A Song for January
Those whiskey days are here
They went away but they're back again
This glow never ends
I'm numbed out on bliss
That comes on like a friend
And its great
A fantastic waste of time
Life is long but it all moves so fast
You're first and you're last
Afraid of the future but I'm bored with the past
And it's great,
Yeah its great
It's so great
Remember when you wanted it all to end?
A Song for January
I have a small box in my room, and I think it just moved.
That would be something almost impossible on its own. Almost. You see the problem is that I am not too sure exactly what is in it, so it would be unwise for me to honestly say I am 100% sure that there is nothing inside of it capable of movement. It is a small box, which used to be blue, the size of a small jewelry box, and I keep it on my desk. I have had this box for months now but I haven’t been able to bring myself to open it. I’ve never been good at opening simple things; like mail for instance.
It used to be blue, but now it is the color gray… because I wrapped it in duct tape. I think it was only after a couple days of owning this box that I accidentally knocked it off my desk. My heart began pounding and I could feel my anxiety shoot up as I watched it fall in slow motion, imagining the horror of having it open. Thankfully it didn't, so to just be safe I made sure it could never be accidentally opened. It was a great experience, like I was locking away something that I should never see. I turned the box around and a round safely, inspecting the sounds that the lone object inside made as I shook it. It sounded like it had the same qualities of a small coin. A distinct weight and sharp noise as it rattled back and forth.
January has always been a bad month for me. Last year was the worst. I locked myself in my room and didn’t see anyone for nearly the entire span of it. This January was not as bad so far, but there is still something that feels defeated after I wake up from a New Year’s hangover. And this box, which may or may not have moved reminds me of that. I’ve had it for months, but only now does it seem to magnify the depression. I tell myself, /no, you are doing better than that, you have come so far, you are recovering. And I think about that and I remind myself of three stories. You know, the ones close to you, the ones that you can recount in the flash of seconds to yourself, even though they would be a long tale to tell.
1. On Escape
Escaping is harder than I thought...
I was at my wits end. I couldn’t stand it any longer. THE ENEMY was wearing me out, and THE ENEMY was the city; the city and all of it’s creatures. Not just the creatures, but their parts too; arms and toenails and elbows and mouths that all seemed to leak some type of warm pessimism that stank of sought domestication. And car repairs, and letters in my mailbox, and the ghosts of hampsters. The cups of bitter day old coffee, the pizza dried and molding on my desk, and all the rotten little mouse tails I caught at work.
It was all so weary and I needed to escape from THE ENEMY, even if it were just for the weekend…
When I woke up I was very confused and my car was covered in snow. I took a lifetime to register where I was and understand how I had gotten there. Then I relaxed and told myself, 'ah, I had escaped, all will be much easier now'. I turned the key, and my car gave me silence.
That did not just happen. I turn it again, nothing.
Fuck.
I got out of my car to inspect my surroundings. It seems that I had decided to park in some sort of plaza in Lake Placid, New York. I knew the town that I was in, I was just not sure how I had gotten there yet. I was surrounded by a supermarket, a tanning salon, and (by divine intervention) a bar. I called triple A, explained where I was the best I could, and stepped on in.
"A beer, tap, anything local... please."
He was a good man, it came right up.
It was a big place, and I was the only one there which made everyone talkative. The bartender, the bartender's girlfriends, and me. The second dive intervention was that New England was playing New york that weekend. SO I was stuck in a parking lot, but I was stuck drinking beer and watching football, things could be worse.
"Goddam, if it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all." I said.
"Whattadya mean?"
"My car is dead outside, I'm from Boston, and I left my headlights on during a nap in your parking lot," I says, "but I get to grace you all with my presence and watch the game." I raised my glass in a toast. The bartender, a young guy, maybe my age smiled. His girlfriend, a younger woman kept decorating the place with Christmas stuff and lights. Every two seconds she would ask our opinion because she was incapable of making her own decisions.
"I may have some cables in my car, you want me to give you a jump?"
"Let me finish this beer first and then we'll try."
"You want some chips and salsa?"
"I'm waiting for the triple A guy, so I'm gonna run out of here as soon as he gets here. So thanks but no thanks."
His girlfriend shouts from the back, "Is this even?" as she's hanging up lights.
"It's on the house," says the bartender, then he shouts, "they look fine!"
"Can't say no to the house."
"So what are you doing up here?"
"Escaping... the city was driving me nuts."
"It ain't much better up here."
"Yah but up here, its different. I got sick and weary of it all. Down in Boston I had mail.... and parking tickets, and signs, and parking meters, and shouting people, and dirt in the cracks, and people with dead eyes, and brilliant bums, and pizza with mold on it, and trees shrouded in fear, and buses with schedules, and traffic, and paperclips, and sickness, and emergencies, and expectations. Here I have nothing."
