Smoke another cigarette.
Take a few more pills.
Swallow some more whiskey.
Run.
Run away from the unforgiving thoughts and images that fill your head.
Run away from yourself.
But your legs will not move fast enough. Your feet are too slow.
And you know where she is. And whom she is with.
Under the shadows of a darkened bedroom she is there. And she is a contortionist wrapped around his figure. The walls absorb the sounds that escape from her tepid lips.
The very lips you once tasted.
The very lips that spoke words you once thought were impossible: "I love you."
She loved you, Christopher.
Smoke another cigarette.
Take more pills.
Swallow more whiskey.
Run.
Run away from the agonizing images flickering inside your head.
Run away from yourself.
But your legs cannot carry the carriage of regret. Your feet are steel anchors. And you are sinking a million miles offshore.
And she cannot hear your cries. She is the concrete floor that catches his frame -- a structure collapsing from a blast of ecstasy.
She was your catcher in the rye.
She was the net that caught your body -- an object of flesh and bone that once fell from a cloudless sky.
And she loved you, Christopher.
So you smoke another cigarette and fill yourself with intoxicants -- the pseudo-killers of pain. And you run. Just run. Run until your feet blister and bleed. Purge yourself of regret. Run away from your mistakes.
But you know where she is.
Run.
And whom she is with.
Run.
He is there.
Just run.
And she is asleep.
Run.
Two sleeping bodies. Touching.
Just fucking run.
"I loved you, Christopher."
The words you once thought were impossible.
xx
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
24 August 2008
21 August 2008
refusal
It would be so easy for me to call myself a fuck-up and other self-loathing pronouns. But I won't. Where has that childish behavior gotten me? Nowhere. It's only caused harm to myself and potentially permanent damage to those who care about me.
Over the past several weeks I've been able to expunge myself of the demons by being active, both physically and creatively. Simply attending a bi-monthly bipolar support group has helped me immeasurably.
I know I will never rid myself of this "disease," but I can manage it through various means.
No, I won't resort to the self-loathing tactics that I've so readily embraced in the past.
xx
Over the past several weeks I've been able to expunge myself of the demons by being active, both physically and creatively. Simply attending a bi-monthly bipolar support group has helped me immeasurably.
I know I will never rid myself of this "disease," but I can manage it through various means.
No, I won't resort to the self-loathing tactics that I've so readily embraced in the past.
xx
14 August 2008
09 August 2008
and so it begins (again)
I can't believe it, but I just purchased a Korg Triton Music Workstation for the unbelievable price of $575 on eBay. This is the same Triton model that I owned several years ago but sold in 2005 to diminish the amount of credit card debt I had at the time.
I'm still stunned ... a fantastic Triton shall be in my possession once again ... my winning bid of $575 was too good to be true ... I didn't think I'd win the Triton with such a low bid ... but I did ... wow ... the music bug has been biting me for a couple months ... I miss composing songs ... applying sounds to thoughts ... yes, the music bug was biting ...
And now it's time to bite back.
I'm still stunned ... a fantastic Triton shall be in my possession once again ... my winning bid of $575 was too good to be true ... I didn't think I'd win the Triton with such a low bid ... but I did ... wow ... the music bug has been biting me for a couple months ... I miss composing songs ... applying sounds to thoughts ... yes, the music bug was biting ...
And now it's time to bite back.
07 August 2008
comfort in strangers
Going to tonight's bipolar support group was definitely the right -- and proper -- thing to do. Identifying with a stranger's pain, happiness, frustration and hope is very therapeutic.
And again, I exited the building with a sense of empowerment. Optimism.
xx
And again, I exited the building with a sense of empowerment. Optimism.
xx
support group thursday
While I sit here pondering tonight's bipolar support group (I'm unsure if I'm going), reverberations of Sunday's magical Radiohead concert continue to echo throughout my head.
It's strange: whenever I attend an amazing concert, the following days are twinged with bitter-sweetness -- I witnessed a fantastic event with thousands of people; a huge mass had assembled to share a common happening. And for those few hours, my mind and body received some ethereal transmission of perfection; I was an antenna suspended deep inside the bellows of the cosmos -- breathing and unconscious yet fully aware of the experience.
Then ...
The music ends.
The stage lights fade.
And the moment is gone. Forever.
But never forgotten.
And I'm reminded of something Andy Warhol once said:
"I try to think of what time is and all I can think is ...
Time is
Time was."
xx
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The two Radiohead songs from Sunday night that haunt me the most are "All I Need" and "Videotape." Below you will find the Scotch Mist Version (recorded live in Radiohead's studio) of "All I Need" and an amazing live performance of "Videotape," which was recorded in Arras, France on 6 July 2008.
