Second Birthday, 3:50am With All The Lights Still On

Sometimes, when I’m hanging on the brink of a dream, I see her standing in the sliding glass doorway, her hand propped awkwardly against its frame and her small eyes digging into my soft belly, disentangling the seams of my flesh and spilling my innards out across my toes. She stands like she did before; one foot on the carpet, one foot outside of the house, as though she’s preparing to break into a sprint. I would ask her not to leave me alone, naked and cold in a massive house, but all of my teeth have fallen out. I am pitiful to look upon, embarrassing to touch. She says “I’ll be back tonight,” and she leaves. Of course, we both know that she’s lying.

However, last night, I did not hang on the edge of a dream. Last night, I fell in.

The dawn of February’s second day broke and I found myself awaking in a pool of lukewarm sweat, my feet wet and clammy, the blankets stuck to my greasy, hairless chest. In spite of myself, I cried, curling deeply into the armchair upon which I slept. I tried to recollect what had brought me to feel this way. I dug into my subconscious and I remembered.

In this reverie, my friends taunted me, laughed at me while I pulled at my collar and scratched at my throat. They told me, “She’ll be here soon.” Had it really been a whole year already? I didn’t want to see her ever again, to lock eyes with the girl who dragged me from the rushing puddles of blood and blaring music atop the dining room table. I didn’t want to thank her for anything. My jaw locked and I tried to smile, to pretend that I was a good person who worked hard with a successful career and overflowing charisma.  I pulled a digital camera from the ether, attempting to steal pictures with the people around me, to look friendly and smart and kind and social and popular. I wondered, “Does she look at pictures of me? Does she find pictures of me online and stare at them and wonder what I’ve become, how I’m doing inside? Does she read my writing?” I still want to impress her, or maybe frighten her, maybe push the love out of her like a blackened stalk of guilt that wraps around me and crushes the air from my lungs. I want to feel her soft hands wrapping my father’s favorite dish towels around my wrists and I want to tell her “these are my father’s favorite dish towels,” and I want her to look at me with that stunning expression of utter fucking disgust and confusion. I can see it now; her eyelids drawn back so far that her dilating pupils bore right into my skull, and all I want to do is scream until my chest tears open. My blood seeping through the cloth, trickling out over her tiny, white fingers.

Today (the third day of February, 2015) marks the one-year anniversary of my attempting to kill myself. I thought that it wasn’t going to bother me, but here I am, venting to strangers and struggling not to be crushed under my own fear of failure, of over-sensitivity and shamefulness. The scars are mostly white, now. I think often of how strange it is to still be alive, how incredible it was to be alive in the first place. Like a tired echo, perhaps a ghost, reverberating endlessly through the events that would have comprised the rest of my life.

At midnight, I received an email from my oldest friend. Throughout a lengthy letter, she wrote many wonderful and insightful things. At the end, she wrote, “I’m stuck feeling like you died that day. Like my head won’t accept that you’re still alive, or at least that you’ll stay that way. It’s a terrifying sensation and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to commit myself to the notion that you’re sticking around.”

 

And then she wrote, “Happy Birthday.”

 

I am truly blessed, to fear such a beautiful world.

 

 

This is the final time that I will ever write of my suicidal experiences or urges. I apologize for bogging down many of my posts with such tiresome material, but it’s been an incredibly difficult year for me. Thank you, all who have read my entries, for bearing with me on my journey of self-pitying bullshit. You’re the best.

Sandpaper Sleeping Bags

My personal perception of the perfect joy would come in the form of a scent. It would be early Christmas morning (every morning) and a steaming mug of Mexican coffee would be planted in one of my two hairy fists. Cinnamon candles would sit aglow atop the fireplace mantle; upon the couch, my wife would rest with one majestic tit flopped out and the nine-month amalgam of my crudely-squeezed seed suckling from its tip. I would lean in and deeply inhale the wistful stench of musty fabric and breast milk, and I would say to myself, “Wonderful.” The audible utterance of this word would not faze my spouse, as nobody would question my feelings or motives in my world of blissful perfection.

