There are some things you don't talk about. Some things you don't talk about because you either don't have the strength to face it, or you want to forget about it, erase it, be done with it.
Jack and I don't talk about it. We don't talk about Cody and the incident that occurred eight years ago. The three of us… it was supposed to be simple, simple and clean, fast and easy. But things never turn out the way you had hoped. It wasn't simple. It wasn't clean. Not fast and easy. No shots, we told him. We told Cody no shots; the guns were merely props, extensions of our costumes. We go in, get the money, take the Buick to leave the scene and ditch it once we're outside city limits. But Cody was fucked up, high, coked up – something – just fucked up. We enter the bank, Cody enters the bank, he practically rips the door off the hinges and hits the counter like some goddamned rabid dog. The plan was already shit. Jack and I, we couldn't believe what we were seeing, but we – Jack and I, that is – stuck to the plan. We got the tellers to empty their drawers and Cody… fuckin' Cody kept waving his gun like it was a goddamn flag on the Fourth of July. But then he stopped for a moment. Everything stopped for, it was only two, maybe three seconds – it was as if something broke inside him. His demeanor changed. He was tranquil, in a perverse sort of way, when he steadied his gun on the teller, the blonde one, and calmly said, "No. No. It's over." And the trigger. He pulled the trigger. I remember the deafening sound of the shot; Christ, it was loud. But my deafness had the life of that very gunshot – short, brief – because everything stopped, it was as if all the gravity in the world was centered on that pretty teller lady when she fell… she just dropped… like slow motion… falling through all that silence. Jack and I came to, realized we had to get the fuck outta Dodge, so we turned, we ran out of the bank – I remember the sunshine and fresh air, it all tasted like freedom, and freedom never tasted so sweet – and we got into the Buick. As Jack sped off, I looked back to see if Cody was giving chase. He wasn't. But he was standing right outside the bank's doors. As Jack drove faster, Cody got smaller, but I saw him put that 9mm to his head. Didn't hear anything but I saw him fall. He fell and the Wal-Mart plastic bag that held his loot caught a gust of wind and the money went flyin'. I told Jack – real calm-like – Cody just shot himself. Jack didn't flinch, just kept driving. But what he and I didn't realize at the time was, Cody wouldn't have the opportunity to rat us out. And with a loose cannon like that, you didn't know what he might say. One man's suicide is another man's blessing, I suppose. Jack and I ditched the Buick and went our separate ways, and until yesterday, we hadn't spoken to each other since then. That day… it was like something out of a movie – the whole thing.
It was odd… yesterday, our reunion… the way it happened. I was in Indianapolis for the Indy 500, and night before the race I'm at some piss-stained rat-hole of a bar downtown. I'm finishing off my fourth whiskey and coke when I happen to glance over my shoulder – trust me, when you've done the things I've done, looking over your shoulder is an involuntary action – and see Jack. Even after eight years his face was unmistakable: the square chin, thin lips, heavy forehead.
I invited him to have a seat and bought a couple rounds of whiskey shots. Jack was always a whiskey man. We bullshitted about the weather. Talked about the upcoming race and the Cubs futile pursuit of the pennant. We didn't speak of the lost battles, the defeats, the bank job.
"It's crazy, Tommy. Crazy how much can change in eight years. I got married four years ago. Me and Michelle got a couple of kids. Tina, she's three, and Melissa, she's nine months. Best goddamn thing that happened to me was meetin' Michelle. What about you, Tommy?"
"I've been with a gal named Erin for a few years now. We got a girl together, little Lena. She's a cutie."
By that point the cute bartender had poured another shot for me and Jack. I swallowed it. I'd had enough whiskey that evening that the liquor just rolled down my throat. It didn't burn, didn't bite. Over our heads nonsense flickered on TV screens.
Some twenty minutes later, Jack glanced at his watch and said, "Shit, Tommy. Gotta go. Thanks for the shots." And he looked at me. I remember that – the way he looked at me. He looked at me as if I were a crooked car salesman, as if he knew I was hiding a beaten transmission, the engine sounded good, but under the hood was a blown piston.
