed in your head.

So, if anyone is doubting these are real things, don’t. I’ve done the research (I’m working on my doctorate), and they are real… it doesn’t matter how… they impair.

I can feel my way through a lot of things. Depression, mania (sometimes), but the anxiety is intolerable. Fear is… fear.

Maybe not so oddly, I’ve been becoming increasingly thinking of ways to just escape. Alcohol or stronger would certainly make things tolerable in the short run… five minutes or so. This is the danger zone… one any addict should monitor like a brush fire. Thank God I haven’t resorted to that particular poison, but it has crossed my mind. The lesson’s from past relapses I’ve had are finally sticking… like glue. I drink, I die. Literally, my nine lives have been breeding, but cats can only give birth so many times before their baby-making parts blow out.

Oh well… hopefully I can get back into the groove of this thing… I like doing it, and when I let life’s healthy pleasures fall by the wayside, that just makes room for the monsters in me.

Be well, don’t take any wooden nickels, and for Lord’s sake, don’t put stuff on the internet that might come back to bite you. Legal entanglements aren’t worth it… unless they are, and mine is… all mortification and embarrassment aside.

Dean Moberly



Check this out…


That’s the link to one of the most dreamy, crushing songs that I love… it comes on like a Vicodin, and sails out like a ship crashing through the sea.

I will come back later for an update, but here is the situation: If ever in the nearly three years since I had my last drink, this would be the day that I have my next drink. I won’t… I have to fight, and fight, and fight, and fight… my stalker has returned.

My feet took my down the beer aisle at Bale’s Thriftway, and I actually yelped and clenched… moaned and hustled through, on my way to get tea. I got my tea, and I got my cigarettes… of which I am going to jump like a lover. So far, so good.

But, being as my addiction… ruthless and howling… is banging on my door, I have to chain it up… hide a shotgun in the coat closet and a nightstick against the wall by the entrance to my house, and plug my ears.

I haven’t gone nearly as far as I could to detail my years… thirty five years of active drinking and drugging… but I will over time. I’m the cop car/coma kind of addict, and that’s no shit.

As for what I have still yet to open up about is the overwhelming love I have for my daughter… she is stardust… and I have to think of her. She is me… I have always been hers since the day she was born. I was the first to look down at her brand new face, and she calmly smiled at me, and… no shit… she did the little double “Okay” sign with her fingers… that peaceful, Buddhist message that all is well. She was an old soul, and she and I… wow. She is blessed to have me, because she is loved… pure and endless. I say to myself everyday that I couldn’t love her any more than I already do… then the next morning I love her even more.

Point being, is that I am in the ring, my gloves are scratched and the stitches are unraveling, but I’m going to play fucking dirty… bite and punch and kick this monster who is bigger and scarier, but can’t quite figure out how to tear of a strip of skin so it can unravel me like a wild yarn. For me, and for my daughter. Although, and addict is ultimately on their own when it come’s down to it. My battle.

For now, I will keep looking at the tattoo on my forearm that has my daughter’s name (please respect her anonymity) boldly pronounced, and wrapped in yellow roses with green vines. I have to be her father, and I have to be a man. Very few things make me feel like a man, but keeping the bottle from my lips is one of them… maybe the number one.

I’m okay… wound up like a top and ready to light a Cuban tobacco factory on fire so I can run back and forth through it like a huffing Olympian.

In case it isn’t obvious, I smoke like a chimney when I’m being chased down the field by the monkeys and dogs that occasionally decide to maul me. That’s how it is, and for the moment, I don’t care. Sometimes, when I think about drinking and all of the other shit I’ve put in my body, I say to myself “Fuck it… I could eat barkdust and smoke a pack a minute as long as I’m not drinking”. That’s not uncommon in addicts. Unhealthy, for those who love their little addictions, it’s comfort, and not so cold. It would be nice to have some nicotine patches though… even though I always end up slapping two of them on and sneaking cigarettes anyway. I don’t do things small.

More later… I’ve got self care and stressing out to do. If ever I was going to go try and score drugs… grass, opiates, Xanax… this would be the time. I find my relief in some questionable corners, but I make no bones about what I do, what I will do, and what I can’t do. I’m talking to you, white nose drugs and heroin from strangers.

Off to fight round I-can’t-keep-track-anymore. I’s send Mike Tyson in for me if I could, but he can’t get close to booze and coke either. I love-love-love boxing.

Send good thoughts my way. I need them.


