the devil and god are raging inside me

"And over the sea in a warm sunny place 
men and women sit watching TV 
they say, 'it's a shame anyone has to die
but it was either them or me' 
all safe and snug, tucked away in our mansions 
we smile feeling comfortably safe 
and over the sea there's a dark cold place 
out of sight, out of mind, out of reach, washed away..."
-Showbread, Escape from Planet Cancer

"The death, the rape, the tragedy

the world is an ugly place

what's capable inside of me

is going to rear its ugly face..."

-DIES, Aesthetics of Violence 

"And in my best behavior 
I am really just like him 
look beneath the floorboards
for the secrets I have hid..."
-Sufjan Stevens, John Wayne Gacy, Jr.

Several years ago at my former job, I sat down at my makeshift desk, which was really just a folding table propped up against a wall.  I was a temp, hired on to help the company catch up on their paperwork and they had no proper office to give me.  So they made due and assembled a desk from extra parts they had in storage.

As I sorted through the stack of files, I noticed the room grow dim on my right side.  I looked up and saw the florescent light on the ceiling had gone out.  I looked at the wall three feet in from my face and saw the light and the dark encompassing the same portion of polystyrene.  To me, it felt like the technological equivalent of the angel and devil on my shoulder.

When I was a child, as I came to understand myself and the world and people around me, I realized I wanted to help people.  I lived in a small town with small minds.  Religion reigned over everything.  God was not at the center of people's hearts but at the center of social normalcy.  And with that warped sense of religion came a warped sense of right and wrong.  They did not look to the Bible but to their biased pastor to see who should be shunned or celebrated and a mess was made of everyone.

Fortunately, I was able to avoid such brainwashing.  I did not grow up in the church and it spared me from being taught to discriminate (disclaimer: not all churches teach hate, just all the ones I attended).  I wasn't told to hate the gays or keep my distance from the blacks and shun the atheists and fornicators and underage drinkers.  In fact, all these "bad" people comprised the majority of my friends.  I liked them and I was a good judge of character.  How could they be bad?  And how were they any worse, open with their vices, than those who hid their sins on Sunday and resumed their wicked ways the rest of the week?

Although this "Christian" behavior was hypocritical, it didn't anger me at the time.  It only inspired me.

I realized I wanted to help people. I wanted people to love each other, to realize we are all the same underneath our skin and sexuality. I wanted people to know we all have the same desires and defects. I wanted to use my art to inspire and incite revolution. All I really wanted to do was open people's eyes.  I just didn't think I was good enough at the time. I wasn't quite ready yet.

I was a child, still developing my skills and message. What did I want to say? How was I going to change the world? I had lofty ambitions and I didn't want my life to go to waste. I grew up deformed in several ways and I felt so much pain inside because of my feelings and fears. I didn't want anyone else to go through that. I didn't want anyone to feel as alone as I did. Despite my personal demons, I thought people were basically good. The world was bad and we would get corrupted but we could be saved. We were worth saving.

two corpses, caressing

for p.

two bodies traverse the expanse of a bleak surface

turgid tendons, split shins, flayed toes

but still walking

propelled by a hunger surpassing the stomach

as lidless eyes dance among the faces

desperate to find a hollowed out counterpart

two bodies come together with clanging cartilage and vacant stares

empty eyes and lolling tongues

tissue skin sheared from the friction of fingers

gnashing teeth reminiscent of romance

hollow hearts and hands, touching and tearing

clamoring for a clavicle

but only grasping guts

devoid of pleasure but programmed by dim memories

of what this once felt like

two bodies moaning in the murk

assuaging and assaulting, seething and writhing

 falling away from each other in the blood wet world

trying to taste the truth of one body to another

but only tasting tin

drunk on the red wine of blood

full on necrotized flesh

satiated by nothing

one body gasps and screams

and shudders and stumbles
stops

then moves past the other

blood on the mouth, hole in the chest

seeking sanctuary in another skin

one body stands alone

and watches the other shuffle away

filled with a mud soaked memory of pain unidentified
flooding back from the faint fog

no marks on the skin, no bruise to the brain

only an internal hemorrhage

one person bludgeoned by the burden of belonging
recalls the ramifications of respiration
and dies again

 then concedes to the cold dark

and crumbles

cannibal magnetism

"Now that I am opened up, let me do the same to you
I can't digest your insides but I can still chew
you look so beautiful, you look so sweet to me
you look so edible, it's time for me to feed..."
-Knife to Meet You, Guts

