Tuesday, May 19, 2015


Is that me or the medication talking? Am I just a puppet of the pills? It’s not for me, it’s never for me. It’s for you, for them, for us, for we, for they. But what about me? Where did I run off to and how do I find me beneath all the bullshit I tell myself so I can sleep at night? Do I even know what I look like? Can I really expect to pick my face out of a crowd or identify myself in a lineup of the usual suspects? Doubtful. I’m not who I was and neither are you. None of us ever are or ever will be again. You’re growing, evolving, becoming something real and substantial, while I shrink and lose my humanity, while I disappear. Is this where I live now? Is this how I spend my time? How long has it been? Three years? Two years? Fifteen months? Try twelve days. And it hurts. Still. It always hurts because how could it be anything but painful? But it feels so amazing that I don’t ever want to stop. “Don’t stop, keep going,” it says to me. Hold me, love me, need me, want me. I will I will and I do I do. I’m still here. I never really left. That thing you saw out there in the world that said he was me, said he was all better, and whispered the sweetest little nothings you’d ever heard into your hungry ears, the type of things that bear the weight of the world and are anything but innocent, that wasn’t me. That was my ghost, a spirit possessed by insidious hope, the type of hope that makes you want so badly to just believe in something, in anything, and he’s floating from seriously concerned clinicians, to friends, to lovers and back again, infecting everyone he touches with lies about dreams that were never really his. Those dreams were mine. Some days they still are. But everyday, I am still here, except on the days when I’m gone. But gone to where? It’s difficult to say because where is here, where is anywhere exactly? Aren’t I physically in one place, mentally in another, and emotionally in someplace else entirely? Who’s to say where here really is if I’m everywhere and nowhere all at once? Am I where my flesh and bone is sitting, staring at you, nodding its head, and smiling on cue? Don’t be so sure. This plane is flying and it’s on a collision course with your fragile little heart but the pilot has left the cockpit. And where did he go? Is he still on the plane or is he in free fall, plummeting to the ground at a terminal velocity without a chute? Mayday, mayday, I’ve lost control and I’m flying blind here. Maybe he’s just in the can. But if he has taken the proverbial leap of faith, if the ground really is hurtling toward his pretty, innocent, inviting, trustworthy little face with those eyes, those eyes as deep as the pacific and twice as cold, then where has his mind gone? What drives him? Is it his thoughts or his emotions? Who’s in charge here? I’d like to speak to a manager. Please! And who says the pilot is a he to begin with? This is 2015, why can’t he be a she? He could be but more than likely the only woman in the cockpit is the flight attendant with the tight ass who let her guard down just enough last night to let him in where he can go to work at breaking her heart and trust me, she’s alarmed as hell by the thought of being on this ride when it all comes crashing down. So he’s falling, or I’m falling, or my thoughts are falling, or whatever it is I’m getting at here, because if the plane is me then my thoughts are definitely outside somewhere in the stratosphere. The world is so beautiful from this altitude. Why settle for a window seat when you can close your eyes, count to one, and step off into oblivion? Why settle for a view when you can be out there in it? Open your eyes! Take it all in, this is as good as it gets and you will never be any higher than this. This moment, no this second, is the the culmination of every single second of the life you have lived so far and it’ll be over if you blink. Every thought, every emotion, every smile, every word, every action, every fateful flick of the wrist, pain, joy, fear excitement, love, hate, anger and indulgence, every single drop of blood, all add up to right here and right now and you can either sit with your seat back and tray table in their full upright and locked position just waiting for the captain to turn off the fasten your seat belts sign so that you can finally get up to take a piss, or you can get off your ass and take the plunge into the unknown beauty staring at you from the other side of the glass. The seatbelt sign isn’t going off, the captain has left the building. Remember? You can stay. I’m leaving. I’m already gone, my thoughts are already out there in it. So I’m falling toward my death, forever tumbling, stumbling, tripping, toppling, lower, farther, deeper. And where does it end? This free fall seems infinite. And isn’t that a good thing? Infinity is a long time, but who wants to live forever? Make