Dean Moberly

CEO – The I Should Go To A Meeting Corp. is power…


…or curiosity killed the cat, I don’t know.

There is a documentary on HBO called ‘Diagnosis Bipolar’ about families struggling with children who have been diagnosed with… you guessed it… BiPolar disorder. If you have HBO, go to the documentary category, and give it a look see.

My ranting and raving offers insight into my daily thoughts and actions, which are no way indicative of mental illness or alcoholism and how those conditions affect others… only my own experience. I’m afraid my loopy scribbling is not only full of grammar nightmares, but they are just a nick on the surface of what my life is like.

I’m watching this movie as I write this, and so far, I’m having some trouble with children as the subjects.

First of all, I think that certain maladies are far too over diagnosed. ADHD, BiPolar, and Autism being a few of them. I am not saying that these things shouldn’t be explored when a person of any age shows signs of struggle, but there seem to be certain diseases de jour that are lazily or naively used to label people… especially children… by doctors who simply aren’t versed or broad enough to know what they’re doing. Or beholden to Pfizer.

Again, I am not saying these conditions are elves and fairy tales, but there is so much more to it. To anyone who really does suffer from something, I am truly empathetic and heartbroken. But, I’ve seen firsthand children who quite possibility are going through phases, or worse, being lumped in with true cases because it’s convenient or popular at the time. I’m sure drugs have something to do with it, too, but don’t get me started on big-pharma, lest my true monkeys start coming down from the trees and making a stink. It’s easy to pop a pill, but it’s harder to take the time to work with someone and get to know their history.

I’ve been struggling my whole life. If I ever had any doubt about my craziness… a word which I apply only to myself, because it’s funny to ME… that was erased during my most recent stay in the hospital. The period leading up to it was obvious, and the day itself was a horror… my parents saw a side of me that no parent should have to. I heard the nurses in the hall say that I had had a “psychotic break”. Yeah… to say the least. So, I’m in the club. At the very least, I’m a died-in-the wool addict, and anyone who thinks that doesn’t cause some brain damage is misguided. This is after all a blog about dual-diagnosis (addiction AND mental illness). Yes… I know that freewill is a component. Oh, and pipe down about my use of marijuana (no pun intended). I do know that I was feeling “wrong” going all the way back to early childhood. There are some situational factors there, but they weren’t the sole cause of my unquiet mind.

Back to this documentary. The more I watch, the more it becomes clear that the subjects are suffering. But, just as I said, I am becoming more and more suspicious of the “popularity” of conditions. Jesus, just watch a little television to see how many advertisements there are for medications geared towards depression, mania, etc. Son of God again… most of them cause diarrhea and brain tumors, so watch out. It strikes me as similar to the gluten-free and kale revolutions. Remember, cigarette ads used to feature doctors and celebrities touting the “Smooth, rich flavor” of Camel’s (True… seriously!) and Lucky’s. The Atkins guy died eating too much bacon, too… but he was quite possibly a quack. Remember, leg warmers were once popular too. So was untrimmed, hairy porn with flimsy plots.

I don’t ride a unicycle, but there’s a guy who does downtown while he plays the bagpipes. I just think he’s cool, not crazy.

Tricky business.

In closing, I’m going to be waving my eccentric flag high and proud today, so don’t anybody call the police or the hospital… just get over it, and let me be spirited… it’s better than under the blanket or hearing that woman’s voice that isn’t there. That happens sometimes, but I know what it is, and I’m okay with it. After all, it could be Gilbert Gottfried ranting in my skull.

Have a nice weekend, and don’t take any wooden nickels.

Dean Moberly

Vice President – Entertainment Cinemax



Last Wednesday, I went to sleep. I didn’t wake up until Saturday. Barely.

I call it “under the blanket”. That sounds nice… it could mean I’m toasty, or playing hide-and-seek, procreating… any number of things. However, what I mean by under the blanket, is that I’m depressed. Not bummed, not sleepy… depressed. Bad enough, but toss in some anxiety over it all, and it becomes a cocktail of horror.

I am terribly fortunate in that I have a support network that understands how depression manifests itself in me. I already feel rotten about being “lazy” and “decadent”. Otherwise, my life would be much harder. I don’t like “napping”. I didn’t when I was little, I don’t now. It always feels like I’m going to miss the ice-cream man or something.