"Here you have a beer and a football game."
"EXACTLY!"
"And you've only been here since this morning? How’d you wing that?"
"Well, I got an extra day off work, I had reservations at some hotel in town and came in too early to get my room. You see, I have been enchanted with a new woman in my life so I didn't want to leave THE ENEMY without seeing her. So I ended up leaving THE ENEMY after she left at 2AM. I drove throughout the night and got to Lake Placid around 9AM. My room wasn't ready so I parked here and that’s when left my lights on, because I'm an idiot."
"Done with that beer yet?"
"Patience."
His girlfriend asked us both our opinion on her nativity scene. The bar had become a democracy. "Looks fine darlin'" I said. Mr. Bartender said the same.
I finished my beer and me and Mr. Bartender tried to start my car, but something f'ed up, whether it was the ground or whatever. The cables got hot and my battery started sparking. So I decided to wait for Mr. AAA.
"Can I refill your beer?" asked Mr. Bartender.
"Ahh, the AAA guy is hopefully coming soon, so I will be running out soon."
"Let me top it off for you, it's on the house."
"Would you like to bartend in Boston?" I asked as he refilled my amber joy.
His girlfriend shouted, "How's the tree look so far?"
He answered, I merely mumbled in identical tones for encouragement.
"Listen, tonight I am taking a warm and long bath, I am going to read Hemmingway or Saroyan, and I am going to have 2 beers. It is the first night of my vacation and I have it mapped out."
"You still take baths?"
"Listen, I have vacation requirements. You see, on the ay home I will buy a pack of Marlboros, not because I smoke, but because I MUST smoke. On very important vacations I create new rules and I must fill these requirements in order to have a fulfilling vacation. First rule: I must drink a beer while taking a number two. That rule was made in Montreal. Second rule: I must smoke a pack of cigarettes, I hate smoking, but it feeds my oral fixation and I found that one in San Diego. Third rule: I must take a bath; there is something about bathing with a book that I find necessary.
"To each his own."
"No, it's the best, I bought a pack of smokes on the way home tonight and had a couple butts in the room while I soaked in hot water and read. This is the first night of my vacation."
"I'm getting a little bit confused," said mister bartender.
"And when I woke up the next morning I began a search for headphones because I would go nuts without anything to listen to."
"Wai wait wait, do you realize that you're describing your life tomorrow morning while you're still talking here in the bar?"
"Oh yah, I left the bar awhile ago, and I left you a big tip, I just enjoy telling this story as a conversation so I've kept the setting here while moving forward with the story..."
The bartender said, "You realize that you are breaking all sorts of meta-physical laws of science?"
"Fuck meta-physics! Einstein can wait, I'm telling a story."
"It's your story."
"Damn straight. So yah, the first night, after I left you a big tip, I didn't do much. Just rested in the tub, read a book, drank some beers, and remained in solace. I was finally on vacation, I had finally escaped THE ENEMY.”
“It’s not so hot here, no pun intended.” The bartender said, “I would love to get to the city and get out of here.”
“Cities are meant to swallow people my friend. They swallow you soul, and any stake you had in individuality. People migrate there to make something of themselves, or to just plain create something new. All the while all that happens is that they blend in. Sure the people from outside will look at a street performer and go ‘Ohhh, honey, look at him, isn’t he special?’ Or they might take the right fork on a path in the city park because they see a bum on the left hand side. What they don’t know is that there is a bum waiting for them around every corner. All of it melts away into some sort of blur, and the man you saw yesterday as brilliant as the sun may pass you by as a shadow the next.”
“We have a bum here in Lake Placid.”
“Just one? Is he drunk and surly?”
“Actually he just stands on the sidewalk in main street drinking a bottle of water all day.”
“Holy shit! Tomorrow, after I leave this bar I will see that guy!”
“Isn’t he something else?”
“Oh well, but anyways, the next morning I slept in late and slowly got ready for the day; beer in my belly and cigarette in hand. It was around 2pm when I finally put myself together to hunt up some food. It was then that I drove into town and saw an old man with a long white beard standing across from a Episcopalian church, and he was drinking a bottle of water. ‘Holy shit, that’s the guy the bartender was talking about!’ I said.”
“Told yah.”