He was right. Jack always had a way of reading people, which is why I stayed seated at the bar. Because if he had seen me walk he woulda noticed the limp. And Jack being Jack, he'd ask me about the limp, "Hey, you ain't walkin' right. What happened, Tommy?" he'd ask me. And I would have to tell him about the vacation three years ago, the accident on I-75, and admit that Erin and Lena? They ain't here no more. And I'd have to describe the torment of hauling luggage back home from a vacation that never happened. Seeing the things the mother of your daughter packed away: a disposable camera to capture memories that would never surface, the long strands of dead brown hair wrapped around the bristles of a useless hair brush, and your daughter's teddy bear – a companion she couldn't sleep without.
There are some things you don't talk about. Some things you don't discuss because you either don't have the strength to face it, or you want to forget about it. Erase it. And be done with it. After Jack thanked me for the whiskey, he gave me that look and walked away. We didn't shake hands, didn't even say goodbye. Just wished each other good luck. My unsteady eyes followed him through the crowded bar until he passed through those old, heavy oak doors. I then got up from my seat, limped to a nearby window and watched him drive away. We'd shared so much, yet so little. I followed those red tail lights until I couldn't see 'em no more.
"Hey, Tommy, you want another whiskey?" I heard the cute bartender ask.
I stood there at the window, hoping to see Jack's car reemerge from the night. It didn't. "Yeah, doll. Pour me another."
xx
I love drinking. I hate people who don’t drink. Never met an interesting person in my life who didn’t drink. If you don’t drink you’re a boring cunt and all your stories suck. All your stories end the same way with, ‘And then I got home.’ No one gives a shit that you’ve been promoted at work and no one gives a fuck that your kids don’t have bruises.
Ever ask a non-drinker why they don’t drink? Same fuckin’ answer every time, you go, ‘Why don’t you drink?’ and they go, ‘I don’t like the taste of it.’ NOBODY DOES! No one likes the taste of it, we drink ‘cause we fuckin’ have to! No one’s ever had a shot of tequila and gone, ‘Ooh, that’s lovely! Next time I’ll have that instead of pudding. It’s so moist!’
We drink ‘cause life’s shit and you gotta do whatever you can to get through the fuckin’ day.
Currently listening to the mysterious release from Burial and Four Tet – the "Moth/Wolf Cub" split. This release is of the good news-bad news variety: the good – Burial and Four Tet complement each other like Oreos and milk, and while these two artists delve in the digital realm of music making, there is something organic – and very compelling – about this tag-team release. The bad news is the collab is limited to two songs -- AND TOO SHORT.
I first heard of the "Moth/Wolf Cub" release a few weeks ago, and the buzz drove me to (legally) download his 2008 EP Ringer, which is very good and certainly worth your time. Ringer is 31 minutes and 29 seconds of perfectly composed electronic music. My first exposure to Four Tet was his remix of Thom Yorke's "Atoms for Peace," which, quite honestly, I found, and still do find, unremarkable. For me, Four Tet is hit and miss; some of his work strikes me profoundly, while some of his other work is just too inaccessible. The Ringer EP displays Four Tet's musical musings magnificently. Check it out.
Burial is… well, Burial simply is. Either you dig his sound or you don't. Burial dwells in the watery gutter of the genre known as dubstep. And if dubstep doesn't accommodate your musical taste, then you will probably dismiss Burial's sound, because Burial is responsible for pushing the dubstep sound further and into the indie mainline. If you are in the mood, Burial's digital blueprints provide the perfect soundtrack. His music is dark, but the sound doesn't drown in that darkness; the syncopated rhythms keep pushing, pulsating each track like a midnight train. And when it comes to selecting rainy-day music, Burial is at the top of the list.
xx
Watching tonight's premiere of Breaking Bad's latest chapter (season two, episode 11), and I'm burning because: Skyler is a backstabbing bitch; Jesse is not only an incompetent dealer, but an inept boyfriend (I knew Jane would backslide!); Walt must drop Jesse if he wishes to maintain a sound distribution network; and there is no better man to play a sleaze-bag defense attorney than Bob Odenkirk.Breaking Bad is the best show on television. Period.
xx
In the words of Skinny Pete, "Watch your back out there, bro."
