This isn’t my work, though it describes what I’ve yet to find words for.
This isn’t my work, though it describes what I’ve yet to find words for.
I moved into the new place and just got internet back.
Life is chaos; more words to come shortly.
“Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.”
– Bruce Lee
Wind at my heels.
Quickly propelling me.
Towards destinations unknown.
Social Security Doctor tomorrow.
Terror mounting; deprivation of sleep too likely.
Outside, the wind whips, ever faster the gusts they come.
Perhaps the trees breathe easier, way up there.
I sometimes feel their sway too.
Fleeting it is, as age continues.
I hope I find answers.
The Wind is strong.
This is likely to be my last post for some time, as I’m currently moving.
It’s chaotic. I hate it. I love it, I’m starting to panic. I’m excited. I’m scared.
Once I find a way to obtain internet access again post-move, I shall provide more as the tale reveals itself.
The meeting went well, I will be searching for a new 1 bedroom apartment. I’ll explain more in detail later but I’ve completely drained myself today. In short: crisis averted.
“And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche
My, oh my.
I don’t know where to start with this one nor the slightest idea where this dance will lead.
A series of unexpected twists in this already riddled plot ended up with the separation of me and my significant other several weeks back. My gas and electric somehow still functioning, despite the shutoff date expiring days ago; I haven’t informed the respective companies of this. The rent, already several months behind, has no chance of being paid. My glass house is finally having its final rock thrown at it; my retreat from the outside world soon to be something dramatically different.
Staying in a homeless shelter is simply not an option; the mere writing of that sentence brought a lump in my throat.
The waiting lists for housing are at least a year; even then, some form of income is required monthly. Income I simply cannot provide. I must stay in this area until social security makes a decision on disability, as they are paying for a second doctor to poke around my unstable skull.
I’m terrified and excited.
Walks, becoming increasingly more frequent and longer of distances, have led me to places I never knew.
Sights, I have never seen.
Serenity, within the embrace of the forest, though always fleeting; the next piece of civilization inevitably reveals its sneering presence.
I’ve discovered the flaws in the fabric of society. I see through the carefully-concealed veneer that has shaped our culture, shoving its repulsive lies into a near-microscopic web that only the most prying of eyes will see. Cold slabs of high-rise lit up against artificial light. Consumerisms sucking our resources dry all to gain more money, more things, and more power. I’m just as guilty as the next with my love for luxuries (food, shelter, electricity, heat, and internet), so hypocritical of me. Ultimately, my panic comes from stepping out into the “real world” because I see beneath the lies. I see the hatred. I feel the pain. I shrink away because I know.
I don’t belong here.
I have a meeting tomorrow with the chairmen and chairwomen of a local organization. 8 people to prod my panic, ask the questions I dread to think of, pry me open with their stabbing eyes. They will determine my future; people who I have never met. Less than 12 hours from now, my dear readers, hands not of my own will determine my fate.
I pray the room is big.
The terror is already mounting with every word I type, so I don’t anticipate myself in a very good state for this monumental event.
This is where it gets interesting.
Some time back, I acquired a survival guide book as a gift from my then-significant other. A separate person, my longest friend whom I have known for decades, gave me a blade used for clearing brush and cutting small branches, a small emergency booklet also enclosed. Yet another gave me a checklist used for surviving in the wilderness. All of these things happened in the course of less than a year, yet far enough apart for me not to connect the dots immediately, until my walks.
I know where I’m home. The knowledge of that terrifies me; what am I to become? How can I bring another into a lifestyle that I’m not even certain of myself? I know I want seclusion, but how?
Money, the same thing that fuels the entire problem that has shaped my broken reality, is a needed thing to accomplish what I truly want. Seclusion without fear; A place to call my own far away from the meddling intrusions of those I distrust, those that make my heart race marathons. Something I can build with my own two hands on a plot of land amongst the trees. Money that simply isn’t available.
After much research and printing, plan B (while certainly not ideal in this climate in this time of year) is surviving in the wilderness indefinitely. The further I walk only reinforces my need for seclusion, save a select few; those who are true souls. The thought of this brings me peace knowing I’ll be where I belong, and terror being thrown into a raging river with only one paddle on a shoddy boat.