“Yah yah yah, so I found this steak and seafood place with a gorgeous view of the lake. I was the only one in the place when the young waitress gave me her name and showed me to a table. I wondered, why wasn’t she in school? But never mind any of that. What mattered was that I was in a beautiful place, something close to God’s country. There was a light snowfall that continued to fall from last night and would continue to fall for the entirety of my trip. It danced down from the clouds to take its place among the trees and coating a frozen lake. I took a moment to just take it all in, before ordering a cheeseburger and whatever local beer they had there on tap. After that, out came the books. Just like every other trip I had ever packed for I always bring too many books. I have this wacky days-on-vacation-book-calculation. I think it’s like take the number of days I’m away from, add the number of nights I don’t have plans, add two if by air, one if s a passenger, and none if I’m driving. Take that sum then multiply it by two and subtract 1/3 of that total, and that is the closest approximation of how many books I usually bring on any certain trip.”
“You so crazy.”
“Word, anyways The young waitress comes and goes, plays the whole routine. I smile at her she smiles back and asks if I’m vacationing. I told her no, I was escaping, and how I needed to get away from the city for a little. She chuckled and resumed setting the dining room. I took my time, finished eating, left a 25% tip and took a walk up and down main street. The tourists center was closed, but the library contained enough little tourist booklets, and a map of trails. It was nice I spent the day walking along some paths and filling up some notebooks. No hard trails, no deep thoughts, just enough to really begin taking down my guard. If I saw someone else out walking, I was unusually warm with them. Saying ‘good morning’ and even ::gasp:: pausing to listen to them answer the ‘how are you’ question. I even made friends with a dog named Rocket (Rock for short). ‘You’re such a good boy, yes you are, yes you are!’ ‘Actually the dog is a she.’ ‘Oh I’m sorry,’ I said, but I said it mostly to the dog named Rock, rather than to the owner.”
“That night I made myself cozy in some bar and billiard place right under the Olympic ski-jump towers. It was an magnificent sight seeing these monstrous towers illuminated not by some standing fluorescent radiation, but by neon beer advertisements. The locals all had warm smiling faces. They joked and always referred to each other by their first name, or, even a nickname. Yet I did not feel excluded. Someone bought a round, I did not turn it down. Stories were told, someone else bought a round, I didn’t turn that one down either. A great tall man wearing a flannel coat (Mr. Flannel Coat) described the time when he was fifteen, and took his younger brother (twelve) to a frat party. No one there seemed to mind. They all got drunk and when the police arrived this guy of only fifteen thought it was all so funny. The young Mr. Flannel Coat refused to give them his name, or tell them how old he was. Finally, after they were both brought to the police station the younger brother gave the police the phone number of his home where his father lived. He said that when the police called their father to come pick them up, his father swore at the police and told them to ‘It’s 3am! Lock those two bastards up!’ The officer turned to the other and was puzzled. It was about that time that they found the young Mr. Flannel Coat outside of the police station knocking on the door to get back in. He had wandered off to find the bathroom, and in a drunken haze somehow found freedom. Eventually the officers just decided to drive the two boys home to their father whether he wanted them or not. It wasn’t until they began pulling up on the radio that there was a report of an irate man berating whoever was working at the desk of the police station. The dispatch was asking if anyone had information about two drunk kids, because their father was at the station now.”
“Everyone howled and enjoyed that one very much. During a short lull I was able to break in with one myself. An embarrassing story involving my penis and a band-aid, a story I have only told 3 people in all the years it had happened, and now I was sharing it with a room full of strangers that I felt comfortable with. At the end they all cheered and chuckled, and I took the opportunity to pick up the next round. ‘A round for my friends!’ I said, and someone shouted, ‘Hey look, the yuppy in the leather coat is buying a round!’ I shouted back, ‘A round for everyone except that guy!’ And a good time was had by all.”
“Two hours later I was soaking in a warm bath smoking a fag and reading a couple of short stories. I had left the TV on in the other room, but not because I wanted to watch it. I didn’t even have my glasses on, I just liked the noise in the background. Midway through a sentence I realized what I had done, how much I had become comfortable with the background noise. And I thought to myself how much I actually missed that bus that passed by my window, and the people chatting on cellphones, and how much I wished I could hear a siren so I could rush over to the window and inspect. Hmmm, Sportscenter is fine too… I guess… for now.”
“Now let me tell you about compassion. First of all it exists. In fact it exists in great amounts, the only problem is fear, generated in any way. People have a habit of becoming fearful of people and things and this acts as blinders and all of a sudden you become suspicious of everything. I am guilty of this, in heaping amounts. There was something (someone) that happened to me which made me see the world through fearful and paranoid eyes, making me afraid of every damn thing. But Lake Placid is helping to melt those fears, and the next day I saw overflowing compassion in every face I encountered. Even water-bottle man looked cheerful without having to smile. His presence became a comfort through consistency. Just a man, just his water, always.”