"I sing for the damned
soulless hand in hand..."
-William Control, Damned

"I am not your friend
I am just a man who knows how it feels..."
-Brand New, Sowing Season (Yeah)

I just don't know how people see me.  I don't even know how I see myself.  I constantly go back and forth between thinking I'm good-looking to thinking I'm ugly.  It goes beyond the skin.  Sometimes I think I'm an ugly soul as well.  And no one understands because they don't see what I see.  They don't know what I know.  I can spot every imperfection on my face and body and mind and I do my best to cover it up with spot spell and sarcasm but I fear if people see me as I see myself, they won't like me.

People tell me I'm attractive.  Smart.  Funny.  And sure, I can come up with a good joke every now and then and I can clean up well when all the elements combine and I'm having a good hair/skin/body day, which is rare.  But most of the time I feel like a mess and it messes with my perceptions of myself.

Another fact that should be pointed out is most of the compliments come from the Internet.  I don't want to negate the positive comments but I wonder how these Internet entities can say such things when I get no interest from anyone in real life.  Where's the disconnect?  Am I different person online?  Am I some inadvertent catfish?  Am I "hooking" people by presenting myself in some falsified manner, some idealized version of a tortured soul, but displaying an uglier, more genuine version of my vexations once the connection gets closer than a tweet or blog post?  If anything, I would have guessed the online viewers would think I'm a freak show based on the things I write about.  I think I'm actually more subdued with my psychosis in real life.

But I guess that goes back to not knowing how I present myself to others, not knowing what they are picking up despite what I'm putting out.

I spoke with a co-worker several weeks ago and told her about some of my insecurities and she said, "Don't you see how everyone here gravitates toward you?"  It was a simple statement but it was also something I never thought much about.  I know I get along well with everyone I work with but I think it mostly has to do with the fact that I don't do drama.  I wouldn't say anything necessarily "gravitates" toward me, sans work girlfriend.  I just don't get caught up in gossip and backstabbing and when I see it coming my way, I do my best to circumvent such scenarios.  People know they can just have a good time with me and a good chat with me and I guess that's a good quality to possess but I just see myself as a reprieve from all the garbage that goes on at work.  I'm a safety spot, a place to stand still among all the whispers and dirty looks.

But so what if I am?  That's still a good thing.  It's still a desirable quality in a co-worker and, yes, even a friend.  Does it really matter why people like me?  It doesn't have to be because I'm the best looking guy in the room or the funniest or smartest.  Maybe dumb jokes and an open ear is enough.  I don't need to change someone's life to be good company.  I need to know and realize that.  I put too much pressure on myself to be this perfect human being, the guy who has it all and knows it all and can fix it all.  I don't have to be everything to everyone and I need to learn that it's okay not to be.

Several months ago, a high school classmate randomly texted me and we filled each other in on what we had been up to.  I told him I didn't do art anymore and he was shocked because he thought I was so good.  I explained that I was good for my tiny town but once I stepped out into the real world, I wasn't as good as I needed to be.  He said he was jealous because I was talented and smart and was friends with everyone.  I told him I thought I was a mess and he said he was shocked to hear it because he thought I was so put together.  And I was shocked to hear that.

Again, I just don't know how people see me.  I can't help but to think of all the things and people I missed out on because I thought I was too hideous to participate.  All the while, they sit around and think I have it all together and never know the depth of my pain.  Kind of tragic to think about.

So I'll try not to.

