I’m going to re-engage on this endeavor.
I was pawing my pink cloud like a cat toy upon the first couple of entries (now deleted) sometime in early 2022. Let’s see, I was prepping to spend a couple days in Minerva County for a (comparatively) gentle bottoming-out, I was figuring out how to prove I could go do things alone, I was scrambling to utilize a then-and-now-defunct degree.
I was holding onto outdated items that involved focus, like journalistic pursuits — doused in harsh language, loads of edge! — and the impressive feats I yanked out of myself in the past life.
I fell in love with the glamor of drink, and it ate me up. Then I found that cocaine would make me harder to ingest. Until it, too, unhinged its jaw upon me.
When I returned from my introduction to ‘getting right,’ I wanted all my stuff back.
Surface priority one was material. And I don’t know that that will ever stop; I don’t want to imagine yet another bottoming out to achieve that discovery. Stuff, in that sense, makes me happy. I like pants, and shirts, rings and chains and music and tattoos and vanity so help me God. And I wasn’t afflicted by brothers and sisters so I really enjoyed those fruits. I leaned into Only Child Syndrome just to beat anyone slightly observant to the punch.
I put in enough time to start to realize that wasn’t the stuff I was actually concerned about. That my soul was recoiled for a thousand reasons beyond being a mid-bottom addict. Most of it was because I let natural gifts, ones which I was told and reinforced and celebrated all of my life, drown in arrogance and disregard.
I was the self-proclaimed writer — nay, I still am the self-proclaimed ‘talented’ writer who never writes! My elegant, professional paradox. How would all these potential employers ever know what they were missing without having a word to overlook.
I was a musician! I composer, a collaborator and — I now realize– a catalyst in the projects I was a part of… until I was apart from. At a point I became so infatuated with ‘landing the plane’ (as we lovingly referred to it), I caught myself stammering when I told anyone what band I was in.
We ain’t playin’ no shows. We’re doing coke in our party house, missing the trashcans and arguing over how this sloppy 30 minute riff should go. GB of space being eaten up by leaving record on for nothing of note.
The stuff I lost was effort, and curiosity, and inspiration, and motivation. Drive! I took all the built-in gear for granted, and I took it fiercely. The output I was capable of as fun turned into maintenance is uncanny.
My late father said to me, fresh out of rehab, that I was just real late to the race. And that’s just that. In no way or form am I speeding up to catch you rule-followers. I love the rules now too… It doesn’t stress me anymore that I’m gonna also be late to the finish line. Mostly because we’re all galloping to the same one.
Dad did a ton for me, and now I work on passing down that fortune to anyone else who’s anxious for it. It’s the only way to be spoiled.
And in building new relationships that have to do with giving time and energy and developing patience, recovery-based or out in the world, I had the same discovery as everyone else: life is bright, and vivid, and reciprocal. Here in this section I was about to get sarcastic; consider that fear of vulnerability redacted.
My life is easy. And it’s loaded with the advise of so many powerful, brilliant people. They were always all around me; I had made it a point to stay the hell away from the help for the better part of a decade. IYKYK.
This advisory board grows. It began with my uncle and psuedo-namesake ‘Louis,’ someone who I hadn’t realized was looking out for me quite some time, they’ll be ‘Frank,’ MA and Dad. My Band of Boys. My House of Decided Brothers and Sisters.
Frank‘s word in my ear and on my eyes sounds like its a triple-dog-dare right off the bad. This is fortunate and frustrating. The stunted, lonely child in me must compete to impress against this newfound sibling.
They said, “why don’t you write. it’s easy, just do it like songs” I don’t know if that deserves quotes but that’s what I retained.
Some god voice tells me I can’t say no.
So I recalled an initial conversation with Uncle ‘Louis’ about doing something like this under a fake name and letting it rip. However, my ravenous EGO slid in and suddenly there’s my name, my image, my identity all over this thing; hilariously to be then shared on social media. Narcissist!
(I can say it, my best friend’s a narcissist)
If you subscribed to that spew early on, congrats it’s me as you remember! Our little barely kept secret. But to anyone who tags along here on out, I am a recovering alcoholic and drug addict named Lou Mercy.
LOU for my uncle’s alter-ego Louis; the demon that runs your house when you’re no longer home. Also the nickname for a someone with which things never quite lined up just right romantically.
Hi Lou, you probably don’t remember doing this: but thanks for being the voice that said “You gotta stop” at just the perfect time.
MERCY for what I been shown; and for any of you deserve at your worst.
Especially dickheads.
(I can say it, my best friend’s a dickhead)
I’ve removed all the photographs and mentions of who I am Out There. The voice is likely going to be a give away and the stories ensuing, pending on what comes out of me… It’s no matter.
I‘m a character as it is. But here, I’m going divulge my insanity and confusion via Lou Mercy. I’m just separate enough through the pseudonym to view two versions of myself. No more pictures and artful direction, besides my decided sister’s art, not-so-ironically chosen due to its alcoholic medium.
This oughta double as an about page. The colbrus are cleared, time to get spiritually fit. Life goes.
xx decadence,
Lou
pseudo lou 