Act of Contrition

Wednesday.

I have been floating in and out of a nasty depression for nearly a year and not knowing exactly why or how to get past it is really frustrating the hell out of me. It’s the longest low I can recall, even since the dark times of my 20’s. It’s bad. I keep getting tripped up by intrusive thinking. I think about what it’d be like to let myself drown in the tub or to overdose on pain medication or what throwing myself under a speeding truck might feel like; a mouthful of coppery blood, dislocation, Cadaver Expasim. The big question realized. It’s more existential musing than an actual plan for suicide.

This is when, in the past, I’d cut myself; small gashes on my thighs, my arms – my chest.

The need to cut is difficult to explain, like the need to drink or the need to fix or the need to cum; the sudden flood of adrenaline, the hot rush of survival, the purity of release. For a few moments you live in a sense of aching oneness, of absolute calm. In those few moments, there’s only right now.

Right now, I’m cut.
Right now, there’s blood.
Right now, I’m alive.

If you accept that psychology is actually a science and not just a dull reflection of carnival fortune telling, then I am what convention refers to as a “High Functioning, Rapid Cycling Bipolar.” Whatever.

Fuck convention.

As an artist, I am at peace with my mental hiccups and consider myself in good company:

Vangough.
Poe.
Cobain.

An unrestful mind, a conflicted temperament; it’s the price of clarity.

So now, over the years and through considerable effort, I have become – for better or worse – self aware. This roughly translates to me being able to recognize when I’m spiraling up or crashing down, whether it’s due to some outside circumstance or if it’s merely chemical and then, how to deal with it. Yet despite my best attempts at optimism, positive influences and outlets – even self-analytical reasoning – I still get down. I can’t help it. I’m upset and can’t quite put my finger on why. This doesn’t, however, mean I need to be drugged.

Been there.
Done that.
Moved on.

And, this isn’t to say that I haven’t gotten caught up in the occasional quick fix. Call it a lapse in judgment, but really, truly, medication just isn’t an option for me; I learned that the hard way. Pills are an easy convenience that society uses to sweep us under the carpet. Detachment is the American way, after all. I mean, why learn how to cope and take hold of your own life when you can just shut down and let someone else do it for you? Whether we’re talking about Lamictal or Heroin, Lithium or Bourbon, Zoloft or Marijuana, all it really is, is a numbing agent, an escape. It doesn’t actually help you; it just pacifies you so that those around you can stop feeling bad about themselves.

Frankly, I’m better than that so, I box. I push myself to the breaking point, fighting through the hurt until I’m high with exhaustion. Perhaps, it’s the manifestation of internalized conflict looking for closure or maybe it’s a baser, alpha need to hit something. The means don’t concern me, only the ends. The ends of course, being a coping mechanism that allows me to reset; to keep from going numb and at the least, I’m not cutting anymore.

I realize that this line of thinking can make people very uncomfortable. I’m OK with that. Maybe they worry and want to help in some way. Maybe they’ve been there. I couldn’t say. Maybe they really do want to help or maybe -- they’re just afraid of this level of honesty.

ARGH.

So. I've been hearing from some of you; "Hey, how's that book of yours coming along?"

"Is it done yet?"
"Is it done yet?"
"Is it done yet?"

NO. It is not. I seem to have a bad case of Imagination Constipation. That is, I have writer's block. I must. I sit at the computer everyday for about an hour and stare hopelessly at that goddamned blinking cursor wishing something would happen.

Monkeys flying out of my butt.
Spontaneous combustion.
Anything.

But nothing does so, I just read over what I have written.

Again and again and again and again and again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again and again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and and again and again and again and again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again again and again and again again and again and again and again...

Missing Boy Linked To Squirrel Insurrection

Excerpt taken from Red Star's field journal:
December 20th, Day 100. 27 degrees Fahrenheit.