What is my attraction?  I'll concede that I can provide a decent presence.  With a little photo trickery, I can give a good picture.  I have time to think of a good pun between text messages.  Maybe I'm just attractive enough, just tortured enough to catch someone's eye.  Maybe I'm open enough to provide a voice to the vagrants.  I'm a beacon for the berated, a magnet to those who have been torn down by people, violated by misfortune, killed by the world.  I search the littered bodies and pick them up and cradle them one by one.  My words are tiny visits, palpable connections through a recognition of pain.  It's a safe spot where the blood can be cleaned away for a while, a respite from the ravages of body and circumstance.

I'm not an expert on pain but I think I've felt it for so long and have written about my own struggles to the point where I can convey it in such a way that is accessible and easy to understand.  Suffering is universal, after all.  It's not like I'm tapping into a niche market with my musings.  People can walk in and sit down and take in my madness and appreciate it.  Some stick around and stay for something else.

I think I'm so hard on myself because I have potential I'm not utilizing.  I could have been an amazing artist had I not stopped drawing.  I could have been an amazing writer had I not stopped writing.  I could have been well read had I not stopped reading.  I could have been a good boyfriend had I not stopped trying.  I could have been all these things but I just stopped for one reason or another and now I feel like a waste.  Sure, I could continue drawing and writing and reading but it feels more like starting over rather than picking up where I left off.  I don't have the energy for that.

Despite the pressure I've placed on myself to be perfect, I've made strides toward just accepting that I am not.  I don't know if it's wisdom or old age or just looking in the mirror and giving up but I've grown to realize this is all I am and I can only go so far with my looks and my talent and my personality.  I'll never be a model or find my books in the stores or be the life of the party but I can do my best within my limitations.  I can do my own thing.  I can keep creating.  I can keep striving to be the best person I can be and find acceptance with that because there's no logic in wanting to be something I'll never achieve.

Maybe I just need to try to see what others see.  Maybe I need to try shift my perspectives and trust that I am more than a waste.  The potential can still be tapped.  The progress can still be made.  I can still reach out.  Maybe one day I'll touch someone and it will resonate within them and they'll be better for it.  And maybe I will be too. 

After all, we're all feeding each other energy.  Sometimes it's bad energy but sometimes it's good energy and it's that nourishment that helps us get through the work day or the school lunch or the lonely nights at home.  We take in other people's pain through their art or their pleasure through their laughter.  We use it like medicine and pull it out when needed. 

I've always said I wanted to do that for other people.  I want to help.  I want to make a difference.  I know what it's like to be lonely and weird and different and I want to make someone's loneliness and weirdness and differences easier to digest.  Maybe I already have.  Maybe I've just been looking in the wrong direction.

heterotaxia

"You love, love, love
when you know I can't love
you love, love, love
when you know I can't love you
so I think it's best we both forget
before we dwell on it..."
-Of Monsters and Men, Love Love Love

If someone says they love you but they don't show it, does it really count?

It's like living in poverty with a million dollar bank account no one told you about.  You're rich but you're not rich.  You're blessed but you're not blessed.  You're loved but you're not loved.  

I don't want to say not being in a relationship has been detrimental to my self-worth but I don't think it's helped.  I just keep thinking how I'm 27 and have never connected with anyone on a deep, meaningful level.  And the one time I thought I did, well, it disintegrated and completely changed the way I saw people.  If that strong of a friendship could crumble, there was no hope for me and anyone else.

But stuff happens.  People form relationships and those relationships sometimes end due to any number of circumstances.  And sometimes you're left wallowing in your own cesspool of self-doubt because no one else comes along to help you correct your interpersonal errors.  Sometimes locations and circumstances make it hard to hone in on a partner.  Or even a friend.

There must be some benefit to being told your loved by someone outside your bloodline.  They can be with anyone but they choose to be with you.  They open their hearts to the possibility of pain and see through the marks on your skin and the mistakes in your mind.  Someone out there came to you and decided to stay because you were worth getting to know.  For me, people have come into my life but it's the staying part that seems so difficult.  Do I subconsciously drive people away?  Do they just get tired of my incessant self-deprecation?  Or do they get bored with my personality?

