How the be the better person, part 29 November 11, 2009

He died. I died. We all died.
Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

And down we fell. Past the rabbit’s hole, into a black hole, into utter blackness, into outer space, into a space which I have never recognized because

I was never truly there before.

Like the plague. Like a handshake that gives you the shakes, the mono, the cholera, the everyday normal death.
It went like this:

Hi.
Hi.
I lust you.
I lust you.
No one will ever add up to you.
[Silence]
No one will ever add up to you.
[Years]
Oh, well, hello.
Hello to you too.
[Years]
I love you.
I love you too.
But I really love you.
Well, I really love you too.
[Together]
I love you.
[Silence]
(Acceptance)
[Silence]
I love you.
(Caution)
I love you too.
I love you.
I love you.
[Love]
Where’d you go?
(Silence)
Bipolarland.
Well, I still love you.
(Silence)
I love you?
[Silence]
I…
I love you.
(Um, me, me, me)
I love you, but…
[I can't do this anymore]
I can’t do this anymore.
(Silence)
Hello?
[Silence]
Wait, maybe I can.
[Go fuck yourself]
(But I love you)
[Silence]
(But I gave up so much for you)
[Go fuck yourself]
{Cry, cry, cry}
[Silence]
(Acceptance)

Yeah, so, a gory allegory: I moved on. Eat a shit sandwich and die.

I’m paraphrasing. But that was the gist of it. What I don’t understand is how you say you love someone, and then, suddenly, you don’t.
And I’m finding this to be more and more common.
How DO you love someone, and then suddenly treat them like shit you step around on the street? Like, the past five years never meant anything, like you were just biding your time until you could pull out your knife and stab them in the heart repeatedly.

That’s fun. What a fun hobby. “Hey, I love you. Oh, whoops, no I don’t. Here, I’d like you to die. A rather painful death. And I’m gonna go ahead and instigate it by telling you, showing you, imbedding in you my hopes, my dreams and my love, and then HEY, I’m just going to go ahead and murder you dead. Have fun!”

And they ask why I don’t want to date anyone again.

 

I have a space song. It’s glorious and weepy and all things invading one’s soul. My space song is the one that I sing when I am all alone and I wonder where I am going and what will happen to me. My space song keeps me warm at night and keeps me safe from the devil. My space song is what I count on to keep me alive and keep me safe from harm.

But the sad thing about my space song? It’s me. It’s all I’ve got. In the middle of the night, just me. In the middle of the day, it’s just me. When I’m feeling sad and lonely and desperate and full of regret, all I have is me, and sometimes, it borders on not being enough. I’m hanging on by a thread, but at least I’ve got my at leasts.

At least I’m not self-medicating. That much. At least I haven’t gotten over it by getting truly under something else. At least I tried. And at least I’m still trying to be a good friend. At least I’ve got the self-respect to take care of myself, and keep myself from harm, especially if that harm is from my own hand.

[Like last winter, when you saw the scars that I inflicted on your behalf. And you said you'd never allow that to happen again, and you insisted that I scar you like I scarred me.]

I stopped self-mutilating. Not that I don’t feel like it sometimes, seeing blood on the outside instead of knowing that my heart is bleeding internally, even if it’s not really, it just feels like it. At least I’m not railing drugs, or even drinking until I’m too drunk to even write. Instead, I take the pain and put it into words. And they may hurt, but at least I’m purging, and not in a “I just threw up everything I had for dinner tonight” sort of way. No, my sandwiches are staying deep inside of me, giving me the energy to get up another day and face myself and the life that I want. Without pain and with grace.

He told me so many things, so many beautiful things, and now that he’s gone and become Darth Vadar, I’m not sure what to believe, except myself. Because when I told him beautiful things, I was not lying. And when I did beautiful things, I did them because I wanted to. And when I do beautiful things now, it’s because I’m learning, slowly, slowly, but surely, how to love again, the person that needs to be loved the most:
Myself.

So to you, dear Molly, I give you more wonderful gifts for this birthday: grace and dignity.
And the following prayer:

Our Father in Heaven, hallow be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever. Amen.

Here’s the thing. I don’t hate myself anymore. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I think that I’m worth them all, and a lot more. I’m worth the wait. I’m worth the wait.

Everything. All of the time. October 28, 2009

Fuck.

 

It’s extremely fucking painful.