Personal commentary:
Midwestern squirrels, who – I've decided, are all named Buddy and Loretta, are a completely different breed than their coastal, chain smoking city equivalents If you've visited NYC or SFO then you know the type: skinny, paranoid, self-destructive… In many ways, it is apparent that the fallout resulting from great National Pigeon Uprising of 2010, has left a lingering mark on the local Sciurini tribes... (shudder)

Observations:
At any rate, the Eastern Gray Squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis), or as they are more commonly known: the Grey Squirrel, look as though they’ve spent some time in the gym doing Pilate's or perhaps, spinning. Every morning, just after sun-up, they congregate atop the dumpster in the alley behind our apartment, drinking coffee, joking and "talking smack" about the neighbors as they peruse electrical schematics of the city…

To be sure, they’ve unionized.

Sometimes, as I’m hiding in the bushes, I see them running wire up to the power lines or coaxial cable along the ground to certain trees or even siphoning gas from nearby SUVs. As much as I’d like to, I dare not approach them.

Last week, (Day 96) soon after I got settled into my usual observation point, I watched – rather stupefied, as a local boy, wrapped comically in a red and grey argyle scarf, burst out of seemingly nowhere and – armed to the teeth with tightly packed snowballs, proceeded to launch an obviously well planned (if not completely unprovoked) ground-to-air-strike against the squirrel community during one of their morning meetings when sadly, they are at their most vulnerable.

With grim fascination, I looked on in horror as Buddy – who had just opened his thermos for what was to be his first cup of coffee for the day, took two slushballs to the chest and one to the head. Loretta, with no regard for her own safety, ran to him, crushing his limp body to her snow-splattered bosom, screaming; “SQUEAK SQUEAKER SQUEAK SQUEAK!” again and again; “SQUEAK SQUEAKER SQUEAK SQUEAK!!” as a barrage of snow and ice exploded around her.

The rest of the squirrels – unsure of what had just happened, ran for cover as the local kid, obviously tweaked out on sugarplums and Redbull, ducked down another alley where he immediately vanished behind what was later determined to be a disemboweled, late model Ford.

Now, days later, just as Loretta finishes scattering Buddy’s ashes at the foot of the dumpster, a large, balding squirrel – Buddy, approaches and hands her a neatly folded red and grey argyle scarf.

Fascinating.

Additional commentary:
Perhaps justice was served and perhaps it wasn't. I do not judge, only observe. For me, day 96 shall forever be the day I witnessed my first run-by snowballing and while I hope it's my last, I can see now that this is the beginning of something much, much larger...

Letter To My Mother (first draft)

Today, I did the hardest thing I've ever had to do: I took control of my life and put an end to a lifetime of emotional and psychological abuse. The following is the letter I sent to my mother. It is my first attempt at communication since January of this year.

I’ve been putting off writing this letter mostly because I was too angry to write it. Today, I felt clear-headed enough to do this...

The reason you haven’t heard from me and why I have dropped off the map is because of you. When you ask yourself why is this happening and whose to blame – you are.

This is all your fault.

Last Christmas, while you were driving the New York family nuts, the west coast clan did something we never did before: we talked.

And talked and talked and talked.

It was as though I was meeting my family for the first time and I have to say; it was easily the best holiday I’ve ever had.

Since my short stint in New York, I have been confronting all the members of my family about EVERYTHING you ever told me about them over the years. Imagine my rage as I have learned that none of it is true. Why you selfishly kept everyone away from me my whole life… Told me lies about them so I wouldn’t want to know them and stay away… I’ll never know and frankly, I could care less.

All I do know is that I wasted a good 25 years of my life being angry about things that don’t exist. I hated myself because I believed that everyone else hated me and I couldn’t understand why.

The intense isolation. The depression. The suicide attempts.

All of these things – based on lies that you told me -- Lies that I believed because I trusted you. Why would I NOT believe my own mother? At this point, I’m left with no choice but to disregard everything you’ve ever said.

What’s wrong with you?! How could you do this to your own Daughter? Are you really that selfish?? That controlling and manipulative???

(at least now, I am getting a second chance at the life I’ve always hoped for)

I’ve learned that this is nothing new… Yes, I heard what you said to the Florida family about me. I worked so hard to clean that shit hole you live in, give it a fresh coat of paint and make it something bright and cheerful and pleasant again… for what? So you can bad mouth me behind my back?? Insult my friends and chosen family??? Fuck you.

