Quick, Quick, Quick

"Greyed Matter"

If forever never fades,

    is it grey matter, or greyed matter.

Memories will grow stale,

And you will grow sadder.

"Backwards Brain Study"

I have what you want, and

You know that I do.

But being aware of you, I

Avoid empty hands.

"Words Like Trash"

Words like trash,

Putrid as they are razed,

Serve no purpose.

Words like trash,

Poured into landfills,

Lay base for life

Your Poor Mother

Please describe your life in as few words as possible:  I feel like I am going to throw up.

It seems strange to me that the pre-examination paperwork included the above question. I understand the necessity for some sort of patient history, but in as few words as possible? The purpose of a psychologist is to provide a safe environment where someone can be comfortable enough to speak their mind. I guess the idea of being concise in a statement to the person who is supposed to understand you strikes me as odd. But who am I? I’m just the patient, what do I know. Ideally there would be a required pre-appointment, written explanation of what is wrong with you. Yes, what’s wrong with you. Because everyone will have something wrong with them.

-   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -   -  

All I can ever come up with are bits and pieces of the larger picture. My ability to continue a single thought is virtually non-existent. Everything I have written in this document is vain, selfish, one-dimensional and far from worthwhile. I find it very strange that every time I delve into the one thing I am supposedly good at, and enjoy, I question whether or not this is truly a talent or if I just wish it could be. It makes me feel disgusting. I truly cannot differentiate between what I want to be versus who I am trying to be.

Self-hatred seems to be my only muse. It is far from difficult to put myself down. I have this circumstantially beneficial ability to talk myself into depression, anxiety, and anger. The irony behind the skill of emotional self-mutilation as the basis of my livelihood is overwhelming, but apparently not enough to deter me from feeding into it. Not only am I anxious, and depressed, and angry, but it turns out I am, too, an addict. Everything I detest about my body and mind is the fuel for my interests. It seems all too natural for addiction to drag me into a life of depression and anxiety, but what is to be done when my addiction is rock bottom?

An awareness of the totality of my issues would typically help me in overcoming that which holds me back, in a perfect world. I, however, have decided to abuse my setbacks in such a way to profit from my own misery.

When I walked into the office of Dr. Wayne Fillmon I was in no way doing it with an open mind. This person is supposed to stare at me, listen to me, and on the spot figure out a plan to tell me that I needed to rid my life of what it was I lived for. The horrific hilarity that would soon ensue was my front for not truly knowing what it was that I in fact lived for. I can’t hide behind my emotions whether I am in control of them or not. So to say that I live for my emotions rather than reacting to them scares me, hence my denial of living a reactive existence. I was convinced that there was no way I could be influenced or swayed to believe that I was better off without my misery.

Not only was I under the impression that Dr. Fillmon was “better than me” or in more control of my mind than I but he consistently made me feel worse about who I was in his responses and reactions to my thoughts and memories. At no point during our conversations did I ever feel as though I was in control of what was happening. I was asked questions, spoken to, I received advice and suggestions, and given pages in a workbook to complete. Again, call me crazy for having an opinion of myself, but I get the feeling that an anxious, depressed, angry self-loather might benefit from a bit of control. The more I recollect, the further from real the whole thing gets.

As I listen over and over to the thoughts and ideas and memories that cycle my negativity I realize that I never have definite statements. Everything seems one way or another. For someone who hates change, I am horrified of consistency to the point where not even the words I speak and ideas I think are given concrete definition. To make a short story shorter, this “doctor” of conversation certainly did not possess the ability to fix me, as he so selfishly tried to own me. For if he had, no one would know of this instance. He failed all of you. Although, all of this is under the pretense of public interest in what I have to say, fat chance.