Speaking of the ice-cream man, it was beautiful out last week. Global warming, for the time being, is working out well in the Northwest. The problem is, I can’t stand sunshine when I’m under the blanket. It’s like walking around Disneyland without being able to enjoy the rides and the elephant ears. That’s part of the reason I cover my head… the sun coming through the window feels like God’s accusatory interrogation rays asking me what the fuck is wrong with an otherwise healthy forty-five year old man.

I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Nothing. Nothing at all. I’ve got a roof over my head, food in my belly, loved ones, and great bone structure.

I take that back. Everything is wrong. I feel ungrateful, useless, ugly, and physically taxed like I have actually been doing something other than listening to CNN from the couch. Granted, CNN could make anyone reach for the razor and draw a warm bath. Comedy Central doesn’t help, either, so pipe down.

Here is just one example of how ridiculous depression can be. I found myself experiencing a burst of energy in the middle of all this, and I sat up. Hooray for mankind, right? Well, I had my feet resting on my coffee table, and the edges of said table were digging into my heels uncomfortably. I was too depressed to move them… even an inch. I probably sat like that for thirty minutes until I went down again.

Fortunately, my daughter had such a busy weekend, I was able to tell her that we could see each other sometime later this week, instead of our usual weekend together. I can’t tell her I’m clinically depressed… an eleven-year old can’t comprehend that, at least mine can’t. I hope. Otherwise, the weekend would have been a disaster beyond my inability to brush my teeth and get out of my filthy clothes. Thank God for that bone structure I mentioned.

There is no amount of coffee or motivation that can rouse me, even for my child, when I’m in that space. Getting loaded would snap me out of it, but a lifetime of experience tells me that doing so would make things worse. Much. Besides, even when I was in my deepest, darkest drinking, getting to the store for alcohol just isn’t going to happen. Back then, if I had a little bit of a heads up, I would stock up, and hope that I had enough. I know now that depression trumps alcoholism, simply in that I can’t fucking move. Little blessings, huh?

Historically, nothing situational has triggered these depressions. Life can be sailing along smoothly, then it hits the rocks. Life can be a slow-motion car wreck, and I’ll still get up and laugh. It is purely organic… free-range and gluten-free, too.

Sometime during the late afternoon on Saturday, I hopped up, and I fucking mowed the lawn and trimmed the St John’s Wart out in the front yard. Boom! Out of the blue, I was fine. There is no rhyme nor reason. Not only was I up and moving, I was happy. I’ll take it. Granted, the eighty-year old man down the street looked like an Olympian compared to my hobbling around the yard.

Here it is, eight days after I went down, and I feel great. That’s not to say I have physically recovered completely. Sleeping like a house cat for several days takes awhile to recover from. I’m still taking a couple of naps a day, simply because my body is trying to re-acclimate to moving. In more ways than one. My legs lose strength when I’m immobile for such periods of time (the longest being three months).

Try this: Pull the blinds, go to bed, and stay there for twenty-four hours. Don’t wash, don’t eat, just lay there. Set the alarm. Now, when the clock tells you that you’ve been close to mummified for a day, jump up and take a few quick steps.

You will fall down.

I’m back.

Dean Moberly

CEO, Sleep Country USA

Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark conspiracy…


I’ve been… out of radio contact. Off the reservation, if you will.

Too much of my business has been shitty-oh-dear-shitty-oh-my. However, I’ve actually been able to keep my shitty-shit-shit-shit corked tight. A little bit of resignation and calm go a long way.

Hallmark, while a nice place to shop… very Laura Ashley, smelly and such… is still a dollars and cents conspiracy. That being said, I have a fondness for Valentine’s Day. I get to focus on my partner, loved ones, and… this is the best… my daughter. I so much enjoy days like Valentine’s and Mother’s Day… Birthdays… it’s so much more fulfilling celebrating and courting them instead of Arbor Day, when all we give a thought about is a tree. If you have a tree in your life that is more than just flora, I apologize. 

It is easy to be a good parent when your child is so wonderful. It’s hard to keep a lock down when they’re around if there’s monkey business up in the head. But I do it… at least as best as I can. 

I will see her tomorrow. She will be happy to discover the crochet needles and bright yarn I bought her today… I will make her a special dinner. We will watch ‘The Boxtrolls’, and we will delight in each others company. 

My best childhood memories…my BEST… are of spending time with my father. He was the one who took me out and showed me a good time, with a smile a mile wide. My mother would gently sing me to sleep, and change my wet sheets, which was loving, respectful, and oh so needed. 