I often feel like a novelty act, a brand new Brannon still in the cellophane and once the protective casing has been cut away and I've been squeezed of jokes and encouragement and conversation, I am discarded.  The newness wears away as the imperfections poke through the shellacked surface that's eventually worn away through long exchanges and lots of laughs and eventual awkward pauses.  Then missed e-mails.  Unanswered text messages.  Phone calls not returned.  There's something about me that hooks people in but once they've penetrated whatever "thing" magnetizes them to me, they realize I am too flawed, too flat, too frail to stick with and they eventually pull out.

I'm not trying to make myself look like a victim.  I know you think I am.  But I'm not.  And I am not blaming anyone who has gone away.  I wouldn't want to put up with someone like myself either!  The novelty becomes a nuisance after a while.  And everyone says they aren't like everyone else.  They'll stick around.  They never do.  Some stay longer than others, but for me, it's just a waiting game.  Classmates never called when class was over.  Co-workers never kept in contact when they found better jobs.  Old roommates haven't written.  It hurts.  It hurts so bad.  But I'm not bitter about it and I don't blame them.  I just take it for what it is: another form of rejection, just a slow kind, a knife plunged inside by inches. 

duck, duck, noose

"I'm sorry for the way I am
I'm tired of waiting for the past
I'm lookin' for a better place
I'm longin' for findin' my way around..."
-Groove Armada, History

I feel like we are living in an age of one-sided relationships.  We as social network users put ourselves out into the world and allow anyone with an Internet connection to get to know us through our words or art or music or favorite movies, etc.  And we never know who's watching, who has taken an interest in us, who forms feelings for us based on mutual love for zombies or writing or puppies or Sweet Brown memes.  We build our personalities through our blogs and Tumblrs and other sites and that creates the potential for trouble.  

The problem with following someone through their social networking sites before you get to actually know them is you've already taken the time to shape who you think they are in your head, forming a one-sided sense of who they are through their words.  And you see these commonalities and connections and when you finally talk to that person, you expect the two of you to click and hit it off right away.  Sometimes it actually happens.  Sometimes it doesn't.  And in the times it doesn't, you feel disappointed.  I've been let down.  I wonder how it didn't work out.  We have so much in common.  We've walked the same paths.  Maybe I'm ugly.  Maybe I try to hard.  Maybe the other person is just looking for a certain type of person to befriend.  Maybe the other person just doesn't have room for one more friend.

I think we've all been through this.  We all know how it feels to follow someone who doesn't know we exist or couldn't care less if they did.  It's definitely disheartening and as painful as it can feel, we shouldn't take it personally. 

I try to remember it's not my fault and it's not the other person's fault.  Sometimes two people just don't connect.  Sometimes you're the one with no interest and sometimes the other person has no interest in you.  I've been on both sides of the situation and both are difficult but at least I can understand when someone does not want to talk to me and I can leave it alone and deal with my issues without pulling the other person into my muddled mind.

Those polar opposite examples sum up my relationships with everyone throughout my life.  It's almost always been one-sided.  Any mutual interests have been superficial friendships or genuine good relationships I eventually wrecked due to my insecurity and selfishness.  But despite these many mishaps, I feel like I've tried to continue to branch out, connect, and make new relationships.  I have not been very successful.

The only problem is when I meet someone new, especially someone I admire or respect as an artist, I over think and over analyze my words and actions.  I want to be cool and smart and easy to talk to.  I want to be funny.  I want to be liked.  And sometimes I think the stress of trying not to show my craziness becomes more trouble than the relationship is worth.  I just don't know how to interact with people in a natural, effortless manner.  I feel like every move and word is calculated and it's exhausting.

The stress makes me want to withdraw.  I don't feel cut out to be a sociable creature.  Nice effort, Bran, but no success.  It messes me up because I don't want to be isolated.  I want to be able to reach out and have someone there.  But am I deserving of it?  Can I handle it?  Have I been mishandling all my relationships and that's why I don't feel fulfilled by any of them?  Or am I just over thinking again?