This “disease” I have, merely is going to end up returning me to my roots, one way or another. Though I wish the waters weren’t so turbulent along the way, I must learn to swim with the current.
More to come as the dance continues.
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared dreaming before.”
– Edgar Allen Poe
I’ve gone all week with so little sleep I’m not certain this will make sense; not that any of it does anyhow.
“A break-through of ‘cognitive dissonance'”, the counselor informs me. As if that brings me any comfort. My fingertips blood red from the constant wringing of my hands; the remainder of the flesh devoid of color. The pain of doing so, while a necessary distraction, still demonstrates how very different the worlds are that he and I live in. The minutes eternally pass by until I can retreat to what I know, back to my world inside a box. “It isn’t good, it isn’t bad, it just is”, his parting words still ringing in my ears even now.
I just want to run. To allow the wind to carry me to some other-worldly place where I’m not dysfunctional, to dwell among the smiling, laughing faces and not feel life being squeezed out of me.
“It just is”. Let’s break that down.
The only time I feel any sort of comfort anymore outside these four walls is in the wild. Trees that whisper soothing words that the wind gently carries. A brook calmly bubbling in earshot; songs of birds sweetly permeating the air.
Hope, something I’ve always held close. Hope that someday, someday I WILL get better. Surely this job is the one I’ve been seeking, maybe this coffee shop is the place I can rest my feet, perhaps this city park will bring me joy. Hope. Hope that I no longer have.
Coming to grips with the monster that resides underneath the strained smiles and confidence, the non-me exterior that I have tried (and miserably failed so many times) to hold onto. To show to others I’m just as “normal” as they are. A disaster waiting; only a matter of time before this exterior crumbles and I resort back to solitude. Unanswered calls, texts never looked at, emails deleted.
Distractions, ever present. The alternative? Looking inward. An ongoing malfunction that only exponentially grows with the ticking of the clock that is life.
So I run. Backpack on, shoes tied tightly, the sun long since set; all check. A now-familiar stretch of road, slick and black with rain, stretches out eternally. Umbrella gripped with whitened knuckles until I blessedly can no longer see the synthetic brightness of a streetlamp; the blinding exchange of a car lighting up the otherwise calm darkness. Here, here I can breathe. No one around for the facade to show its charming, ugly self.
Increasingly desperate rain penetrating the bottom half of my body; meaningless, save the additional noise of the squish with each passing step. Hours go by, my body starts protesting; I ignore it and press on, towards my (always) unknown destination.
Answers, those bloody fucking answers to the most important questions I have, hang dangling like a carrot on a stick. My feeble attempts to grab at it continuously brings only further frustration.
What is my purpose? Clearly, I’m not meant for society; consumerism, commercialism, hatred fueled on by the collective desire for greed and power. Am I to be a wanderer? A hermit living off the land? Or just continue to rot, displeased with my (lack of) accomplishments?
Where does this leave me? Dependent on a government I hate, suffocated by any outside interaction; a gnawing (and growing) distaste for not being “normal”. While the Valium I gladly accept to stop the eternal search for impossible answers in my head, they do little to improve my overall mental state. Instead of a whirlwind of what-ifs, I now face the beast head on. It’s no longer a matter of what if.
It just is.
Returning after many traveled miles (I must beat the morning traffic back home, after all), I see the familiar sickening glow of civilization becoming increasingly brighter with every passing squish of my shoes. As I shuffle past that first god-forsaken streetlight, I feel the familiar panic start to set in, quickly followed by a new emotion: revulsion.
Distrust, pain, anguish, self-loathing and contempt keep me from leading a “normal” life. I’m finally facing the fact I am who I am. It’s becoming increasing harder to keep the bile of that fact from spewing out of my frothing mouth.
Life. Living. Enjoyment. Satisfaction. I need to rediscover those again, rethink the puzzle that has no clear solution.
How do I just let go? How do I learn to love that which I’ve hated the entirety of my short existence? Will I ever break the stick and get the carrot?
I continue to run…. after all, it just is.