I awake, open my eyes and immediately recognize a glaring fact: I do not recognize this ceiling. No, this is certainly not my bedroom. The unidentifiable pictures clinging to the walls, the LPs scattered across the wood floor… these things must belong to the body next to me. Once my eyes see the small scar etched on her cheek I recall everything:
Evin, she said her name was Evin. Yes, Evin. My response upon her introduction: "That's an interesting name." "It's Evin with an i, not an a like the boy's name," she said. I met her at The Caboose, Religious Knives was on stage and I don't remember how, but we found each other. And we drank. We drank a lot, and after Religious Knives had emitted their final sound I found myself in a cab with Evin alongside. She was kissing me – the moisture of her hot, whiskey-saturated breath coated my ear, my neck – and she told the driver where to go: her fifth-floor apartment off Ellingwood. We climbed the stairs and, once inside, drank some more until our hot hands were climbing the foreign constructions of our bodies. We fucked, and here
our bodies crumpled. Here in this bed. And last night is a story I've never experienced. I've always thought of myself as far too reserved, too protective of self to just give myself away and let the unfamiliar body of a stranger erode my defensive proclivities. But here I am.
It feels like afternoon… the late-afternoon sunshine beams through the window and I ponder my departure. Leave a note, a telephone number and offer a final glance at her sleeping body then slip away? Do I wake her and leave a kiss goodbye? You sentimental fuck, what happened last night… girls like that don't engage in alcohol-fueled sex with men they consider friendship – never mind relationship – material. I slowly crawl from her bed and scour the floor for my clothes. As I pick up my jeans, coins fall from a pocket and ping loudly off the hard floor. I freeze.
Enter groggy voice: "Hey, handsome, where are you going?"
"Oh… hey… good morning… I… uh… not sure what the, uh, typical protocol for post-last night, kind of thing is. I mean, I'm not trying to be a dick, I just don't know what you—"
She giggles. Her laughter breaks the ice that has locked my body. Heartbeat slows. Shoulders relax. Tension eases. She says, "You don't have to leave, if that's what you're worried about, Elliott."
I express my relief upon accepting her obscure invitation to linger. She slides into some panties and throws on a tee, then begins brewing coffee. As the scent of java blossoms throughout her apartment I'm struck by the pictures. Pictures encased in frames. Pictures taped to walls. In the living room. The hallway. Kitchen. Bedroom. All of them biblical in nature. There is the sacrifice of Isaac. The blinding of Samson. Apostle Paul. Moses smashing tablets. Christ waiting for death. All of these pictures yet not one a photograph of family or friend, just myths.
She must have noticed my attention towards the pictures: "Don't worry. I'm not a Jesus freak. Just have a thing for biblical paintings. Those there, next to the lamp, those are all Rembrandt. My favorite is 'Jeremiah Lamenting the Destruction of Jerusalem.'"
The old floor of the apartment creaks as she walks from the kitchen to join me. I'm looking for Jeremiah when she says, "This one. Right here. It's my favorite because you can practically feel Jeremiah's lament, his sorrow; he knew something horrible was going to happen – he'd known for years – yet he was powerless – useless, really – to do anything about it. And back there, in the shadows, Jerusalem burns as the King of Judah stands away from it all; his sons were slaughtered then his eyes were gouged from his face. And Jeremiah… sits there… helpless. Have you ever felt helpless, incapable of stopping something that you knew was going to
destroy
someone close to you?"
"Yeah, I mean, I think everyone has experienced that at least once. Some unstoppable doom. I sense there is someone, something under the surface here… behind all of this. What's up?"
Abruptly: "I think the coffee's done. Sugar? Cream?"
I tell her no, I prefer my coffee black, and she's gone, away from me and into the kitchen. I hear the clink of ceramic coffee cups. The soothing sound of tumbling liquid. I watch her fill the cups, and her eyes, her eyes seem unusually focused on such a simple task. This isn't a focusing gaze; this is an attempt to push something out, to push something away.