"All I Need"
"Videotape" (Please view the high quality version of this song HERE.)
It's strange: whenever I attend an amazing concert, the following days are twinged with bitter-sweetness -- I witnessed a fantastic event with thousands of people; a huge mass had assembled to share a common happening. And for those few hours, my mind and body received some ethereal transmission of perfection; I was an antenna suspended deep inside the bellows of the cosmos -- breathing and unconscious yet fully aware of the experience.
Then ...
The music ends.
The stage lights fade.
And the moment is gone. Forever.
But never forgotten.
And I'm reminded of something Andy Warhol once said:
"I try to think of what time is and all I can think is ...
Time is
Time was."
xx
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The two Radiohead songs from Sunday night that haunt me the most are "All I Need" and "Videotape." Below you will find the Scotch Mist Version (recorded live in Radiohead's studio) of "All I Need" and an amazing live performance of "Videotape," which was recorded in Arras, France on 6 July 2008.
"All I Need"
"Videotape" (Please view the high quality version of this song HERE.)
24 July 2008
holden
"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."
Holden Caulfield from J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye
Holden Caulfield from J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye
23 July 2008
"in the beginning ..."
Can I recover what I have lost? Can I retrieve the girl I foolishly tossed away? At the very least I have reclaimed our friendship, but I want more. I want what we had -- in the beginning. That spark of excitement ... the prospect of a tomorrow together. I want her to embrace me with the untainted eyes and virgin heart of a woman who dreamed of a future with me -- before I shattered the image of what I could be. I'm ready to be that man for her. And for myself.
But she is in the company of another man. Perhaps the possibility of losing her forever had to strike my heart before I could realize what she meant to me. Perhaps the possibility of losing myself (forever) had to light my soul before I could realize what I wanted, what I needed.
And now? This man finds himself in limbo. My head is awash in uncertainty. Will she see what I see? And if so, can she trust the very heart I have shattered? Can she trust me? Yes. Yes. Yes she can. Because I have faith in myself. I'm ready to walk into tomorrow -- together.
(Can you hear me, Love?)
xx
Wilco "Pieholden Suite"
There's a whisper
I would like to breathe
Into your ear
But I'm too scared
To get that close
To you right now
There are dreams
We might have shared
And I still care
And I still love you
But you know how I've been untrue
In the beginning
We closed our eyes
Whenever we kissed
We were surprised
To find so much inside
Jeff Tweedy "Pieholden Suite" (Live at the Vic)
20 July 2008
18 July 2008
15
I'm in dire need of sleep, so this post will be brief. Its length, however, is not indicative of tonight's earlier event: my first depression/bipolar support group meeting.
In the hour preceding the meeting I paced anxiously throughout my apartment. I don't recall the drive but I suddenly found myself in the parking lot, my eyes staring at the front door. I entered the quiet building and found the room -- room 15.
Everyone (including me!) introduced themselves and I mostly observed and listened. I made a few comments and shared some personal experiences. Every group member spoke about his or her medication(s). I, however, didn't tell the group about my choice to tackle my "diseases" without medication. (I hope to speak about this issue at an upcoming meeting.)
Everyone was very kind and at no point did I wish to leave. The two hour meeting ended and I shook hands with several of the group's participants, all of whom encouraged me to attend the next gathering. As soon as I exited the building several feelings -- all of them positive -- flooded my senses.
I felt relieved. Less alone. Strengthened. I felt as though I finally had the upper hand on this ... this thing. I felt empowered. And I haven't experienced that sensation for quite some time.
Today was a good day. A very good day.
xx
In the hour preceding the meeting I paced anxiously throughout my apartment. I don't recall the drive but I suddenly found myself in the parking lot, my eyes staring at the front door. I entered the quiet building and found the room -- room 15.
Everyone (including me!) introduced themselves and I mostly observed and listened. I made a few comments and shared some personal experiences. Every group member spoke about his or her medication(s). I, however, didn't tell the group about my choice to tackle my "diseases" without medication. (I hope to speak about this issue at an upcoming meeting.)
Everyone was very kind and at no point did I wish to leave. The two hour meeting ended and I shook hands with several of the group's participants, all of whom encouraged me to attend the next gathering. As soon as I exited the building several feelings -- all of them positive -- flooded my senses.
I felt relieved. Less alone. Strengthened. I felt as though I finally had the upper hand on this ... this thing. I felt empowered. And I haven't experienced that sensation for quite some time.