“The truth is, everybody is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for”
– Bob Marley
I’ve seen some horrible things.
I’ve said vile, rage-induced rantings.
I’ve also witnessed humanity at its best.
I see the wonderment of it all, my place in it, and it’s astonishing in the difficulty and beauty of it all.
So I shall explain.
My biological father I know only in name (later in life I found him: he told me had a family. He didn’t wish to talk further.) and two half-siblings I know nothing about, save their existence.
My youth was spent mostly in a fog: vague memories of physical abuse from the two men my mother chose to marry after my father “left” (this part remains unknown to me). One such incident that stands out in particular was my step-father choke-holding me several inches off the ground; his rancid breath screaming profane words my mind won’t allow me to remember. An eternity passed before being thrown down.
I was adopted when I was 6. My toy gun I proudly held as a prize for going into court. “Father” dearest coming home staggering drunk nightly, a ticking bomb always following swiftly in his wake; always a saint come Sunday morning.
He’d keep a 2×4 hung on a nail in the basement door, the words “The Peacemaker” carefully carved into its flesh. I remember the sheer panic whenever that door would come open, can still hear the creak as clearly as though only a minutes passing.
I wonder if I was only one that sacred wood was used on; does that sound ring clearly elsewhere?
During my teenage years, I begun to enjoy the distraction drugs and alcohol provided. LSD proved to be the most interesting to me and lead me to a sense of spirituality and awe; perception forever changed.
I watched a meth addict spend hours with a mirror, picking at his face; the remainder of the time glancing out the window convinced the cops lurked within the shadows. “Geeter Heads”, folks around there called them, easily identifiable by their twitchy demeanor and tendency to ride a bicycle.
My past employee while I managed a photography studio suffered from a heroin addiction. Hell of a drug, that. Occasionally, we would smoke pot at the end of the shift together. Ended up having to fire him after showing up in an incoherent stagger one day; rather a shame and to this day I wonder about his fate.
Arguments, so many arguments, I’ve seen in the public.
Mothers smacking a child upside the head, calling them an idiot for dropping a cup.
Couples screaming with sweat-coated veins popping out with their rage whilst walking down a sidewalk; the mother pushing the stroller absently.
The person ahead of you in line complaining about the washer fluid levels are too low; the gas too high.
This list, obviously, goes on extensively for us all.
I’ve dated liars, cheaters, and wonderful people who ended hurting me the most when gone.
I’ve yelled things hateful and explosive, designed specifically to hurt; perhaps one of my only regrets in life.
I’ve received them just as often, the kind that cut to the core and still hurt years later; a cancer that never truly heals.
I have a spectacular significant other now, however strained the circumstances and despite my sickening realization of just how far my rabbit hole goes, is still standing by side. My soul hopes that continues.
I’ve seen the best humanity has.
A stripper I met once (not in a strip club, for the record; not an elegant business in my humble opinion) gave me one of my most accurate tarot card readings while another picked me up at two a.m. during a hitchhike to nowhere.
A Mexican gentleman, speaking broken English, picked me up while hundreds passing me did not so much as slow. He then insisted on giving me $20 after taking me several dozens miles directly to my destination, though I repeatedly told him I had money and attempted refusal. I have not forgotten that, my friend.
Strangers smiling and saying hello.
Love; uninhibited and full, in all of its glory and pain.
Someone pitching in the eighteen cents a fellow man seems short on to buy his loaf of bread.
Tonight, I stood outside and watched the starlit sky for nigh an hour, and reflected upon all this. Where I fit in the grand scheme of things; one tiny speck of nothing in an infinite space.
I finally was able to clear my mind for the first time in memory. At that very moment, in that blissful state of pure nothingness, a shooting star flashed brightly across my direct vision.
It was then, I knew it was time to write this portion of my story.
It didn’t always used to be like this, my Agoraphobia.
It’s terrifying to face, and equally as magnificent.
An absolute curse; a beauty in its solitude.
Hatred and love, entangled into a mesh that I simply cannot undo anymore.
Even if I could, would I want to?
The only question unanswered: Should I be thankful for this and come to love it? Not having an answer is perhaps the most frightening of it all.