I wet the bed… a lot. This is decades ago. Fort five… how that happened, I don’t know. Now I’m on ear-hair watch. 

Wetting the bed is said to be all too common amongst the young recipients of sexual abuse. Hot, wet, and a much too pisser of a wake up call. Oh well… today is beautiful… global warming is okay in my book this Friday the 13th… and I am enjoying my time in the sun. Literally and figuratively. 

Enjoy! Happy V, and love your loves. 

By the way… Albertsons down the street has butterflied steak in clear, heart shaped boxes…. which is unfortunate. They look like vaginas, and my laughing to my knees in the store was an explosion of the kind of hilarity we can all use in life. 


Dean Moberly

Trusted Keeper

So long Jimmy…


…legs, that is.

Akathisia makes me feel like the yarn is unspooling rapidly… hence my mouth following suit. I’ll hem and haw about what may or may not make me feel better. Often, I’ll just let the stream-of-consciousness run it’s course. So, if I say something like, oh… let’s say “Opiates would make this better”? Well, they may or may not… but that’s not the course of action I took. I can’t remember the last time I did pop a pill like that.

However, I have to be careful about even mentioning those kinds of things. Not so much out of concern for myself… although that does come into play. What I don’t want anyone taking away from the way I live my life is an endorsement to behave likewise. Hey, I love Coke-A-Cola. A lot. Still, I’m not suggesting anyone else drinks it for their health… especially in the quantities that I have been known to indulge in. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would want to follow too many of my examples. See them as lessons, yes.

So… no, I did not use pills or booze to alleviate my discomfort. Actually, I will have three years alcohol free here come June.

I tend to speak in explosive terms… but if that manner of communication becomes misleading, or as I mentioned, a seeming endorsement of nefarious behavior, well… then that’s a problem.

Oh well… I’ve got a head cold to deal with today, and I’m going to take some over-the-counter medicine… as prescribed… and I’m going to keep in mind that when something doesn’t feel good, that’s no excuse to say something like “I’m going to rob a bank because I’m out of Benadryl”… someone might call the authorities.


Dean Moberly

Personal Assistant to Al Roker

Jimmy Legs…


…sounds like low level mob guy. Jimmy Legs.

Fuck this… fuck and fuck it again. Shortly after ten o’clock this morning, the fucking Jimmy Legs kicked in and that was it.

Akathisia is agitation in the extreme. The Jimmy Legs are like migraines… you either know, or you don’t. Trust me… a good third of the people who tell you about the migraine they had the night before are unknowlingly full of untruths… and trust me… I know migraines.

Back to the one and only fish I have to fry today and probably through tomorrow. And when I come back in from smoking one, if not two at a time,cigarettes… about which I am not kidding.. I’ll get right to it.

There… not at all better. The only thing that comes remotely close to comforting is smoking… cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Right now, if it didn’t involve any travel or physical effort, the best place for me to be would be a giant warehouse… hangar size… with the lights next to dark, surrounded by mountains of fresh tobacco leaves. If I could manage the dexterity to do so, I would definitely strip naked and fall face first into one of those mounds. And endless floor space for pacing.

Even with all of that, I would only feel comfortable in that when Jimmy invades my body, smoking is all I can do. I can’t bear the thought of moving, I can’t stop doing it. It is exactly like restless leg syndrome, only it spills all over. Imagine restless leg syndrome starting at top of your scalp, and washing all the way down to your toes, not missing a single spot of physical real estate.

Today, as is always the case, my knees started clenching and banging together hard… that’s when I know it’s over, I can’t win, and I’m in for for hell. Just like migraine headaches, there’s nothing anyone… victim or witness… can do about it. Nothing at all so go the fuck away. My jaw has already been troubling me for months… I have TMJ, and I grind and clench my jaw relentlesslly. But today my face resembles a stroke victim… twisting and clenching. It’s the Jimmy Legs.

I had no knowledge of Akathisia before I began taking a certain medication for my monkey business a few years ago. Immediately, I began a march back and forth across my carpet that has long outdistanced the Silk Road. Very few things come to mind if I bother to think of anything I could compare this to. Kicking alcohol or opiates…. but I’m not shitting myself and seeing elves in the curtains. But, my muscles are done… done, done, done. There isn’t a single position I can curl up into… fetal on up. Along with the silent shit, this brings out my yelps and moans. It always takes a few minutes or an hour, but sooner or later I always end up making noises… like a mother birthing.