Today was a good day. A very good day.
xx
17 July 2008
post 424
Two hours until the meeting. I'm nervous as hell. Scared. My anxiety has climbed out of my bloodstream and manifested physically. Shaky hands. Fingertips sticky with perspiration. I feel as though I'm going to crawl out of my clammy flesh. Legs are trembling, restless. My chest pulses to the rhythm of my heart. Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.Thump.
Christ, I don't know if I can do this. But I must.
How will I introduce myself? Will I recite the lines I've composed internally?
Room 15.
How many people will be there? What will they look like? Will they see the pink and swollen scars on my arm? I've thought about wearing a jacket ... something with long sleeves ... something to hide the lines. Those moments in time etched and recorded. But it's 92 degrees outside ... too hot for long sleeves.
Fuck it. I don't know ...
xx
Christ, I don't know if I can do this. But I must.
How will I introduce myself? Will I recite the lines I've composed internally?
Room 15.
How many people will be there? What will they look like? Will they see the pink and swollen scars on my arm? I've thought about wearing a jacket ... something with long sleeves ... something to hide the lines. Those moments in time etched and recorded. But it's 92 degrees outside ... too hot for long sleeves.
Fuck it. I don't know ...
xx
16 July 2008
this morning
Before my eyelids cracked open this morning my belly was churning with anxiety.
Tomorrow night ... bipolar support group at 7PM ... my first meeting. I'm going, right? Are you going? Yes. Are you sure? Are you sure you won't find a parking space, trap yourself inside your car and drive off like a coward? No. I can't. The meeting is an opportunity. This group could offer me refuge. Hope. Of course it could, but we both know you are your worst enemy. Salvation sleeps in the cold sheets of death; redemption rests in the hollows of your heart. It's so much easier to turn away and fall into the solace of silence. Place gun to head. Pull trigger. Game over. No. I can't. Self-preservation is the opiate of the masses, you said it yourself. I'm going to this fucking meeting. I'm going. I'm going.
I have to ...
Give myself ...
H o p e ...
However tenuous that specter may be.
xx
Tomorrow night ... bipolar support group at 7PM ... my first meeting. I'm going, right? Are you going? Yes. Are you sure? Are you sure you won't find a parking space, trap yourself inside your car and drive off like a coward? No. I can't. The meeting is an opportunity. This group could offer me refuge. Hope. Of course it could, but we both know you are your worst enemy. Salvation sleeps in the cold sheets of death; redemption rests in the hollows of your heart. It's so much easier to turn away and fall into the solace of silence. Place gun to head. Pull trigger. Game over. No. I can't. Self-preservation is the opiate of the masses, you said it yourself. I'm going to this fucking meeting. I'm going. I'm going.
I have to ...
Give myself ...
H o p e ...
However tenuous that specter may be.
xx
13 July 2008
predawn musings
Chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking (again). A brilliant thunderstorm passed over Bloomington a couple hours ago and now the skies are black and silent. I'm alone and writing while Interpol's Turn on the Bright Lights fills my headphones.
I'm struggling to find inspiration. My previous post, "Audiolog One by William Rockford," is the first part of a series of fictional audiologs I hope to continue. Blame Chuck Palahniuk, but I find something intriguing -- and, as a writer, freeing -- about tackling subjects some might find disturbing. It's easy to gloss over issues the "general public" would rather deny. I prefer to rip off the Band-Aid and let the wound bleed. I prefer to scour the flesh and mind and find the scars. Uncover the perpetrator and delve into his or her mind ... search for the motives ... the causes and effects of one's actions. Release the demons. Let them float and fluster, then pin their shadows to the wall and observe. Put pen to paper and document their movements.
Moving on ...
The postman delivered my newest pair of kicks: New Balance 574s. You'll find my complete shoe collection below:
(I'm bored, OK?)
The 574s look and feel great, but Saucony produces the most comfortable shoes on the planet.
Moving on ...
Albums on heavy rotation AKA Albums for the manic-depressive:
Taking Back Sunday - Louder Now (For the emo boy trapped inside this 30-year-old body)
Interpol - Turn on the Bright Lights, Antics and Our Love to Admire (For comfort)
Songs: Ohia - Impala (When I wish to hear songs from a midnight highway)
Joy Division - Closer (For my reflection)
Holy Fuck - Holy Fuck (For DFA 1979 withdrawals)
Episode 359 of "A State of Trance with Armin van Buuren" - Live at Amnesia in Ibiza (For moments of hope, optimism and unfettered bliss)
30 Seconds to Mars - 30 Seconds to Mars (For the emo boy trapped inside me [again])
Patton Oswalt - Werewolves and Lollipops (When I need to laugh -- hysterically)
Moving on ...
