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