"Yes, Elliott, I have been powerless to stop… to stop a storm, a tide of madness." She stands there, in the kitchen, her eyes turned downward toward the cups of black coffee. And I'm standing here, I haven't moved from this spot because I'm staring at her – I can't avoid it – and considering my next word, my next movement, but I'm frozen. She's lost within something that neither I nor anyone else can empathize with, a scabbed memory that is always just a recollection away from being torn and bled anew.
I approach her cautiously, place my arm over her shoulder and ask if she's OK. She's slow to start, but details eventually flow. She tells me of a man named Daniel, and while she doesn't state how she was linked to him, I gather he was a love interest.
"And then everything changed. He was inside a gas station – apparently the gas pump wouldn't accept his credit card – when a man came in and held the place up. Guy put a gun to Daniel's head, threatened to kill him, then hit him with the gun. He played dead until the cops got there. Days later he couldn't stop thinking about what happened, he had nightmares and was afraid to go anywhere, scared of a passing stranger attacking him or some shadow leaping from the darkness. His doctor said the feelings and fears were normal following a traumatic event, said the nightmares and terror would go away after a few weeks. But they didn't. Things… things only got worse. He lost his job. Daniel used to play chess – he won several tournaments – but not anymore. He couldn't even comprehend the game. The rook, the pawns, bishop… the pieces no longer made sense. And things just fell apart. Hallucinations. Drinking every night.
"I'll never forget when I had the realization, when I recognized that his life was over. I suppose I had realized his departure weeks earlier, but denial kept that reality hidden. I pulled up to his house and as I approached the front door I happened to catch a glance of him; I could see him through a window, and he was naked… on the kitchen floor, rocking back and forth… his lips were moving but I couldn't read them, I couldn't hear what he was saying. And his eyes… behind his eyes there was something… someone else… or maybe no one… I don't know, but as I stood there watching him I remember thinking – it's so weird because it's as if it were yesterday, so vivid – I thought I was looking at some exhibit: there he was, behind glass and encased inside his own madness, a tragically bizarre display that I could no longer comprehend; this sculpture that I once recognized – this person that I loved – had been twisted, transformed into… into… this figure that existed on some foreign plane of existence… incomprehensible. And I… I just wanted to climb inside that bubble of distortion and tell him, remind him who I was – and who he used to be – and tell him, I was there… tell him, Don't leave me, Daniel, don't leave this… this. You're sick, that's all, and I'm here. But no one could reach him, and as I stared at him through that window I realized that he was gone, and even if he did come back, he wouldn't be the same. He wouldn't recognize his mother's name, much less her face. He wouldn't remember our trip to Oregon, he wouldn't remember the significance of the insignificant, you know, those things that only possess meaning when they are shared between two lovers. Yes, I saw it there, that day. I was Jeremiah and I was powerless, useless. The tide was coming and I… I couldn't stop it. It had already arrived."
"Geez, that's quite a… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, uh, open such a painful—"
"No, it's OK. Don't be sorry. Really. Here, you better drink your coffee before it gets cold."
So I drink the coffee – the bitterness bites my tongue. And she leaves me, the floor creaking as she walks away. And from her bedroom she calls my name.
I'm in the doorway and she has stripped herself of panties and shirt. She's naked on the bed and tells me she has a secret. "Come hither. Come to me."
She's below me, sucking my cock. I know I should be into this, but I can't stop staring at the picture next to the light switch. It's Leonardo's "St Jerome in the Wilderness." Jerome lived in the desert for four years with beasts and scorpions as his only companions. And I'm amazed – bemused, really – at how little our species as evolved. We wander, seemingly aimlessly, and subject ourselves to caustic relationships with others and with the face that greets us in morning mirrors every day.