Unless I lose the courage, I'll attend the depression/bipolar support group, which I mentioned in a previous post, this Thursday at 7PM. Since this will be my first meeting, I'm unsure how much I'll participate, but I'm definitely looking forward to this new experience.
Moving on ...
I recently purchased Eric Paul's latest collection of poetry, I Offered Myself as the Sea. Paul was the frontman of the now defunct band Arab on Radar; he now fronts The Chinese Stars. I won't attempt to define his unique writing style, but, like pornography, you know it when you see it.
My head needs a pillow, my body a blanket. Good night and good luck ...
xx
I'm struggling to find inspiration. My previous post, "Audiolog One by William Rockford," is the first part of a series of fictional audiologs I hope to continue. Blame Chuck Palahniuk, but I find something intriguing -- and, as a writer, freeing -- about tackling subjects some might find disturbing. It's easy to gloss over issues the "general public" would rather deny. I prefer to rip off the Band-Aid and let the wound bleed. I prefer to scour the flesh and mind and find the scars. Uncover the perpetrator and delve into his or her mind ... search for the motives ... the causes and effects of one's actions. Release the demons. Let them float and fluster, then pin their shadows to the wall and observe. Put pen to paper and document their movements.
Moving on ...
The postman delivered my newest pair of kicks: New Balance 574s. You'll find my complete shoe collection below:
(I'm bored, OK?)
The 574s look and feel great, but Saucony produces the most comfortable shoes on the planet.
Moving on ...
Albums on heavy rotation AKA Albums for the manic-depressive:
Taking Back Sunday - Louder Now (For the emo boy trapped inside this 30-year-old body)
Interpol - Turn on the Bright Lights, Antics and Our Love to Admire (For comfort)
Songs: Ohia - Impala (When I wish to hear songs from a midnight highway)
Joy Division - Closer (For my reflection)
Holy Fuck - Holy Fuck (For DFA 1979 withdrawals)
Episode 359 of "A State of Trance with Armin van Buuren" - Live at Amnesia in Ibiza (For moments of hope, optimism and unfettered bliss)
30 Seconds to Mars - 30 Seconds to Mars (For the emo boy trapped inside me [again])
Patton Oswalt - Werewolves and Lollipops (When I need to laugh -- hysterically)
Moving on ...
Unless I lose the courage, I'll attend the depression/bipolar support group, which I mentioned in a previous post, this Thursday at 7PM. Since this will be my first meeting, I'm unsure how much I'll participate, but I'm definitely looking forward to this new experience.
Moving on ...
I recently purchased Eric Paul's latest collection of poetry, I Offered Myself as the Sea. Paul was the frontman of the now defunct band Arab on Radar; he now fronts The Chinese Stars. I won't attempt to define his unique writing style, but, like pornography, you know it when you see it.
"The Parking Lots of You and Me" by Eric PaulMoving on ...
Being friends with you is like being friends with one of those smashed-up cars they put out on the front lawns of High Schools a week before prom night to warn students about the dangers of drunk driving,
or
the dangers of being your friend while you binge eat on candy bars, get drunk everyday on gasoline and sleep with empty girls that live in parking lots.
Although it's frightening and very sad, it keeps me from getting in the car with you.
My head needs a pillow, my body a blanket. Good night and good luck ...
xx
10 July 2008
06 July 2008
last ditch
Over the past 2-3 days my emotional well-being has steadily deteriorated and I now find myself trudging through the familiar, stale waters of apathy and self-loathing.
I could write about my feelings.
I could write about my thoughts.
I could douse this post with the tired words of a manic-depressive.
But why would I choose to expel more of those god damn cliches?
If you want to know how I'm feeling peruse the T.S.TV.S. library (located on the left side of this page). Visit the early entries of this blog, which I began nearly three years ago, and you will find that very little has changed since this blog's inception. Yes, there have been moments of joy. Sparks of hope. Flashes of optimism. But just beyond the frontiers of promise and confidence a darkness has seemingly always been present, masked by shadows. I've struggled with my emotional problems for so many years that the darkness is all that resonates. It's difficult to enjoy the pleasant moments because I'm aware of what lies just under the surface of a smile. A laugh. Those fleeting bursts of peace and contentment.