“How much longer does this story last?”
“Until someone comes to give me a jump silly.”
“Remember the ignorance of time and space reality?”
“Well in that case, I’m a little more than halfway through.”
“I like this story,” the bartender’s girlfriend said, “It’s slowly showing how by getting away he can slowly begin to accept humanity again preparing him to accept life in the city, while at the same time feeding his abandonment complex.”
“See,” I said, “even the dumb girl gets it!”
I continued, “Well, what happened next was all so happenstance. I wanted a steak the next morning, something big to carve up. Well I went everywhere looking for an open restaurant but on a weekday the only place that I could find open was that same place I went to the day before. I was becoming as predictable as water-bottle man.”
“’Good morning again,’ I tell her”
“’Good morning traveler, remember my name?’”
“’Nope, sorry.’ Now I wish I had remembered it though.”
“’Jenna… same table sound good?’”
“’Worked well the first time’”
“We got to talking a little bit. As it turns out she wasn’t a high schooler, she was in her third year of going to school part time up in Plattsburgh, wherever the hell that is. Young, aimless, bored of small town life, but is stuck because she knows nothing else. Everybody wants to be somewhere else, you know that?”
“The longer this story goes on, the more I feel it, yes.”
“Quit being a wise guy and get me another one of these dark ones, it was good, it shows that NY can do beer right. Must’ve stolen something from Canada, like hockey.”
“Anyways, she comes back, pretty as a picture, with my food. I drop my book and ask her ‘So what’s there to do in this town anyways. I’ve been here a day and a half and I got nothing for ideas.’”
“‘See that lake?’”
“I look out the window ‘Yah.’”
“‘You see anything on it?’”
“‘Nope’”
“’Well that’s all we got here.’”
“’I don’t know whether or not to be relieved or bored.’”
"'Well what did you do last night?' she asked.
"'I got drunk and told stories.'"
"She said, 'Sounds like that's all there is to do around here."'
"She left me so I could eat my meal, and it was good. I know she didn't cook it herself but I feel as if she deserved some of the credit. She had me, imagine an insect in a spider's web. The bug is mad that it's stuck, but c'mon give the spider some credit. I was caught. I was getting my stuff together and putting on my coat when she came by. 'Thank you again (i left another good tip). I'm leaving tomorrow, so thanks for the luncg... again/'."
"'My pleasure, here, me and a couple friends are geting together tonight. I know there isn't anything else to do tonight, so if you wanna just hang out here is my number. Something around 9ish.'"
"She just looked so uncomfortable and adorable at the same time, I took the number and smiled at her. I walked out and looked at her just one more time. Not to look at her, but to say something to her."
"I felt joy. I felt elation. I missed little miss tattoo. But I soon drank that away and slept..."
"slept"
slept
slept
The water was cold, and my limbs were cold. I could see something, but all i could see were two cigarette butts floating in the cold tub water. It was dark, and I remebered two people; first the mysterious bartender that I broke every rule of metaphysical science, and second, the young waitress who had given me her number. I checked my watch. I wasn't wearing a watch. I shouted "Hey what fucking time is it?" to a room of no one. The hotel was empty, so I had shouted a lot during my visit. Eventually I got out of the tub and saw that it was only 6:30pm. I fell back into bed.
9:03
9:03
9:03
9:03
9:03
my alarm wouldn't shut up.
Finally conscience lifted and I swore at myself a million times. I rushed to shower, I rushed to get dressed, and I rushed to all. But I played it off as being fashionably late, you know, cause I really didn't give a shit. Four months ago this phone call would have been unfathomable. Every person I met was frightening. But now I was healed.... I will talk about this later.
"Hey."
"Hey."
There is a universal language, and useing it we made plans, i was going to meet her at her friends place. She was already there, I would soon be lost beyond comprehension.
For those of you who don't know me well then you may not know about this particular party habit I have. The night was going well, and we were drinking and joking. On one trip to the bathroom I am suddenly struck with a very real and an immediate desire to leave, so I left. In a brilliant merging of my abandonment complex and my escape reflex I have adopted a policy of regularly leaving events and get togethers with no warning and no notice. My regular friends have somehwhat accepted this, if not at the very least, understand that it is something I am known to do. But for first-timers like these innocent backwood New Yorkers, I'm sure they must have been bewildered.
So I'm trashed and walking around downtown. Everything closed 3 hours ago so there is no one around, not even the bum drinking water. I decided I probably should try to sober up a little so I just decide to take a little walk and the let fresh air lift me up. There were some steps that lead away from the downtown street towards a small park next to the lake, I followed them carefully as to not slip on the snowy path.