Dr. Fillmon’s job during our first meeting is to screen me and get a basic understanding of my personality to ease his frustration of our newly established long-term relationship. Under this assumption I was ready to spill my guts and see my innards strewn across the doctor’s desk as he frantically scrambled to make sense of the bloody mess. I told him about my drug use and experimentation with alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, painkillers, LSD, and psilocybin right before I went into detail about the time I was forced to live despite my cries for mercy. Naturally there came a point in the conversation where he attempted to determine the underlying cause of the war I had declared on my body, I explained, “When I was thirteen it turned out my father was a sociopathic narcissist who walked out on my mother and I. Right before they got divorced I moved in with my grandparents while I was in high school. As a high school student I had statistically average grades, no desire to work hard, and was tormented daily by my peers. I attended three colleges hoping to find solace and a worthwhile education to no avail. Frustrated with the way my life was going, I needed a drastic change so I up and ran to Boston leaving my mother all alone. And now, I sit before you.”

Every other sentence I uttered evoked an all too emphasized reaction from the man who was supposed to remain unbiased and supportive. Other than a self assessment of his opinion there was only one true summation of thought that came from his mouth, “Your poor mother...”.

He sat there and stared waiting for me to acknowledge the fact that amongst all of my mistakes and missteps the most horrid was the idea that I could leave my mother alone the way I had. As a result, I couldn’t decide if I was angry because he obviously hadn’t listened or tried to care why it was that I was there or if I was beyond repair with sadness because I knew my true nature was inherently malicious. So instead of temporarily minimizing my mental capacity and easing my inner tension, Dr. Fillmon not only managed to make me feel worse about my decisions to leave home but he also created an emotional duality splitting my conscience in two. I was now walking through the world despising half of my personality, and pitying the other.

Speaking to a therapist can very easily be mistaken as a self-help technique. But sitting on that couch and cascading words off my tongue and over my lips helped me realize that the narcissism involved with “self-help” is overwhelming. No matter the content, my mind is stuck on, “Me, me, me, me, me, me, etc.”  So, for me, part of trying to make therapy work would be first to get over the fact that I have no choice but to finally be a part of my own life. There are few things more terrifying than the realization that, up until now, I have been living vicariously through myself. Then, to make things worse, the doctor asked for a single time where I could recall being confident in my thoughts. There was one, once.

Catalytic Pandemic

Visceral claims of happiness and drab social demands

Drag the few down, down, down,

With the rats, to the rats

Living in the surreal, far from anything remotely comfortable.

Carrying the plague is preferable.

Ring around the rosey

To keep ourselves occupied

Because when it all comes crashing down

Not even the rats can find a reason to forgive(forget).

Reality

            Her name was finally called at 8:46 A.M.  The nurse walked through the door connecting the waiting room to the rest of the doctor’s office and in a calm voice called Chloe’s name.  As soon as her name was called the crying stopped, her face became stoic, and her eyes shot toward the nurse standing in the door.  I gently, and slowly, unwrapped the blanket from her shaking body and motioned her to get up from her chair.  As she stood up I wrapped my arm in hers and guided her toward the door.  As we got closer it seemed to me that her steps got shorter and slower as if she was trying to buy all the time she could.  Once we got to the door the nurse said, “Follow me.”  We started to make our way through the doorway, into the hallway filled with doors half-closed, when the nurse shot her arm outward separating me from Chloe.  Almost simultaneously the nurse said, “We only need the patient.”  At that moment I stopped dead in my tracks and watched the two women walk away from me for what seemed like hours.  They reached the end of the hallway and the nurse showed Chloe into her room, the 3^rd room on the right.  Still standing there motionless, all I could do was watch as she walked into the examining room slower than ever before.  The nurse then slowly shut the door as it creaked for a good five seconds before it actually shut.  The last thing I remember before the door was completely closed was the look of sheer terror on Chloe’s face.  This was it, and it was all my fault.

My parents were gone for the week and I had the house all to myself.  At the time it seemed like a good thing to do.  You would have done the same, I know you would have.  And just like me you wouldn’t have thought about the result, or the consequences.  It really did seem like the perfect time to do it, I loved Chloe so much, and it just seemed like the right thing to do.  But as we were sitting in the waiting room, her face shining from the tears sliding down her pale cheek, my arm behind her neck, and with a blanket wrapped around her body, it started to seem as though we had made a big mistake.