If I can gather the courage I'm going to join a local depression/bipolar support group. (Meetings occur on the first and third Thursday of every month.) A support group is the only therapeutic method I haven't tried. I've been a patient in a mental hospital. I've seen a psychologist and tried her "paint by numbers" technique. I've seen a psychiatrist and consumed the medications, which were prescribed irresponsibly. I've tried "god" and the various forms thereof (see: Christianity, Judaism, Islam and New Age spirituality). But I haven't tried the group approach. And just for the record, I have no preconceived notions about support groups (aside from the manner in which these groups have been portrayed in novels and films) and I will enter this next chapter with an open -- and hopeful -- mind.
Consider this the last exit of an empty highway.
Consider this the final bend of a rickety roller coaster.
Consider this a last-ditch effort to save me ... from myself.
xx
I could write about my feelings.
I could write about my thoughts.
I could douse this post with the tired words of a manic-depressive.
But why would I choose to expel more of those god damn cliches?
If you want to know how I'm feeling peruse the T.S.TV.S. library (located on the left side of this page). Visit the early entries of this blog, which I began nearly three years ago, and you will find that very little has changed since this blog's inception. Yes, there have been moments of joy. Sparks of hope. Flashes of optimism. But just beyond the frontiers of promise and confidence a darkness has seemingly always been present, masked by shadows. I've struggled with my emotional problems for so many years that the darkness is all that resonates. It's difficult to enjoy the pleasant moments because I'm aware of what lies just under the surface of a smile. A laugh. Those fleeting bursts of peace and contentment.
If I can gather the courage I'm going to join a local depression/bipolar support group. (Meetings occur on the first and third Thursday of every month.) A support group is the only therapeutic method I haven't tried. I've been a patient in a mental hospital. I've seen a psychologist and tried her "paint by numbers" technique. I've seen a psychiatrist and consumed the medications, which were prescribed irresponsibly. I've tried "god" and the various forms thereof (see: Christianity, Judaism, Islam and New Age spirituality). But I haven't tried the group approach. And just for the record, I have no preconceived notions about support groups (aside from the manner in which these groups have been portrayed in novels and films) and I will enter this next chapter with an open -- and hopeful -- mind.
Consider this the last exit of an empty highway.
Consider this the final bend of a rickety roller coaster.
Consider this a last-ditch effort to save me ... from myself.
xx
25 June 2008
brighter
Since Monday's conversation with sister, the darkened corners of my mind have been getting brighter. Thoughts are more lucid ... the anxiety that pervades virtually every second of every day is dissipating. I realize, of course, that "the fear," like a creeping fog, can materialize and enshroud me at any time.
But I'm not thinking about that right now. I'm about to watch Turkey battle Germany in the Euro 2008 semi-finals. My prediction: the heavily favored Germans will win -- but not without a fight. Final score: Germany 3, Turkey 1.
xx
[][][][][][][][][][] U P D A T E [][][][][][][][][][]
Wow. What a game. Turkey's Semih Senturk tied the game in the 86th minute -- a goal most of the world didn't see thanks to a lightning strike that interrupted the international TV feed (the telecast was plagued by outages). Four minutes later, Germany's Philipp Lahm ended Turkey's storybook run with a beautiful give-and-go goal (Thomas Hitzlsperger with the assist). Final score: Germany 3, Turkey 2.
I'm looking forward to tomorrow's semi-final match, Russia versus Spain. I expect Spain to dominate the Russians and win 4-1. The winner will meet Germany on Sunday and play for the Euro 2008 Championship in Vienna, Austria.
But I'm not thinking about that right now. I'm about to watch Turkey battle Germany in the Euro 2008 semi-finals. My prediction: the heavily favored Germans will win -- but not without a fight. Final score: Germany 3, Turkey 1.
xx
[][][][][][][][][][] U P D A T E [][][][][][][][][][]
Wow. What a game. Turkey's Semih Senturk tied the game in the 86th minute -- a goal most of the world didn't see thanks to a lightning strike that interrupted the international TV feed (the telecast was plagued by outages). Four minutes later, Germany's Philipp Lahm ended Turkey's storybook run with a beautiful give-and-go goal (Thomas Hitzlsperger with the assist). Final score: Germany 3, Turkey 2.
I'm looking forward to tomorrow's semi-final match, Russia versus Spain. I expect Spain to dominate the Russians and win 4-1. The winner will meet Germany on Sunday and play for the Euro 2008 Championship in Vienna, Austria.
thirty-six (approximately)
In the dark I'm chain smoking cigarettes with a head corrupted by whiskey. The screen of a computer monitor illuminates vowels, consonants, numbers, symbols and fingers. I'll attempt to summarize the last 36 hours (approximately).
