closer

The countenance in the mirror is not a familiar one. Something has changed. My eyes look different. Is it the shape? The color? Something is no longer recognizable.
I woke up this morning feeling angry. After identifying the anger's source I wasn't sure if that emotion was appropriate. I don't believe that my so-called friends care about my circumstance. (I should exclude Ryan from this barrage; he made the drive and visited on Friday. We went out for drinks, shot some pool and had a chill time. I was truly grateful for his presence -- it meant a lot to me.) I've never been one to mince words, especially when someone or something draws my ire, but in this case I'll restrain myself because unleashing my disappointment, my anger will solve nothing.
Mom called around noon and my anger turned to sadness. There were so many things that I wanted to tell her; I hid my true feelings behind a facade of small talk and agreeableness. I did, however, tell her of my forthcoming appointment with Dr. F. I don't recall her response to this bit of news. She mentioned plans for Christmas and I cringed. It's strange how so many people assume that those in the present will be there in the future. Assumption has led many a man down a false road. Mom spoke of other details but I don't remember them.
I'm trying to remain optimistic about my meeting with Dr. F., but I've contemplated canceling the appointment. Maybe I don't want to be rescued. This, of course, is assuming that I can be saved, that diluting my brain with chemicals can erase the feelings of despair and hopelessness and somehow make me reclaim my validity. But what if I deny salvation with a clear and untempered mind? What if I want to extinguish the light and fade away?
I keep telling myself that this is all inside my head -- but what isn't? The brain is the steering wheel of reality, and ultimately, perception is reality.
I don't know.
I've looked at my reflection and pondered what it will look like when I have passed. I've "heard" the shrieks of my mother upon hearing the news of my death. Heartbreaking.
I don't know.
I read that Pulitzer Prize-winning author William Styron passed away on 1 November.
From the AP:

William Styron, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of "The Confessions of Nat Turner" and other novels whose explorations of the darkest corners of the human mind and experience were charged by his own near-suicidal demons, died Wednesday. He was 81.
Styron's daughter, Alexandra, said the author died of pneumonia at a hospital in Martha's Vineyard, Mass. Styron, who had homes in Martha's Vineyard and Connecticut, had been in failing health for a long time.
Although often cited along with Kurt Vonnegut and Norman Mailer as a leading writer of his generation, he produced little over the past 15 years. Styron was reportedly working on a military novel, yet published no full-length work of fiction after "Sophie's Choice," which came out in 1979.
"He had a lot of things wrong with him," Gore Vidal told the AP. "He had a bad ending."

In his book "Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness," he wrote, "Death ... was now a daily presence, blowing over me in cold gusts. I had not conceived precisely how my end would come. In short, I was still keeping the idea of suicide at bay. But plainly the possibility was around the corner, and I would soon meet it face to face."
I'm tired now, and I'm going to bed.

mc