 

So painful, I need to listen to Tool at top fucking volume. And probably the only thing that will help right now is “Aenima.” Relax, turn around, and take my hand.

 

I know you’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’m changing. And it hurts. More than I ever thougth was possible.

The last time that I changed, that I tried to feel, that I tried to be alive, I took razors to myself to feel something. A change. Alive. Life or something like that. I probably should’ve picked up a guitar and made really awful noises. But I didn’t. I just sliced and cut and sliced some more.

And then. Yes. And then. When I thought that I could win you back from myself, I stayed up all night, singing into my voicebox, trying to make you music, when that’s the last possible thing I could do. The very last thing I could do.

“Lie. Feel. Something.”

Well, I don’t have to lie. I feel something. I feel everything. I feel like dying, crying and vomiting. Throwing things. Like myself. Across the bridge. I feel so much, you’d be surprised. I feel so much, everyday. I feel so much, I’m to the point where I can barely feel anything anymore. And I’d really like to feel nothing. In fact, I think I’m going to feel nothing right now. Here we go.

 

[Listen. For what it's worth, I'd like to honestly feel nothing. But I feel everything. Right in the depths of my chest, everything hurts. And I don't know what to do. I really don't. Everything hurts. Everything. It all hurts.]

 

At least you tried, he said. Well, sorry, Maynard. I haven’t tried anything, really. I just let everything work its way through my blood stream, and kill me all the more. I actually said tonight, I just want to go home and listen to Tool. As loud as fucking possible. As he was kissing my cheek. I just wanted to go home.

Bitch. That’s me. A real fucking bitch. I have someone holding my hand, kissing my cheeks, and all I care about is something that never reminded me of you until it did. I suck. I really do. I’m a terrible person.

I REFUSE to look up Tool lyrics. There’s something sacred about them. At least, with Aenima. So for this, I say: “Standing above the crowd. He had a voice that was strong and loud. And it swallowed me so soft as I’m so eager to identify. With someone above the crowd. Someone that seemed to feel the same. Someone prepared to lead the way. Someone who would die for me. Will you? Will you now? Would you die for me? Don’t you fucking lie! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you fucking lie! You claimed all this time that you would die for me. Why then are you so surprised by your own eulogy? He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say. He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say! Come down. Get off your fucking cross. We need the fucking space, to nail the next fool martyr. You must step out of line! You must be crucified! Of course you cannot lie. Goodbye!!!”

I realize there’s a lot wrong with that passage. But I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I don’t care that there is so much blasphemy in that, and I also consider myself a “Christian.” I care about little much at this point. Little, little much. So very little much.

Everything is so loud. Except for the moments when I walked from 18th and Union back to Bellevue and Mercer. Those were quiet. Like the times I walked to 15th and Denny. Or like all the times I walked to the waterfront, sometimes packing. Lunch.

I am not lonely. I am not bored. I do not miss having a relationship. I can think of plenty of things to keep myself busy. But what I do miss is him. And no one else. No offense, but writing PDC tonight made me realize, I don’t miss him. Not a bit. What I do miss is him. And no one else. Because everyone else is a copy of a copy of a copy of him.

So I guess, what does that make me? A copy of him? Or more likely, a copy of me, of a copy of me, of a copy of me?

 

I went to Upland Elementary School for kindergarten, 1st and part of 2nd grade. Once, we had a race, like this whole big to-do. I ran the race. I came in last. I always come in last when I’m running for something, when I’m racing for something, when I’m competing for something. I’ve learned better. I don’t run. But I stalk. I find my prey, and stalk it.

 

Oh, but do I ever get what I want?
“Someday you will find the one that DIDN’T get away,” he said.

Well, I fucking waited. And then waited some more. And then waited a little more after that.

And I’m still fucking waiting.

 

 

“Without the skin here. Beneath the storm. Under these tears now. The walls came down.”
I don’t know what it means, and I don’t care. All I really know is that it’s not enough. Nothing is. And all of my grand ideas are not enough. All I know for sure is that nothing works, and everything hurts. Everything hurts. Every fucking little thing. They all hurt.

And you know what the worst part is? Yucaipa will never mend these wounds. They will only remind me of what I’m missing. Of all things, I thought I could count on Yucaipa. But that’s the last thing I can count on.
Even my childhood has let me down.
I can’t do anything but laugh at this point.
Because otherwise…