I was in awe of the sky above my head. I could not see many stars because of the clouds, but where they broke the stars pushed through with a sharp lunge that took your eyes and held them softly. I felt peace, I felt awe. This was why I had come out here, this was me attaining some sort of final cool. Around me I saw no crooked likes, everything aligned, everything came together. And the moon and the flakes of snow, and lamp posts were all the same thing for some perfect moment.
Then I heard it: snap! It was a cold and hard sound, followed by another crack, then a breaking sound that whined along. I had a split second to realize what I had done, and then the ice broke. MY drunked stupidity had led me out past the edge of the lake, and right onto it.
I was the water came up to a little over my knees and that's when my feet hit the bottom. At least I hadn't gotten out too far. It wasn't painful, and the water didn't feel cold, it didn't feel like anything neccessarily. But there was a feeling, and it was strong, it was like all of a sudden my legs were screaming FEEL ME! But they were too confused to actually know what it was they felt yet. I felt immediate panic, but pushed it back as quickly as I could. I went from drunk idiot to calculating my best route for escape as good as any emergency worker. I couldn't step out, I would just break whatever ice I stepped on there and just continue to make a mess of things. So I took a risk and laid down face first on the ice heading back to the small park and crawled out of the hole. I prayed the whole time back to the edge of the water that my weight wouldn't break it again, because I might have more than soggy shoes if that were the case.
Without incident I made it the dozen of so feet without incident, and by that time my legs did feel the COLD. I told myself aloud, "You fucking idiot, if you have ever been sober enough to drive this is that moment." So as quickly as I could I followed my mental map back to my car and tore down the empty streets back to my room. Where I tore off my clothes, turned on Sportscenter, and drew a bath. When it was full I got in. I had 6 beers lined up along the outside of the bath like a row of obidient soldiers.
Everything was back to normal, for now.
My sleeping habits are anything but regular. So it didn't surprise me when I woke up two hours later and found two of the beers still left at the side of the tub. One was half full and up on the ledge and the three other's were scattered around the bathroom wastebasket. I didn't make any of my shots. Not one.
I decided right then and there that this was a good chance to get out of New York. So at 2:30AM I packed up, checked out, and headed towards a sun which was probably just breaking over a Greenland horizon.
The road kissed me immediately, as it always does for the long trip ahead. My headlights pushed through the constant snow flurry as I moved along patiently. It was backroads for about an hour, and I saw maybe one or two other travelers at that time in the morning. But eventually the journey settled into the long and familiar land of highway.
There was a slow sweet comfort to this passage, but the miraculous thing didn't occur until I neared Suffolk county. I hit traffic , and I didn't mind. The sun had risen and around me was development and cement barriers and commuters. These things made me happy, these things made me think of being back in Somerville. I saw a driver to the right of me screaming and honking at one point, and it made me smile. I traveled under overpasses and they reminded me of the modernization of the city. In the distance I could see the steel and stone giants shooting up to the sky and they arose a nostalgia like an old nightlight. All these things reminded me of home.
Home.
And it occurred to me. A few short days ago all I wanted to do was leave. Not even leave, escape. And not escape from my home, then it was known as THE ENEMY. I was beginning to warm up to the city. I was eager to leave, but just as eager to get back. It wasn't THE ENEMY any longer, I was really starting to think of it as HOME.
It's 8:15AM when I pull up in front of my apartment. I took my bags up to my room and after grabbing a bottle of red wine on my desk I collapse into my bed. I nuzzle into the blankets and pillow and feel ectasy racing through me. I pour a tall glass and just reflect on my newfound affection for the city.
The sun is shining through the blinds next to my bed and I open them up to peak through to the street. I see a young man in business attire in a hurry. I see a bus drive by on schedule. I see an old lady pulling a carriage. I see a young beautiful girl walking down the sidewalk. I keep watching her.
I keep watching her, and smile.
At HOME.
2.
Last Year, meet the bottle
Before I lose myself in the first date I have to sidetrack. For us, it was the 4th of July; that was our date. For the next two years, it would be our anniversary. Dates, as in dates on a cleandar, have a much greater weight for me no. It's because of her. "Because" doesn't even sound like the right word. "For her" fits better. Whether I mention the "4th of July" or "November" they both strike a deep cord in us both. Since then though, January has occupied a much darker place in my life. To the point were I ponder if I will develop seasonal depression simply out of habit.
This past January I spend in self inflicted conflict/torture. Bottle after bottle as I got stuck in one great drinking fit. I sobered up only to go to work. January 2nd I was so depressed I got drunk 4 times in 24 hours; and I really just set a pace for the next days to come.