Monday evening: I'm home after eight hours of work. My heart is racing. My head is a mess, drowning in thoughts of sadness, loss and self-termination. And this goddamn apartment is too quiet. I'm pacing. I need to reach out and speak ... share my thoughts ... release the pressure. Desperation blossoms tears. I pick up the phone and the flatlined dial tone fills my right ear. Unsteady fingers dial sister's telephone number. And I'm waiting. Waiting for an answer. A reception. Sister answers.
Fragments of the phone call:
"What's wrong?"
"... If anything were to happen to me, would you be OK?" (I never believed I would have the courage ... No, the audacity to ask such a question.)
She begins to cry.
I've been crying.
...
"I don't want to grow up without you ..."
I don't mention the gun.
"I want you to be part of [your nephew's] life. You're his only uncle."
"I know. I know."
More tears.
...
"Promise me you won't do anything stupid. Promise me."
I could lie. I could make such a promise to her, but I cannot lie ... not to sister ... no.
...
"Promise me this won't be the last time I talk to you."
"I promise."
"You swear?"
"I swear."
...
I love yous and goodbyes.
-------------------------------------------
Tuesday afternoon: I'm at work and my cell phone rings but I'm unable to answer. I check my phone moments later and find missed calls from mother and sister. Voicemails expressing grave concern. I call sister and explain my absent answers.
"I couldn't answer my phone because I'm teaching a class. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you.
"How are you feeling? Is everything OK?"
"Yes, I'm feeling better ... things are better. Everything is OK."
"I told mom about our conversation yesterday. I know I promised you I wouldn't tell her but ... I had to. You're not mad at me, are you?"
"No. I understand. I'm not upset at you, OK?"
...
-------------------------------------------
Tuesday evening: Mother calls me and asks if everything is all right. I assure her I'm in better spirits. She then proceeds to chastise me for not taking my medication (information I had shared with sister during Monday's conversation). I give her a litany of reasons why I've ceased taking the medication ... medication I haven't consumed for several months, a year perhaps. None of my explanations satisfy her.
"This isn't the type of conversation I wanted to have with you, mother."
...
Sobbing, she says, "I don't know what I would do without you, son. I love you so much."
"I know ... I know. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."
...
I love yous and goodbyes.
Don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry ...
xx
Monday evening: I'm home after eight hours of work. My heart is racing. My head is a mess, drowning in thoughts of sadness, loss and self-termination. And this goddamn apartment is too quiet. I'm pacing. I need to reach out and speak ... share my thoughts ... release the pressure. Desperation blossoms tears. I pick up the phone and the flatlined dial tone fills my right ear. Unsteady fingers dial sister's telephone number. And I'm waiting. Waiting for an answer. A reception. Sister answers.
Fragments of the phone call:
"What's wrong?"
"... If anything were to happen to me, would you be OK?" (I never believed I would have the courage ... No, the audacity to ask such a question.)
She begins to cry.
I've been crying.
...
"I don't want to grow up without you ..."
I don't mention the gun.
"I want you to be part of [your nephew's] life. You're his only uncle."
"I know. I know."
More tears.
...
"Promise me you won't do anything stupid. Promise me."
I could lie. I could make such a promise to her, but I cannot lie ... not to sister ... no.
...
"Promise me this won't be the last time I talk to you."
"I promise."
"You swear?"
"I swear."
...
I love yous and goodbyes.
-------------------------------------------
Tuesday afternoon: I'm at work and my cell phone rings but I'm unable to answer. I check my phone moments later and find missed calls from mother and sister. Voicemails expressing grave concern. I call sister and explain my absent answers.
"I couldn't answer my phone because I'm teaching a class. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you.
"How are you feeling? Is everything OK?"
"Yes, I'm feeling better ... things are better. Everything is OK."
"I told mom about our conversation yesterday. I know I promised you I wouldn't tell her but ... I had to. You're not mad at me, are you?"
"No. I understand. I'm not upset at you, OK?"
...
-------------------------------------------
Tuesday evening: Mother calls me and asks if everything is all right. I assure her I'm in better spirits. She then proceeds to chastise me for not taking my medication (information I had shared with sister during Monday's conversation). I give her a litany of reasons why I've ceased taking the medication ... medication I haven't consumed for several months, a year perhaps. None of my explanations satisfy her.
"This isn't the type of conversation I wanted to have with you, mother."
...
Sobbing, she says, "I don't know what I would do without you, son. I love you so much."
"I know ... I know. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."
...
I love yous and goodbyes.