We talked about it for months before we ever really built up the courage to go through with it.  All of my friends told me just to suck it up and stop being such a loser, but I couldn’t decide whether I really wanted it or not.  And on top of me not being sure I didn’t want to rush her, I wanted her to want it.  As the weeks passed I was hassled about it more and more by my friends, they didn’t want me to think about her feelings, and they didn’t care if she got hurt.  They pushed me to the point of breaking, I couldn’t take their harassment anymore.

“I don’t know,” She said in a tone full of guilt.

“Well think fast,” I responded with overwhelming sternness.

“Stop rushing me!” Now sounding rattled and unsettled as her face fell into a dark sadness.

“But I want this now!” My voice was now rising with each and every word I spoke.

“I need more time! I’m not ready to jump into something so serious without thinking about it first.”  

Even with the tears streaming down her face nothing was going to change my mind.  I had my thoughts targeted on one thing, and one thing only.  It happened that same night, we fought, she cried, I yelled, and it happened.  It happened and I couldn’t regret it anymore than I do at this moment.

  By then I knew what I wanted, I wanted it, I wanted it so badly.  Yet at the same time I wanted to wait as long is it took for her to want it as bad as I did.  I wanted it to be special; I wanted it to mean something.  With all the pressure my friends were putting on me I couldn’t make up my mind.  But at this point nothing mattered anymore, what’s done is done.  Seventeen years old and I thought I knew what I really wanted out of this, seventeen and I thought I knew what I was doing, I couldn’t have been anymore wrong.

 I always used to crack jokes about things that could go wrong.  I never stopped to think about what would happen when something really did go wrong.  Would I be ready to take responsibility for my reckless actions?  Or would I be the one to run from my responsibilities and hide from reality.  Reality, the quality or state of being actual or true.  Would I be true to who I was and what I needed to do?  Would I be an actual man about what I had done?  Reality.

Empathy, Ideally

Captivated by submission, her release,

Noiseless gaps for air signal her response,
A calm before the quiver.

Her knees almost set in stone,
That no elbow can counter.
But muscles tire, submit.

Convulsions and grimaces,
Because it is no easy task
Allowing oneself to be taken by force.
Thank you for making me worthless in your eyes,

Because that is the point of all of this,
Confidence.

A humble confidence and the knowledge
That you will always have ultimate control,
And it kills you.

Here is your reminder:
Listen carefully,
"You will never be any less than this."

I have brought her to her lowest,
And in exchange, her worship,
And gratitude.

Incessant fear eats away at my innards like a parasite leeching nutrients. I am controlled by an entity. This fear is not an emotion. This fear is alive. It is a narcissistic fear. This fear feeds off of my heart and my muscle debilitating my mind & limbs to create "me". A poorly sewn together sack of flesh, hair, muscle, blood, and urine. Most seek to conquer the world and walk on-high to soak in their success. I, inversely, long for the opportunity to cleanse my skin of the dirt I have been laying in all of my life.

Desire. Lust. Passion. Crime. Fear. Love. Bullshit.

As long as I don't make it,
A promise to perish,
Bears the heroism of sacrifice.