The times of stupor and the times of acting lucid melted together into one strange unrecognizable sense of humanity. I was losing myself, and in some sense I enjoyed it. No, that's not right. In sorrow I found bliss. In loneliness I enjoyed the pleasure of my company. In an ineffaceable pain, I looked the other way. It was not so much that I enjoyed it, but I found comfort in this new consistency that I had formed with alcohol and madness.
The worst days were the days I didn't have work. After I came home from a good night of paying those bills I would drink. Waking up at 4, I would stay in bed until 8. I studied my own madness in the waking hours. Too depressed to get out of bed, too aware to do anything but let my mind wander a thousand miles an hour. I would come up with inane thoughts and center on those to distract myself
I gotta get myself out of this
I need to solve some problem
I should probably write
Writing would distract me
Writing would focus me
I should write about her
Find a sense of closure in this world
If, when I write about her
I want to start with the phrase "with which"
I don't know why
"with which"
That's how it must start
"with which"
I will tell you her story
"with which"
I don't want to focus
"with which"
These thoughts would make no sense, and in a sense they became just many more of my already myriad amount of coping/blocking mechanism of not facing my depression.
The "with which" thing became my favorite, because in many ways I began to understand that I needed to write to make myself better. But I got it stuck into my head that I needed to begin this whole thing with the phrase "With which." There was no legitamate way way of starting this whole thing with that phrase. Writing would be therapuetic, but I was creating obstructive and imaginary road blocks to keep me from taking these steps which would be healing. This is just one of a million reasons for why I felt the insanity was winning.
After winning the nights first small battle, which entailed willing myself out of bed I would stumble around an empty apartment reflecting on the visceral notion of growing spite. I took a shower and began to weep. I didn't even know why anymore. Was it because I was lonely? Did I miss her? Did I just hate the person I was becoming? Or simply because I was killing myself? Or maybe a combination of all the above. Any way, my sobbing tears seemed to clean myself a little, as the water ran down me and washed them away.
Afterwards there would be nothing. A blaring TV to distract me, a dark night to haunt me, and an empty house to remind me. I hadn't the will to call anyone, and no one would call me. So with no work to sober up for, I would go on another big drunk.
There would be pornography on the computer, some DVD playing on the idiot box, and a bottle of dark sin in my hand. Oh, what a romantic night I have planned for myself. I thought of such things until I couldn't think at all, then I just faded to black in happy stupor.
Being both a healthcare professional, and a current drunk, I could go into disgusting detail on the physiological nightmare you put your body through by going on a second big binge even before sobering up from the first. The world just doesn't seem real afterwards when your eyes open the next morning. There is a pain, yet also a sense of disassociation. You don't know who you are and you don't care. It is like riding a slow see-saw that takes you from not understanding what you've done to yourself and then crying again.
Imagine all that, now imagine its 6 in the morning. Still no one home. Still nothing to do. Still lacking the strength to face the reality of what has happened along with the depression. For the third time, I am left with nothing, but to kill myself with another big drunk.
It isn't until after you open your eyes that you think your own thoughts. Your eyes must open because you are awake. Passing out is not healthy sleep at all, so you wake the second you sober up, and everything slowly becomes real to you. You think to yourself "I am going to die." There are visions of impending doom clouding my thoughts as this zombie in my skin wakes sometime in the PM. It doesn't matter which time I wake up, because I can't get out of bed. I listen to heavy footsteps outside my door, signaling the presence of an actual human being in my home. I continue to just lay there, my mind throwing thoughts around just to distract myself from both the mental anguish and now the very real physical pain that comes from poisoning myself. I lie there, and listen to the footsteps go down the stairs and a door closes.
I am alone again.
I have to pretend I am a robot with a low battery signal blinking to make myself get out of bed. After showering again (this time to numb to even reflect on a need to cry), I make myself presentable for work. Even with all the cleaning up I perform on myself, I never bother to clean up the bottles collecting around my room. Let the rot lie, I think to myself, let me rot with it. I drink a half dozen glasses of water and force myself to move to move just to stir some sense of sobriety. It eventually comes before work, but a sense of pain and distance from my mind never fades, I cannot completely mend that broken connection. Its like, Imagine the source of the problem has been removed, but my brain hasn't completed the repairs necessary to completely work again.
I move down the stairs feeling like ooze, more like dripping down the stairs rather than stepping. On the highway I fight the headlights on the opposite side of the highway, jerking the wheel randomly when my mind sees something in the road.
At work I speed myself up, and put on a lying smile. The drunkard takes a backseat as the blowhard hero with great respect for his work takes over for his eight hours a night. He works, and waits for the alcoholic haze to pass.