Don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry don't worry ...
xx
23 June 2008
morning of monday
It's Monday morning and, like Sunday morning, I awoke with an unfounded sense of optimism. I'm hopeful today won't unravel as Sunday did.
JRo failed to visit me. Yesterday he called and left a message stating that while he wouldn't be able to see me, there were some things he wanted to discuss. His phone call and potential visit weren't coincidental -- he was seeking to talk me down, pull me from the ledge and ease my ... my malaise. But I would deny deny deny. Compartmentalize the pieces of my identity that long for peace and erasure. An end.
Throughout the years I've perfected the art of compartmentalization -- I'll become what you desire. I'll flash a smile and eject a laugh from the shallow pit of my belly. "What? No ... no ... everything is fine." Revealing my true self and addressing the cancerous urges that cling to my soul is very difficult, because when I open the wounds to another person I'm also opening those wounds to myself. My tongue turns numb. Words fail. So I turn away. Deny. It's much easier to become the person my friends and family wish to see. Wear the mask and play the role I've taught myself.
xx
JRo failed to visit me. Yesterday he called and left a message stating that while he wouldn't be able to see me, there were some things he wanted to discuss. His phone call and potential visit weren't coincidental -- he was seeking to talk me down, pull me from the ledge and ease my ... my malaise. But I would deny deny deny. Compartmentalize the pieces of my identity that long for peace and erasure. An end.
Throughout the years I've perfected the art of compartmentalization -- I'll become what you desire. I'll flash a smile and eject a laugh from the shallow pit of my belly. "What? No ... no ... everything is fine." Revealing my true self and addressing the cancerous urges that cling to my soul is very difficult, because when I open the wounds to another person I'm also opening those wounds to myself. My tongue turns numb. Words fail. So I turn away. Deny. It's much easier to become the person my friends and family wish to see. Wear the mask and play the role I've taught myself.
xx
"How to Fight Loneliness" by Wilco
How to fight loneliness
Smile all the time
Shine your teeth 'til meaningless
Sharpen them with lies
And whatever's going down
Will follow you around
That's how you fight loneliness
You laugh at every joke
Drag your blanket blindly
Fill your heart with smoke
And the first thing that you want
Will be the last thing you ever need
That's how you fight it
Just smile all the time
Just smile all the time
Just smile all the time
Just smile ...
21 June 2008
entry #409
Today: Phone calls (which I didn't answer), e-mails and text messages. Communications from close friends. Communications from lost friends. Some of the messages were intentionally ambiguous and cryptic while others bluntly addressed my previous post.
The water is rising and I feel trapped, but this is the price I pay for posting the thoughts that have been consuming my weary mind. I know the messengers mean well and their intentions are pure: they're seeking to save me ... from myself. And I suppose we all seek to become someone's personal Jesus. A messiah clad in street clothes bearing a message of hope. A modern day savior longing to rescue the weak and rejuvenate their senses with the optimism of tomorrow. Resuscitate. Rebuild. Resurrect.
Is it possible to salvage he who has embraced peace vis-à-vis death? How do you confront such a desolate soul? And how does this soul respond to the antithesis of his essence?
If only I could disintegrate slowly ... a fading radio signal that steadily degenerates into static. Indecipherable. Gone. Underneath everything.
According to his message, JRo, whom I haven't seen in many months, plans to visit me on Sunday. The water is rising. The closing in. I'll be forced to confront my feelings and thoughts outside of myself ...
xx
The water is rising and I feel trapped, but this is the price I pay for posting the thoughts that have been consuming my weary mind. I know the messengers mean well and their intentions are pure: they're seeking to save me ... from myself. And I suppose we all seek to become someone's personal Jesus. A messiah clad in street clothes bearing a message of hope. A modern day savior longing to rescue the weak and rejuvenate their senses with the optimism of tomorrow. Resuscitate. Rebuild. Resurrect.
Is it possible to salvage he who has embraced peace vis-à-vis death? How do you confront such a desolate soul? And how does this soul respond to the antithesis of his essence?
If only I could disintegrate slowly ... a fading radio signal that steadily degenerates into static. Indecipherable. Gone. Underneath everything.
According to his message, JRo, whom I haven't seen in many months, plans to visit me on Sunday. The water is rising. The closing in. I'll be forced to confront my feelings and thoughts outside of myself ...
xx
What Denny says is that maybe the second coming of Christ isn't something God will decide. Maybe God left it up to people to develop the ability to bring back Christ into their lives. Maybe God wanted us to invent our own savior when we were ready. When we need it most. Denny says maybe it's up to us to create our own messiah.
To save ourselves.