In Jerome's right hand is a stone – an object he pounded against his chest until raw. Self-mutilation as an act of devotion. And Evin – Evin with an i, not an a – she's below me, sucking my cock, not as an act of love; no, she's sucking me as a vehicle to escape something I'll never understand. She's self-mutilating, but the damage isn't physical; no, unlike the pink mark on her cheek, this scar will leave its trail on her consciousness. And me? I know her sexual act means nothing, and I'm no closer to achieving what I really desire: a meaningful relationship that is based on platitudes and sentimental gestures. And I know that, while I may currently be an object of focus for her, I'm as forgettable as the road kill you pass at 60 mph. I could make her stop, pull her away from my waist and tell her, No. But I don't. Because her blowjob is my self-mutilation. I'll convince myself that her "act of devotion" is a testament of love. My cock is her cross and this is her crucifixion. And she loves me. She does. This is what I will tell myself. Later. When I'm alone in my shit apartment and petrified of a future of TV dinners and Internet porn. And I want to tell her, Evin, I love you, and I know we haven't even known each other for 24 hours, but I love you. And I see a future – a future that includes you and me. Together. We'll spend a lazy Sunday afternoon at some downtown coffee shop and… and it will be perfect. Like a fantasy life that flickers on the silver screen. But no. No. That isn't reality. I'm wandering like Jerome, damaging myself as some twisted method of worship. And like Jeremiah, I know what's coming. But I push it out. Push it away. Evin is sucking and I'm coming.
And I can't get the bitter taste of that goddamn coffee off my tongue.
xx
After all, aren't we all more odd than we are normal? And aren't so many of us one bad experience away from a mental-health diagnosis that could potentially limit us? Aren't "normal" minds now struggling with questions of competence, consistency or sincerity? Icarus, a "mad pride" group in Manhattan, is likewise asking why we are so keen to correct every little deficit -- it argues that we instead need to embrace the range of human existence.
Completed my final final (Algebra) a couple hours ago and the grade was just posted; my official grade for the class is an A at 96.9%. My unofficial grade for Intro to Psychology is 93.3%, an A, and unofficial grade for English Composition is an A, 98.6%.
I'm taking two summer classes (Concepts in Mathematics and Anatomy & Physiology), which begin next month.
I feel good about completing my first semester of school in over ten years, but I realize much more (challenging) work is ahead.
In other news, I finished 4th out of 452 players in a Pure Play $500 Weekly Qualifier poker tournament last night; my performance qualifies me for the $500 Weekly Final tournament tomorrow night.
So yeah, despite the shit storm of the past few weeks, things are looking up and I'm much more optimistic about life. (L, well, she's a different story…)
xx
I no longer have health insurance. Apparently there is a clause buried within the labor agreement that if an employee does not work 1560 or more hours during the benefit year, which cycles every May, said employee loses health insurance. I fell 135 hours short of the mark and as of May 1 (keep in mind I was informed of this today, May 4) I no longer have medical or dental insurance, which means no therapist, no psychiatrist and no more prescriptions. (In light of my mood in recent days, I am convinced the Topamax is having little, if any, impact, so discontinuing it worries me not.)
Earlier I was disgusted with myself, the situation, everything, because I invested much hope in consulting with a therapist and new psychiatrist, all with the goal of gaining ground on this thing that seems bent on destroying me.
Now I am numb. I will do what I have done in the past when faced with these… these thoughts: attempt to find solace in the vast quietness of nihilism.
xx
It is difficult to accurately assess how and what I am feeling at this moment. Obviously it is impossible to objectively evaluate the rationality of my emotions because they are my emotions, so just how does a man as self-conscious as myself know which feelings can be attributed to my illness and which emotions are a result of my wandering mind? What I mean is: I'm acutely aware of the mind's tendency to process and extrapolate information. If a man is ill, he understands – on many levels, conscious and subconscious – there are feelings, or symptoms, both physical and emotional, associated with his sickness. (And when I speak of sickness, I'm speaking of all forms – physical [influenza, a cold, upset stomach, migraine, etc.] and emotional [depression, bipolar disorder, etc.].) Just how many of those symptoms can be directly attributed to the sickness is speculation, because the mind works in strangely powerful ways. See the placebo effect, or somatoform disorder. I have little doubt that some of the anguish I experience during my depressive phases is self-inflicted. Given my history of self-injury, there is a clear, albeit disturbingly sick, subconscious desire to inflict pain upon myself, and because the line between physical and emotional pain is muddled in my mind, I can rely on either method to satisfy the impulse.