But this time is doesn't, or it won't. My body is staging a complete rebellion. I think to myself again, "I am going to die," and "my next drink will be my last." But not in the positive sense, like I will give up the drink. I have literally determined that the next drink will kill me. In my mind I push back the pain and confusion so I can picture how it will happen. I remember... It will move like electricity. The second the drink touches my lips it will move through me like electricity shutting off everything. My body cannot handle another sip, it will react, rebel, and then release itself from the pain I inflict on it.
Work last 500 hours.
I have one reason to make it home and I know it. When I get back I open my door and see the bottle on my desk, grinning back at me. So happy to see you Chris. I move in, and let it win, almost as if I need something in my life I can't say no to.
3
Having the Midas Touch
A story about Ms. Tattoo, but especially for you. It's about life, connections and tattoos.
I was on my way to Lahey yesterday, a place I am becoming too familiar with, when I found a letter on the ground. It was in a closed envelope with a stamp but it hasn't been mailed yet. I was delighted to mail it, all the while wondering, who does this touch, and what will it affect? Will this act ever come back to me, and even if it did, will I know it? These thoughts have consumed my every act for the past couple of weeks all thanks to one little Ms. Tattoo.
It seems so perfect, yet unconnected. I don't think we realize how much we can touch people's lives without even realizing it. It's even more magical when something you've done comes back to you without you ever having known about it. This even couldn't have come at a better time. I am in recovery, my mind had been warped into something dark and cynical. I had gotten accustomed to seeing horror everywhere. But important events have been brought to my attention, it all begins with a health fair back at Umass Dartmouth almost 4 years ago.
Years and years ago I participated in a health fair booth, just simple stuff, performing blood ABO/Rh types on anyone who would like one. But my enthusiasm got the better of me and I ended up talking to anyone and everyone who came close to my booth and talked about the wonders of a science I found so fascinating. At the time I thought it was just a normal day for me, and everyone else, the world continued to turn like it did the day before... well, at least it did for me.
Years and years later I was told about a woman, a certain woman whom I met at that particular fair whom I impacted enough to not only change her major to my Medical Laboratory Science, but become completely engrossed in it. To the point where on a vacation escapade she got a tattoo of a particular single celled parasite which happened to be my favorite. My
favorite How could this be? How could someone be as crazy as me to get a tattoo of Trichomonas vaginalis. How could I not even know this happened. How many other lives have I moved? I feel oddly responsibly for this tattoo, and this confuses me.
How many other tattoos were there out there that I am responsible for? How many other lives have been shaped by my intervention? Life seems so big, but all of a sudden it was all becoming so real. Maybe I did matter. Can't you see? Can't you see? Thanks to me speaking with this woman, impacted the spring break decision she would make almost 3 years later. Can't you see?
So I knew someone who knew someone, who introduced me to someone, and that someone happened to be that wonderful Ms. Tattoo. And I become entranced by the scenario. I have not seen her in years, or even thought of her. I spoke to many people that night but somehow I have changed this one womans life.
I want to know you, I want to know what I did. ...
Thanks to a brilliant discovery I have been dating a few women for the past couple of months. The discovery was this: people are not as scary as I thought. I used to think I was terrified of the world. As it turns out I realized I was only terrified by one woman, but that woman consumed my life.
So it now becomes easy for me to ask Ms. Tattoo to come to Boston one Saturday night . Somehow the tattoo made everything seem right, everything made sense and we hit it off amazingly. She had a case of OCD that rivaled mine (if not surpassing it), plus many other mental kinks that a normal person would find pathological, but I found adorable. We joked the same, and ours minds sort of ran on the same movement. So much so that everything progressed much more quickly than I had expected. Before that night I had never even had the courage to kiss a woman on the first date... all of a sudden it's 2am and we're holding each other closely.
She was premed.
She spoke French
She was oddly compulsive
She preferred board games to TV
She was adorable
But I am not writing this
about her, I am writing this
for you. Everyone. Here is what I'm trying to say. The magic is real, it's in us all. Something so strange and powerful it is both white and black. You can touch peoples lives everyday, and maybe it doesn't matter if it impacts you. But sometimes it does, and you get to see the results of some good deed.
Touch people, not physically, but as much as you can, with your greatness. It may not affect you tomorrow, or ever. But it will affect someone.
If you want it to, everything you touch can turn to gold.
4. From Absolution We Move On
My eyes are still fixed on the small box suspiciously. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was. I had a good idea what was in there, but maybe she was trying to fool me. A hibernating insect? Mexican jumping beans? A bomb?