There is an ebb and flow to every relationship.  I'm not going to be great all the time but I'm just so terrified of losing people that I feel like one awkward moment or social slip would mean the demise of the relationship.  And as lonely as I might feel, the frustration of dealing with forming a fellowship doesn't feel worth the hassle anymore.  Maybe I'm alone for a reason.  Maybe I'm mean to be a loner.  I can talk with people and share and give and take but at the end of the day, all I have is myself, which would be fine if I liked myself, but you've got to like yourself before anyone can like you.  Or some horse crap like that.  I always end up feeling empty.

I walk around this circle of people and inspect and analyze and hone in on those I feel have potential and when I choose, the race is on and they chase me down and knock me over the head with my own insecurities.  But they aren't really doing anything.  I think I'm in control, that I'm choosing carefully, that I don't just let anyone in.  I think I'm being particular in picking these people out but I'm really just picking myself apart.

with guitar strings to guide us

I want to make out to some good music.

I just want to make out.

I really just want to make it through knowing I have no one to make out with.

cotard's syndrome

I was talking to my supervisor at work the other day and out of nowhere, she said, "Brannon, from some of our conversations we've had, it seems to me like you're dying a very slow death."

"Been there, done that," I said.  "Now I'm just rotting."

do not allow back

This is embarrassing to write about but we're all family, right?  I've talked about all my other mishaps, be they spiritual, physical, and social.  Might as well talk about my professional snafus, too.

When I was seventeen, I quit my job as a florist assistant after dealing with dead people, nearly wrecking the company van (on several occasions), and inhaling second hand smoke from my soot-stained boss.  I quickly moved on to be a cashier at a pharmacy.  Things went swimmingly for six months until I sold cigarettes to an underage girl.  The girl worked with the Alabama Alcoholic Beverage Control Board and several agents quickly swooped in and told my supervisor.  I was fired on the spot.

Now, let me explain.

I was fat, pimply, and insecure.  I didn't have a voice.  I didn't like to "confront" people.  The girl did look too young but I was too scared to say anything.  I felt a rush of nervousness hit me, a bad feeling, but I ignored it because I didn't want to come off as rude or suspicious of her.  Yeah, it was my job to be suspicious and check her age but I didn't think of it in those terms.  I just thought of it as one person dealing with another.

And it was a huge mistake.  All these years later, it still embarrasses me.  No one likes to talk about how they were fired but I was fired for doing something illegal.  I look back on it now and I feel dumb.  All I had to do was ask for an ID but I couldn't even muster the courage to do that.  And because I couldn't ask a simple question, I was fired and it made my life spin in a different direction.

Cut to a few weeks ago.  A former coworker from my current job called me up and told me he had gotten a position as an assistant supervisor at that same pharmacy.  He said there was another assistant manager position open in another city and he said I should try for it.  I immediately thought of my termination and wondered if I could be hired there again.  I didn't want to express that to him, though, because it was embarrassing.  So, I shrugged off his offer and made lame excuses and said I wasn't sure if it was right for me.

The job did sound pretty good, though.  More money.  More hours.  I just had to face that shame again.  I finally expressed my concern to him and he said he'd speak to his store manager to see if I could be hired again.

Two days later, he sent me a text message saying I was on the "do not allow back" list.  I wasn't necessarily shocked but just knowing it was official was disappointing.  There was the smallest part of me that held out hope.  But that hope was squashed, just like it always is.  Just knowing I'm on a naughty list somewhere makes me feel dirty.  Filled with more shame.

It's bad enough that the dumb, huge mistake I made ten years ago still embarrasses me, it's also still holding me back from better opportunities.  I didn't even ask for the opportunity.  In fact, I avoided it  'cause I didn't think it would work out.  Naturally, it didn't.  But it was like the universe had to bring my bad decisions back around to me, another reminder of mistakes and failures, of setbacks and shame.