it quick and efficient, and if you could, as painful as possible please. Every time I think I’m going to collide with the earth and the lights are going to flash out into nothingness, I brace for impact, shut my eyes, and grit my teeth, and BAM! Nothing. Not a damn thing except another failed expectation and a rejection that rips my insides apart as it tears through living tissue, flesh, bone, cartilage and ligaments, all of which keep my consciousness prisoner, and the thought “What the fuck?” screaming through my head. How could you? How dare you build me up, lift me high above the clouds, drop me, let me think that it’s all going to end, and then pull the ground out from beneath my face at the very instant relief is finally going to be mine? Bitch. I’m left with nothing but rejection and the confusion it breeds and falling, more falling, forever falling. But if down wasn’t down and up wasn’t up, if down was up, and up was down, then wouldn’t falling be flying? Wouldn’t my kamikaze death spin toward the fiery depths of hell be a graceful ascension toward the glory of heaven? It’s a matter of perspective and mine is fucked. Is it even still mine? Who’s to say that what I see or think or feel or believe or know is true or right or real at all? The old woman with the degree and the title I talk to every monday at 10:45 a.m. in her cozy little office on the third floor of a beautiful old building on Madison Ave about the when and the where of the who I fuck, and better yet (or is it worse), who I fuck up emotionally with my fucked up perspective on shit seems to be able to tell me what’s clinically significant, which is apparently every thought transformed to words uttered to her over the whir of her noise maker behind heavy, locked doors, but she provides me with no answers or solutions. Sometimes I wonder if she even knows the questions. Am I putting you to sleep? Are you even paying attention? Stop thinking about the quiche you brought for lunch and listen to the words escaping my shaking lips. I’m having a crisis here. But what else is new? Aren’t I always having a crisis by the time next Monday morning rolls around? Isn’t everything cause for a code red, def con five, let’s say thirty years in, people will say what were you doing when? state of emergency?Alert the press, this one is going to be big. It’s old, I get it. Say something happy, better yet, write something happy. Just change your perspective and relax. That’s not what I pay you for. So it comes down to me, me who can’t recognize my own face anymore, the emotional marionette whose strings are being pulled by a pill popping puppet master, to decide what’s real and what’s make believe. It’s up to me to decide which way is up and whether I’m headed down. So my mind is falling or flying, I haven’t decided which, and my body is sitting at coffee with you and you’ve decided that you like me because honestly, what’s not to like? and emotionally I’m somewhere else all together. It’s not a place I’ve ever been but I call it home because I’ve never been able to leave and the harder I try to run away the more I want to stay. It’s the most exciting monotony imaginable and it’s certainly the brightest black I’ve ever seen. Without it I am nothing and with it I can’t help but notice how far I am separated from everything. It’s understandably confusing. Quite right, quite right. It’s nowhere but I take it with me everywhere my mind and body go. It’s the most perfectly sensible contradiction I can possibly comprehend. And it’s pure, this everything-nothing, somewhere-nowhere, bright-dark, crystal clear mud puddle sense of self that falls or flies, and sits and nods and smiles and laughs with you over coffee even though it prefers to get wired by more exciting, more dangerous means, and I can never leave it behind. Everywhere I go, there I am and there it is, my nowhere I cannot escape. Do I want to escape? Somedays. Does it matter? No, of course not. There is no escape, there is only a last chance to embrace what’s left behind in the wake of so much grotesque destruction. So much bloodshed, so many tears cried, tears wasted, tears slurped up by a critically dehydrated evil lurking deep inside, and a broken love trying desperately to mend itself and grow and live in strength and beauty, all call out to me from somewhere beyond the night, passed the first glimpse of sunrise, somewhere deep within the warmth that still lives in my core, telling me to be still, to let you, them, us, we, they, and me just be; and to accept it all because all is everything I have to give, and if there were no everything then there would be nothing and nothing is impossible because I am tragically, unmistakably, irrevocably, undoubtedly, unwillingly, beautifully, remarkably something; and from this fact, I cannot hide.

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