I didn't think it was any of those things, in fact, I was pretty sure I knew what it was. It was a ring, more than that, an old promise. Shoved onto me months ago in a park at night while I stood there in the rain. It was not the first time she had given it back to me. No, that ring that she wore on her left hand as a sign had as much history as the two of us. In those later months she had become accustomed to hurling it across the room at me when we were fighting, well, the ring plus anything else she could get her hands on usually. It was one of her dramatic flares, we shared many of those.
There we were, a confrontation on a stormy night. There were thousands of horrible orange eyes, and distorted mouths gazing at the two of us like some tangled car wreck. This all started because I was trying to get away from her. I was trying to leave, but she wouldn't let me leave, literally she would not let me physically leave when I wanted to go. I told her to get away from me. She told me this was the last time, this was forever. I told her good, I would be saving her life. I was a mess then, and told her I was killing myself slowly and if she stayed with me it would kill her too. She said this was it, this was forever, I said good, she said, one more chance, I said no, she wouldn't let me leave, I told her let me go, she wouldn't let me go. It wasn't honesty, it wasn't faith, I was scared, I told her okay one more chance. She smiled and let me go, the moment she stopped looking I ran.
Two nights later she asked when I was coming over, I told her I wanted to never see her again. She snapped. She had had worse breaks before, times I will never talk about. I tell people about how crazy she was, how crazy we both were, but I have a boundary. I will never talk about the things that really scared me, only what leads up to them. I will tell the story about Samson, and how she killed my pet fish. I will not tell the story that I still have nightmares about, the day after, when I tried to end things. I will tell you about the times I have had to call the police on her, but I will not tell you about what happened later that day, when she almost killed us both, and the scariest part isn't even what she did, it's what I did afterwards.
She was screaming at me, and cursing like crazy. Demanding that I come to meet her, she needed to yell at me, find some sort of closure. I told her no, I feared just being around her. If we were going out for coffee, I could picture her throwing it at my face; if we were meeting in the common, she would drop a tree on my head. Half of me was exaggerating, but half of me really did fear for my life. I didn't want to go, but I felt like this would close the door more securely if she could have at me this one last time. The finality of it all was the only thing that made me comfortable with the confrontation.
She was screaming at me again. It's raining and those horrible orange eyes, numbering in the thousands won't grant me privacy. She's in front of me and she doesn't understand what I'm doing. Most of the time even I don't understand what I was doing. Wasn't that the point? Love and madness. Tied together tightly, inexplicably, spinning around each other pushing with anger but pulling with an unseen gravity for now and all times in the future.
She offered me another chance. Even though I was the one trying to leave her.
I could never say no to her.
She gave me a box, and told me she would come over in 3 nights. We'd go shopping, to our store. Make meatballs, our meal. Make love, what we did best. Meatballs and sex; love and madness.
The morning we were supposed to get together I woke up depressed but optimistic. All this back and forth was wearing away at me and it made me slink back into a dark place. But I resolved to overcome it. After all, it couldn't be a bad day. I thought back to a moment months and months ago. It was after that darkest January, after I hid so well but she still ended up finding me, and I let her back in. She was over at the apartment cooking. I snuck up from behind her at the stove and put my arms around her waist and pulled her close. I kissed her neck then whispered in her ear, "How does it feel to be domesticated again?" She smiled, we both did. Happy memories are just about the only thing that take me out of that dark place.
Just then I get a text message. A goddam text message. Telling me that she's not coming over and she never wants to see me again. I ask why, but I already knew... she won. I was the one left waiting in the wings. After trying to leave her for so long she was the one with the last say. She beat me. There was nothing left to do but drink and ignore that little blue box on my desk.
Months later.
There is a box on my desk and I think it just moved. And I realize what went wrong, not with her, but for the rest of me. She won.
I didn't get over her, I never did.
I still love her, I always did.
But not in the real way, not like I still wish to be with her, quite the opposite. I never want to see her again, but I never went through with getting over her. Instead, the moment we separeted I didn't acknowledge it, instead I put it away, in a box, and wrapped it up tight far and away.
There is a box on my desk and I think it just moved.
It wasn't a breakup to get over, it was a relationship ended to ignore, or put off, or put away and never look at it again.
I wish this ended with me telling you that I am confronting all these issues and winning. But I'm not, they still scare me to death. In fact, I wrote this Song for January mostly before January 4th, then put off the last 5% locked in depression. I wish I could call Little Ms. Tattoo again and tell her I'm sorry. I wish many things, but its easier to ignore everything.
There is a box in my room and I think it just moved.
I hate that I still think about her, I hate that I cant listen to the wrong CD, and I hate how I can't even type her name, she will remain 'her'.
This is my song for January. I wrote a mountain and cannot yet explain how a box in my room keeps killing me.
I have a small box in my room, and I think it just moved.
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