These were my thoughts as I lay splayed in a heap of (at least) four adolescent bodies, our thoughts and feelings wafting silently into the air above us and pooling together in a cloud of private nostalgia, the notion of sleep closing in upon us. I smelled my left armpit and prayed that my bladder would hold overnight, briefly visualizing the image of my companions as they awoke in my piss, my many years of beds un-wetted suddenly dropping their streak of success. Moments later came the fear of sporting morning wood, accidentally spearing the young man beside me as we wakened in the winding sheets. Soon enough, the lines of my consciousness blurred and both worries became the same, piss-drenched boner hell leaking into my oncoming dreams.

“Where is the bathroom?” I broke the brief and peaceful silence.

“My roommate has the West Nile Virus,” the young host responded.

Crawling out through a nearby window, I stood on the asphalt shingles and scanned the cozy neighborhood. The sight of a neighboring house caught my eye, the home of a childhood friend. The emotions invoked cut deeply as I unzipped my pants; leaning off the side of the building, I produced my penis and unleashed a wave of urine across the homeowner’s recycling bins.

After returning inside, I shared my stories of Lebanese youth who have their limbs amputated and replaced with hooks. This is done so that the given consumer may effectively hang them (right-side-up or upside-down) from doorways, closet rods, shelf brackets, or whatever else they see fit. This is done for sexual pleasure. Stitching their mouths shut is an optional addition for the client, which I also believe is somehow related to sexual pleasure. They are sold over the darker corners of the internet.

I like to call these creatures “Hook Children,” because it communicates the point snappily whilst putting a minimal emphasis on the horrible reality of the situation.

That night, we fell asleep to the sound of crying. It was very soft crying and I almost got an erection.

Living in America is pretty okay, sometimes. Trying to kill myself was a weak-ass move.

My previous life as a superior guitar player. One day, this photograph will grow up to be a stock image. Just like it's father.

My previous life as a superior guitar player. One day, this photograph will grow up to be a stock image. Just like it’s father.

The Night I Slit My Wrists, We Ate Lasagna

I hate to start on a grim note, but context means the world with these things, so bear with me.

About one year ago, I attempted to kill myself.

Due to shock and blood loss, the initial event has become somewhat obscured in my mind, but some fragments of memory still remain. There were the bleached sheets, the jug of hot piss under my arm, the nurse who threw towelettes onto my chest. But that doesn’t matter so much.

It’s after the hospital discharged me that things begin to clear up.

I remember sitting on the bathroom rug beside the toilet, cross-legged with gauze wrapped tightly about my limp forearms. On the tiled floor before me, a mobile phone had been laid ceremoniously atop a pile of bloody clothing, low-resolution images of naked bodies flickering over the tiny screen. The lights were off and my penis hung flaccid in my hairy fist. Smudges of maroon speckled my fingers, my stomach, and my thighs. When I reached over to obtain some toilet paper, the bandaging snapped loose and unraveled into the urine-laden waters below (in an hour of darkness, flushing becomes suddenly irrelevant). I could hear my friends laughing about something in the other room. I started laughing because my lacerations smelled like human waste.

After ultimately abandoning the notion of masturbation, I returned to the living room, immediately met with the sullen gazes of my father and college compatriots. The younger men had seated themselves upon the surrounding couches and chairs, their speech severed by the return of my greasy presence. In the center of the room, my father stood as though perched upon a stage before them. Words caught in his throat as he attempted to curb his discerned tone, but they soon came sliding from his seemingly unmoving mouth. “We’ve got lasagna,” he said.

For the remainder of the night, the collective group watched samurai films and ate said slabs of questionable Italian meat. It was as though nothing serious had transpired in the prior hours, as though things had returned to normal and would remain so forever. Little did I know the bizarre cascade of shit that would soon envelope the apathetic lump of being that had become my life.

Yeah, I know.

Fuck it, I had to start somewhere.

(Next: Bags Of Flesh, Bottles Of Urine)

The following morning in the snow - February 4th, 2014

The following morning in the snow – February 4th, 2014