This is important. Do not talk to me or… worse… touch me or get in my airspace for any reason… including fire. I don’t want to hear about it. And, Uma Thurnan just took a monster needle in the sternum in ‘Pulp Fiction’… I love that.

Back to this bullshit… There’s nothing that can be done… save possibly.for a good whack of opiates. Again… like a migraine… Akathisia is always here on it’s own terms, and will come and go without any rhyme or reason, except for possibly the tail end, when the body is too overworked to go on…. but the body will take on a new strength. I am going to beat my mattress like it owes me money tonight until I kick myself to sleep.

Miserable. Fucking miserable.

I’ve only recently become aware of the fact the Jimmy Legs are seriously crippling at the high end, to which I am close. I Get them all of the time, even though I took that medicine for less than a month. Maybe they’re connected, mabye they’re not. But the fancy people with .gov’s and .org’s all make a strong point of letting it be known that these legs, if you will, are strongly linked to certain meds. Just like the counting business with OCD, I didn’t know what it was, I just knew I did it. Fool me once…

It does not matter one whit what I’m doing and where I am. Once it hits, I am absorbed completely. This morning, I was only barely able to limp to our car in the parking lot at the store. I could not handle the inside of the store, I could not handle the walk back to the car, I did not enjoy the car. Again… don’t bother, because nothing is going to help.

My weirdo brain stuff comes and goes whenever it decides that it’s a good time for its own selfish self. Up and down and hard cycling fast when that’s what’s going to happen. The Jimmy Legs, however, are one of a handful of situations in which I will not be operating with any nod towards anything but falling to pieces for the next day or three.

I’ve read up and spoken to some doctors about this lately. What piqued my interest was an article I read that mentioned the Jimmy’s drives enough people to suicide that it merits a mention in a pie chart kind of way. It causes depression, anxiety, terrible physical discomfort… agitation par excellence. The suicide angle caught my eye because that word stands out like no other… not that it drives me down that road. It makes me angry and exhausted in a way that makes me want to cry like a baby because for all of that, it’s a battle to get to sleep. So… I get all twisted up, and I cannot function. Not for anything. How I can type right now is beyond me… but otherwise, I would qualify easily for euthanasia in any country or place inclined to get their super-race on.

No matter… I will always opt for angry over sad, but just by a hair. This nonsense makes me angry, which is draining left right and under.

It would make sense that I could use all of this marching gas to get some things done… but that would not be further from the truth. I’m supposed to help some family move tomorrow… I’ve been looking forward to it for a month now. But, I don’t think it’s going to happen. First, I can only use my body to dance and twitch with an air of palsy. On top of that, I can’t stand to be around people… it’s far too agitating, nor do I want anybody to see me like this. I really don’t, and I can’t pull a rabbit out of my hat like I can with certain other malfunction… pull out a rabbit and smile for the fans.I am such a physical wreck, and as I said at the beginning, this wracks my body like really bad drug withdrawl, and I just can’t put a lid on the St Vitus show.

I can’t see getting suicidal over it, but it occurred to me earlier that if ever there was a time to pull out the kit and start cutting, this would be it. The little spot in my lizard brain dedicated to slicing myself has a longing to make the intolerable float away. Chain smoking or bloodletting? The two are an odd weigh, bur I am chain smoking tonight, and nothing is going to crap on that party.

I’m going to do that until I can’t stand… which istwelve hours ago… and I fall into bed. I do have the good fortune of candles, sweats, and a bunker to hunker down in.

Also linked to Akathisia is a pretty high rate of substance abuse. I can see that… I would gladly take some strong pharmaceuticals right now if they promised to help me settle down. The idea flew through my head for a millisecond that drinking would be very attractive under the present circumstances…but it wouldn’t. I don’t want to go there anyway. I couple of assertive opiates from the pharmacy and an ice cold Coke would be awesome right now. Alas…

Hey… my daughter has been keeping me far from cutting, but it just goes to illustrate that this is a bully. All the whiskey and abusive masturbation in the world can’t put a stop to this. That would be nice… my neck is rolling and wobbling like a bobblehead’s.

Oh, and as per usual, I’m not going to spend one minute of checking for errors and nonsense in order to edit all of this… I am more deeply out of give a fuck’s than I can say. Sorry about that… it’s not like I’m incapable.

Take care… have a good moment.

Dean Moberly

Slack-Jawed Mumbler