31 October 2006

drive

In an attempt to touch base with something familiar and mentally regroup, I took the day off from work and made the two hour trip to Hometown.
I spent two hours with Mom and struggled to inform her of my current mental issues. While the words "suicidal thoughts" were never uttered, she clearly grasped the gravity of the situation. She tried to convince me to seek professional help; I told her I would think about it.
I then spent some time with Sister. She's in the waning weeks of her pregnancy and, considering the circumstances, doing well. I don't know if our relationship will ever fully mend.
My body boiling with anxiety I drove to Dad's but he wasn't home -- which was probably a good thing. By that point I was ready to crawl out of my skin, and being around Dad when I'm out of sorts is always a difficult -- and frustrating -- experience. I could have killed some time and waited for his arrival but I had had enough. Sorry, Dad.
I don't like visiting Hometown. Wonderful memories were made there, and I love Mom, Dad, Sister and Step-dad, but frequenting that city fills me with anxiety and sadness.
Living two hours away is a manageable and safe distance. I can keep the demons from the past at bay and I'm able to remove myself from the drama, the conflict, the heartache.
This "thing" is whittling me down to a mess of exposed nerves and whitewashed emotions. I feel like I'm screaming for help yet no one is paying attention. Or maybe they're just disinterested. Or maybe people are knocking but I refuse to answer the door. Or maybe I'm so cliche and full of shit that this is what people expect. All the lines have been rehearsed, the stage directions choreographed, and I'm just a cardboard cutout of an actor, shuffling along with a script of dust and bullshit in my hand.
"And tonight, playing the role of 'The Selfish Self-loathing Asshole'..."

mc

26 October 2006

ladytron

Music video: Ladytron "Destroy Everything You Touch"

24 October 2006

disappear

Saturday night was bad. I should get help. Just give up. Admit myself to that palace of white walls and locked doors. Eat medications supplied by "qualified professionals." Talk about my feelings.
But I've been there and done that.
And I'm not going back.
Even if it kills me.
My previous experience with psychiatric hospitalization taught me that the only lasting and sustainable remedy for my situation is a combination of weekly meetings with a shrink and doses of mind altering medication(s).
I refuse to subscribe to that "solution."

Through mutual friends my roommate has heard of my current situation. Last week he asked me if everything was okay, what was up, etc. I responded with lies, smokescreens -- my usual modus operandi for that kind of confrontation.
I reveal only the pieces I want others to see.
At least I'm honest with myself.


The physical presence of a living human body is strange. For his or her entire life, a specific point in space and time is constantly occupied. A coordinate. A location. A continuous moment. And when that body dies, when the person ceases to be, he or she, for all intents and purposes, disappears.
____ will never sleep again in that upstairs bedroom. Portraits on the wall stare at the empty bed, the cold sheets, a stiff pillow.
____ will no longer answer telephone calls in her corner office. A voice mail message, recorded when blood moved and eyes fluttered, answers and says, "I'll return your call as soon as I can."
____ and ____ won't share another October kiss. Blue and faded are her lips. Cold and crooked are his hands. And a chill is in the air.
Every day, people are disappearing. Vanishing like exhaust from the chrome tailpipe of a black hearse.
Gone.
Yet, ultimately, nothing changes.
Seasons shift. Snow falls. Leaves are replaced. A constant sun.
Man wages war against others -- and himself. Institutions replace soldiers. Mothers replace children. Unrelenting battles.
In my bedroom a candle flame flickers, silent. And people are disappearing all over the place.


Saturday night was bad.
I cut myself.
Not once.
Not twice.
Three times.
Or four.
But five.
Unable to recapture that old familiar feeling, I dropped the blade. I could have sliced myself to ribbons.
Something tells me I shouldn't be writing this, that I should quell my honesty. Conceal the truth. I might blow my cover.
But there is no cover to blow. No secret identity to mask.
I suspect my friends know me better than I think they do. They know I'm a fuck-up. A psychological train wreck. An ugly scab.
But I suppose my saving grace is who I don't know. If any of my friends dabbled or dealt in pharmaceuticals I'd be a numb, drug addled ghost floating with a head full of smoke, leaving whispers in my wake.

I'm not sure where this story goes from here. It's cold outside. Chilled bones. Whiskey. A menthol cigarette. There's something comforting about an icy breeze.
The World Series is on television. A base hit, two runs score. People cheer.
And I'm here. Away from everyone but too close to myself.



mc

11 October 2006

...

Whenever I see the Verne Troyer GEICO Auto Insurance advertisement, I feel really sad.
Is it exploitation when the exploited is a willing participant?

Ugh.

mc

01 October 2006

relevant

"You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees."

-from Bob Dylan's "She Belongs to Me"



A very apropos lyric for this dark night...

mc