A week or so later, I walked into that pharmacy to pick up a couple of things.  I had just come from work and I had on a dress shirt and tie.  A man with an unkempt beard and a limp came up to me and asked, "Do you work here?"

"No, I don't," I replied.  "I'm sorry."

"Oh, no, it's okay," he said as he hobbled away.  "Sorry for asking."

I wasn't talking to you, mister.

apprehensive

"They’re fooling themselves. They think all this bullshit about hard work and achieving means something but it doesn’t. Universe is completely random. Particles colliding at random. Blind chance. So you didn’t make it. No big deal. It’s not your fault. Shit’s random."
-Party Down

I'm not an atheist, just apprehensive.

I've mentioned before that I've stopped praying or relying on God in any kind of way.  I used to feel guilty about it but now I don't feel bad at all.  Nothing in my life has changed.  I'm no better or worse for it, which makes me wonder if God was ever in my life at all, or if God is anything at all.

I don't know.  I'm not sure I care.  I do hate that I've slid so far down but what can I do?  I've tried it all with the prayer and meditation and Bible reading and patience.  Nothing helped.  Nothing ever does.

Faith is a lot like a slot machine.  You pray and pull the lever and you hope for good results but you never know if you'll hit it big or end up empty.  It's really all random chance. You can never be sure if the constant prayer ever pays off or if things in your life just finally line up.  You want something long enough and if you work for it, you might just get it.  It doesn't mean God had anything to do with it.  Just to be fair, it also doesn't mean he didn't.  You just can't know so why get caught up in it?

It pisses me off when people think I have given up on my faith in God just because I am not where I want to be in life.  Do people think that's how I think it works?  I'm not new to this game.  I'm not asking for a perfect life.  It's not about circumstances but sensations.  I have never felt that comforting presence.  I have never had a good feeling when it comes to God.  I've only ever felt separation, emptiness, nothingness.  I am not reassured when I pray.  When I scream for God to give me a sign, I get nothing.  I am not comforted and therefore I don't think there's anything out there to comfort me.  How hard is it just to say hello?  If God cares/exists, why has he not shown me?

And where's the stable relationship with anyone in my life, cosmic or concrete, with flesh or faith?  My parents are distant, my coworkers are crass and former friends are too busy.  I can congregate and communicate but I'm no one's number one.  

I wish I could believe again.  I wish I could be the good little Christian boy in my Christian bubble like so many people around here.  They are small-minded and naive and annoying.  And sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just be that way, too.  What if God gave a shit?  What if he finally had mercy on my menial life?

It's not like he's bullying me or anything.  It just feels like it.  But that's conceited on my part because, really, who am I?  He has a whole big world to ignore so why would he single me out to slice and dice?  No, he's saving that dirty work for the devil.

every night is a knife

I don't want to be here anymore.

I don't want to be         anymore.

every day is a dagger

I ruined the only good relationship I ever had.

Memories of holding hands and hotel rooms keep me warm but the cold always settles in again.  The irrevocable damage sweeps over everything and I just can't believe it happened, that things turned so bad so fast.  And it's the reason I pushed people away and messed myself up for all these years.  The worst part was I did it all for no good reason.  It's not like I ever really belonged to you.  And I'm not sure I ever wanted you in the first place.  But you were the closest I ever had to something special and so I held on to it so tight, an iron grip on a frail hope.

I pinned myself to the ground and watched you fly away and flourish.  I was left behind, fingernails splintered on the concrete floor.  The pain deepens every day, spread out and penetrated into every part of me.  It will never go away, grafted on to me the day I gave up on you and everyone, and everything, else.  I call out, "I'm here, too.  You forgot about me."  But my voice grows weaker.  Their ears grow more deaf.  The space grows wider.

You don't get to be okay.  I don't want to be happy for you because you ripped me apart.  You didn't even mean to but damn it, you did.  And I just want you to know the pain you caused me.  I just want you to dip your toes into the fire you lit inside my soul.  Just have a taste and then you can move on with your life.  And I want you to carry a bit of that burden with you when you do.

pavlolv's dawg

I feel like I'm constantly putting my hand in a meat grinder labeled hope.

double d's

Several weeks (months?) ago, I spoke with a fellow blogger about some of the things going on in my life and in my head.  After giving him a couple of my symptoms, he mentioned a lot of them correlated to the dreaded DIABEETUS.  He has it and knows the adverse affects of the disease. 