I might consider a reconciliation if you:

1. Seek psychological counseling and
2. Tell the entire family that you are a liar and apologize to them.

AFTER you’ve done this and under the supervision of your therapist I will consider seeing and speaking to you again. This last condition is mostly because I don’t want to be alone in the same room with you, as you’re bad for my mental health, but also because I won’t believe you if you tell me that you’re getting help.

Sleep in the bed you’ve made, bitch.

Trust the process

As I draw a close to this: the first week of this beautifully insane experiment, I am reminded of how emotionally, psychologically and physically taxing the creative process can be.

The terror.
The bubbling insecurities and self doubt.
The figurative self-flagellation.

I won't let this stop me. If this was easy, I wouldn't care and I'd never do it. Take my uncle: without even trying, he's this sickeningly talented artist but It comes so easy, that he's never taken it anywhere. It just doesn't matter to him. On the other hand, it's taken me something like twenty one years of continuous suffrage -- pushing myself beyond my limits -- to get where I'm at right now. The crazy part is, as far as I'm concerned and after all my efforts to this point -- I STILL feel like it's not enough.

It will never be enough, that's why I keep doing it -- trying to outdo myself with every brush stroke, every note, every alliteration. I know that as an artist, I have to let go and give in to the madness.

Because that's the point.

A Begining

The following is an excerpt taken from a story I hope to one day complete:

~~~ I Once read somewhere that “We are the imagination of ourselves...” – I’ve forgotten where – it could have been on a t-shirt, in a fortune cookie or in one of those shitty zines you find in shitty coffee shops… doesn’t matter. The point is, I never imagined my life turning out like this: wound up and twisted the wrong way.

Each of us starts out the same: a pure, shapeless lump of potential. I hate that word – “potential”. To me, it’s synonymous with “failure”. It means; "not good enough" or at best, “half assed”. Teachers tell parents that their kid has “potential” like it’s divine intervention. This wretched term translates to the parental ear as: “Your kid might discover a cure for cancer,” or “Your kid may become president,” or whatever their shortcomings and dis-proportioned expectations might be.

It seems that in many cases, these people only become parents to distract themselves from the sad truth of their own un-developed “potential.”

Sadly, when a teacher tells them that their kid has “potential”, all they’re really saying is that your kid’s not a moron – be happy…

My own family experience was no less frustrating. For my parents, having a child was an act of reconciliation… a way of vicariously reliving their own lives with a sharpened sense of hindsight – lucky me, I was their collaborated effort. Growing up, I envisioned carefully laid blueprints showing what on me was to go where and how.

“No, Dear,” My mother would say to my father, “Those are her lips.” I could see my father drinking gallons of milk and doubling up on iron and protein supplements months before clumsily coming too soon into my mother’s frustrated womb.

This is a night I often curse.

In my opinion, just because you can have children, doesn't mean you should. It often baffles me on how much bureaucratic bullshit you have to sift through just to obtain a driver’s license… Prospective parents, I think, should have to take a test.

“Sorry folks, you got 48 out of 100 points – 90 is passing.” BAM! Down comes the huge rubber stamp – ‘F’ in bright red neon. “Better luck next time.” This, of course, would send my father into a frenzy of male posturing.

“This is an outrage! Blah, blah, blah…” I can almost see him pounding on the table for punctuation as my mother calmly shoos him away. She always played the good cop.

“Can’t you bend the rules this one time?” She’d have those blueprints out at this point, drawing the clerk in closer, making eye contact and slightly licking her perfectly lined lips; “We’ve been working on this for quite some time.” The clerk, no doubt, is watching his line zigzag out the front door.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he'd say severely, “No children for you.” He'd then motion to a nearby security guard; “In fact, I’m sending this officer home with you to collect any plants or animals you may have. Good day.”

Ah, but only in a perfect world would such a scene transpire. As it happens, I was born into this world a healthy, unassuming, eight pound lump of –“potential...”