Choke by Chuck Palahniuk
19 June 2008
entry #408
Shit. The last several days ... weeks have been shit.
And I'm getting closer. It's getting closer.
At work this week I've been training new drivers. Preparing them for their upcoming CDL test. Every six months it's rinse and repeat. New faces. Same material.
"Check the tires. There must be at least 4/32" tread depth in every major groove on the front tires and 2/32" for the rear tires." And so on and so forth.
"Inspect the slack adjuster for broken, loose or missing parts. When pulled by hand the brake rod should not move more than approximately one inch." And so on and so forth.
"Signal your intentions."
"Communicate your presence."
"Spotting potential hazards."
"Always have a plan."
"Accident procedures."
"Care for the injured."
"Control."
"Inspect."
"Prepare."
"One mistake could cost the lives of many ... including yours."
And so on and so forth.
A lapse of judgment could silence your very existence. In a car. On a bus. Crossing the street. Peddling up a hill.
"Oh sh--!"
And you're gone.
In a running car inside a closed garage. In your bedroom surrounded by various pharmaceuticals. Standing on the sixth story ledge of a parking garage. In a deserted field with a packed pistol.
This isn't a tragic accident. There is no element of surprise. Only silent resignation.
You ponder how people will react to the news. Your family. Your friends. Coworkers. Elementary school classmates. The people -- practically strangers -- who know you only as "that one guy."
You think about the destiny of your journals. The ticket stubs from past concerts. The books. The records, the CDs and DVDs. Shoes. The furniture. Possessions that, in a matter of moments, will belong to no one.
You wonder about your inbox. Your mailbox. Voicemail. The electric bill. The spam. Electronic messages of concern. A voice recorded electronically says, "____, are you there? We're really worried about you. Please call me as soon as you get this so we'll know you're OK. Please call."
You don't want to become a traumatic memory forever embedded in someone's mind, but someone will discover you. And it will be messy. Shiny tissue. The material that belongs inside. Under flesh and bone. You hope your family won't be robbed of an open casket funeral. A final goodbye to a body that cannot respond.
"Communicate your presence."
"Prepare."
"Control."
You look heavenward.
"Signal your intentions."
...
And it's over.
The stereo plays the same song over and over and ...
The wind whips the leaves and invites itself inside through your open window.
A sparrow sings.
And you are silent. Still.
xx
And I'm getting closer. It's getting closer.
At work this week I've been training new drivers. Preparing them for their upcoming CDL test. Every six months it's rinse and repeat. New faces. Same material.
"Check the tires. There must be at least 4/32" tread depth in every major groove on the front tires and 2/32" for the rear tires." And so on and so forth.
"Inspect the slack adjuster for broken, loose or missing parts. When pulled by hand the brake rod should not move more than approximately one inch." And so on and so forth.
"Signal your intentions."
"Communicate your presence."
"Spotting potential hazards."
"Always have a plan."
"Accident procedures."
"Care for the injured."
"Control."
"Inspect."
"Prepare."
"One mistake could cost the lives of many ... including yours."
And so on and so forth.
A lapse of judgment could silence your very existence. In a car. On a bus. Crossing the street. Peddling up a hill.
"Oh sh--!"
And you're gone.
In a running car inside a closed garage. In your bedroom surrounded by various pharmaceuticals. Standing on the sixth story ledge of a parking garage. In a deserted field with a packed pistol.
This isn't a tragic accident. There is no element of surprise. Only silent resignation.
You ponder how people will react to the news. Your family. Your friends. Coworkers. Elementary school classmates. The people -- practically strangers -- who know you only as "that one guy."
You think about the destiny of your journals. The ticket stubs from past concerts. The books. The records, the CDs and DVDs. Shoes. The furniture. Possessions that, in a matter of moments, will belong to no one.
You wonder about your inbox. Your mailbox. Voicemail. The electric bill. The spam. Electronic messages of concern. A voice recorded electronically says, "____, are you there? We're really worried about you. Please call me as soon as you get this so we'll know you're OK. Please call."
You don't want to become a traumatic memory forever embedded in someone's mind, but someone will discover you. And it will be messy. Shiny tissue. The material that belongs inside. Under flesh and bone. You hope your family won't be robbed of an open casket funeral. A final goodbye to a body that cannot respond.
"Communicate your presence."
"Prepare."
"Control."
You look heavenward.
"Signal your intentions."
...
And it's over.
The stereo plays the same song over and over and ...
The wind whips the leaves and invites itself inside through your open window.
A sparrow sings.
And you are silent. Still.
xx
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