I wonder just how valid these self-examinations are. When I was completing the five-page self-assessment form prior to my BHBHC visit Thursday, I jokingly asked myself, Is someone who is potentially mentally ill really qualified to offer a self-assessment? Perhaps I know too much about the motivations behind my thoughts and this sickness. Maybe I understand very little, if anything. A self-conscious man that continually analyzes his thoughts and the stimuli thereof risks unraveling the threads that bind his sanity. I suppose there is no better person to scrutinize my thoughts, but I am probably the last person who should, which is why I question myself about how honest and forthcoming I will be in my upcoming therapy sessions. I fear that unfiltered honesty may have undesirable consequences.
I do not know if I fully comprehend the degree of repression I have used upon the urges and emotions within my mind. But again, here is the Catch-22 of self-examination: I accept that I have repressed (and continue to repress) certain feelings, so does that simple allowance send my mind on a subconscious whim to plant repressed desires and memories that have no actual seeds within the tapestry of my reality? (As I type this post, I know what a reader might be thinking: What the fuck is he talking about? He's gone sideways. No I have not. I am simply offering a raw – and perhaps completely erroneous – stream-of-consciousness account of my current headspace.) Whatever the case, I am aware of certain urges that pulsate more prominently during my depressive phases. I hope to explore this topic delicately in my upcoming sessions.
During the last couple weeks I have been questioning myself about some of the personal details I post here (this very post, for example). Am I sharing too much? Why share anything? A little exhibitionist, don't you think? Last night I spent some too much time looking for one, just one, blog that contained something personal, something real… a blog that seemed to have some blood behind the words. I didn't find such a blog, which validated my space here in some ways. Everything is too sanitized in the blogosphere. Despite the fact that we are in "the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression," little has actually changed, socially speaking. I found blogs about the newest designer shoes; blogs about the latest and hottest tracks consuming radio airwaves; blogs overflowing with cynicism and snark; and blogs where seemingly nothing bad happens (a picture of a smiling woman… she writes about her wonderful relationship with her husband, Todd… she posts pictures of family picnics and smiling children).
It seems that many, too many people avoid talking about themselves, even when the Web's cloak of anonymity is available. And the ones who do discuss their lives live in some Technicolor vacuum void of pain and honesty. People have told me that some of this blog is cliché. Trite. "Emo" (I've heard that more than once). This blog is a window into my life. It is what it is.
I don't write this blog in search of a reader's validation, regardless if the reader is friend or stranger. I write this blog because this is my personal time capsule – and I'm not going to fill my capsule with designer products, shitty music or opinions about our culture's industry of disposable personalities. I write this blog because, while I'm not seeking vindication through these words, vindication, however slight, can be tasted through the words of someone else. When you recognize a piece, especially a fragment that stings with pain or regret, of yourself in the expression of another, something happens. The recognition doesn't necessarily improve your situation, but it alleviates some of the toxic pressure that I, and (if more people were honest with themselves) so many others, carry inside. For me, this has been one of the Internet's greater gifts – the practically infinite number of contacts and connections one can make; while these connections are usually scarce and fleeting, they can offer a glimpse of quietness amid chaos.
And so I write.
Here.
xx
I visited Bloomington Hospital's Behavioral Health Center today. After completing a five-page self-assessment form, a social worker interviewed me for nearly 40 minutes. The interview was very thorough and, among other things, covered my current symptoms and past experiences. While I squirmed in my seat and wished not to discuss some of the darker, more regrettable aspects of my history, I felt compelled to do so because the interviewer seemed genuinely interested and, more important, concerned about me; she did not conduct the interview as though it were a precursory formality.
I cannot overstate how crucial it is for someone who is knowingly suffering from a mental illness to feel that a professional within the field actually cares about him or her. There is a shortage of psychiatrists in Bloomington (this is not a perceived shortage, by the way), and as a result, too many individuals are referred to programs that process their patients like cattle; such programs sacrifice individual care because of the sheer number of people they must process, which is why many people, like myself, hold such critical and unfavorable opinions about the mental health field.
Over the next two weeks I will visit a therapist who will discuss coping mechanisms and other practical, non-medicated approaches to my illness. I won't meet an actual psychiatrist (Dr. N) until July 9 (I may see him sooner if a cancellation arises).
I can only hope the care and professionalism I experienced today will be a common thread throughout my future appointments.
xx