Decisions, Decisions

  This is a story about a guy.  This is not a story of sorrow, or happiness, it's just a story.  In fact, some of the things about this man may not intrigue you, nor make you empathize in any way.  In all honesty, feel free at any time to skip over any part of this story, about a man, that you don't care for.  This man is your normal working class male.  He, yes he, lives in a Manhattan apartment above a fish market.  Over the course of his life he has had a handful of girlfriends and one night stands.  On several occasions he though he was in love, but it turned out that he had a heart condition that made the inside of his chest tickle, it was torture.  Although, heart arrhythmia, in this day and age, seems to last longer than love, so maybe he really does have something to hold on to after all.
  This man works for an insurance firm as an accountant.  He works on the tenth floor of a ninety story building and sits next to a 300 lb. Hawaiian woman who was born in Ohio, Shaker Heights, Ohio.  Matilda, the Hawaiian behemoth, has never spoken a word to this man.  All during his fifteen years whit the firm, he has never once attempted to strike a conversation with Matilda, and Matilda has never attempted conversation with this man.  Sometimes at work, when he has nothing better to do, this man creates absurd scenarios where speaking to Matilda is imminent.  Maybe he is choking and no one else is around, or maybe he wants to try some Hawaiian delicacy but isn't sure whether or not it;s worth it to fly all the way to Hawaii just to eat some colorful fish.  This man imagines conquering his fear of communication with his co-worker, the last known woolly mammoth.  Thinking about his obscure interactions with Matilda detracts him from his musings, numbers.
  In school math was always his strong suit.  The only classes he ever excelled in were the math courses.  Calculus, trigonometry, geometry, algebra, and physics were always what he looked forward to at the beginning of the day.  This man was destined for greatness, he was going to be the next Nobel prize winning quantum physicist for discovering that gravity is a myth.  Unfortunately, much to his dismay, gravity is not a myth, it is not just in our heads.  Gravity, in fact, is quite real, as is alcoholism.  Both of his parents were raging alcoholics who found solace in Tanqueray and tequila, and hell in the bottom of a bottle.  So, in order to save his parents, this man dropped out of high school and got a full-time job at a liquor store., the irony is being 18 is almost unbearable.  Why save alcohol driven parents you ask? Why not? They are his parents.  Wouldn't you do the same?
  After realizing that his calling did not involve the question, "Paper or plastic?", this guy enrolled in the nearby two-year community college.  There he majored in business and graduated 51st in his class of 600.  With his degree he applied for many jobs involving numbers.  This believer in Atheism was driven by God to get a job as an accountant.  However, he never knew he could be so lucky to work with Matilda, the Enormous.  Luck has funny ways of making you believe.
  So now, here we are, amidst normality.  He wakes up, takes a shower, brushes his teeth, reads the paper, and relieves himself.  Once the morning pleasantries are through he starts his two hour commute to work.  Once at work, he sits.  Occasionally, his boss, Mr. Morgan Millburn (alliteration makes everything seem more important), comes around and makes sure this guy is doing his work, so he writes some numbers down.  But what he is really doing is estimating the number of sweat beads that are rolling down Matilda's surprisingly fascinating necks.  To this day he has never been right, some community college he went to.  When work is over around 5 this guy walks to the nearby grocery store, picks up dinner, and air freshener.  The smell of fish makes him shiver.  Then he makes the two hour trip back home to cook and eat the dinner he so easily purchased.  Now, I say that he purchased it easily because this time Gretchen wasn't in the store.  Gretchen is a nightmare.  Once his meal is consumed this guy puts his feet up and turns on the television, with his mind.  With his mind?  Of course he didn't turn the T.V. on with mind.  There is no such thing as telepathy.  Unless you are a twin, then telepathy is just like gravity. So is gravity real?
  Around 11 p.m. he goes to sleep only to repeat the same cycle.  Over and over this guy wakes up and goes through his day without wondering what he could have been.  He doesn't wonder what he did wrong, nor what he did right, if anything.  He does not wake up and decide to change his cycle, and he certainly does not plan on trying to talk to Matilda, ever.  You see, this is just a normal story about a normal guy with a normal life. But wait, is this where we find out who this guy is?  Why is there a story about him? Why isn't he a woman? Why is the author asking all of these questions for us?  For the purposes of the story it was a man.  But this person is you.  You made the big decision that affected your future.  You are the one who has to conquer your own Matilda, the mammoth in your life.  You are the normal person with the normal life and the normal story.  No one makes the right decisions and no one makes the wrong decisions.  They are all merely choices.  Who is to say what is right and what is wrong?  Is becoming rich, greedy, and powerful the right decision? Is dropping out of high school to aid your alcoholic kin the right decision?  Stop feeling sorry for yourself because you made the "wrong" decision and stop feeling good for the "right".  Some are physicists and some are garbage men.  Who are you? And what are you going to do about it?