I never thought even thought about having it but it's always a possibility.

You know, I walk around and do my thing and feel these crazy thoughts and wonder about the source of my psychosis.  For the longest time, I thought I was depressed.  But I never felt comfortable with that label because it feels like an "easy" diagnosis.  Someone has a bad day and they have depression.  I have bad days every day.  I don't feel good about anything.  I float through life, my nerves pinched to numbness.  But I can also get out of bed each day and don't feel those aches and pains associated with depression.  

Diabetes can make you feel bad, too.

So, what's the deal?  Is it diabetes or depression that makes me feel like such a basket case?

Or what if I really do just play the victim?  Or what if things are a bit heavier?  What if theres' a third "D" swimming around my gut?  What if I really do have a demon inside?  Holy crap.  I just want to know what's wrong with me.

How does anyone know what's wrong with them?  Does anyone ever get to the heart of the hurt?  Or do we flail around and fudge our way through our frustrations?  Depression is an easy answer.  Diabetes can be a catchy conclusion.  Even possession, while not as practical, is possible.

Writing has been one of the most effective ways of trying to figure myself out, to organize my thoughts and fears and lay them out in an organized manner so I can identify and try to solve my problems.  So far, all I've managed to do is express how I feel without getting to the heart of why I feel the way I do.  I've got to figure out the cause before I get to the cure.  Is it a creature or is it chemical?

How do we ever know?  How do we find out?  And how do we go about solving the strain of sugar and spirits? 

avoidance

I admit I've never been the best at social relations but throughout the years, I think I've come a long way from being painfully shy in front of everyone to being able to crack jokes with strangers on occasion.  As much as I've progressed, I realize I still have roadblocks, like when people converse with me on subjects I don't give a crap about.

How do you squirm your way out of inane topics?  Do you pretend there's an emergency on the other end of your "vibrating" phone call?

"This debt ceiling discussion is fascinating but my son got his penis stuck in the swimming pool filter.  Again.  The doctor said he could circumcise himself the next time this happens!"

Do you feign a bathroom emergency and politely excuse yourself from the topic at hand? 

"My apologies.  I'd love to hear about the grooming habits of your ferret but I've got to go to the john and pinch off a loaf."

Or, as I've been forced to do, do you stand there and take your punishment?

People are always talking to me about their kids or home improvement projects and frankly, I don't give a crap about either.  It comes from place of a lack of commonalities between me and the people I interact with on a daily basis.  I'm weird and I'm into weird stuff.  I don't have kids.  I don't like kids.  And I don't like HGTV so the chitchat about your electrical sockets gets lost on me.

And if the topics are boring, their unbearable, like when people want to tell me about dead animals.

Being an animal lover, I don't want to hear horrific encounters people have had with furry creatures, like how their pet goats were violently ripped apart by a pack of wild coyotes or how their fluffy new kitten crawled into their dad's engine and the mess it made when he started it up that morning or how they hit a deer with their car and it's leg got caught in the carburetor and it was dragged three miles until the tendon finally snapped, leaving the poor thing wailing and writhing in the road.  And then they finish off with h a sensitive, "At least it didn't ruin my paint job."

Every time someone starts up with a dead pet or abused animal, the ASPCA commercial starts rolling in my head and the Sarah Mclachlan soundtrack drowns out stories of slaughtered shetland ponies or drowned puppy dogs.

As I've said before, my job isn't physically hard.  But the mental exertion of pretending to be engaged in conversation with customers wears down on me.  To protect my sanity, I usually tune them out and employ the usual head nods and verbal cues to continue their stories.  All the while, I'm wondering when they will stop, or if they ever will.  Is this my hell?  Replacing the inferno with insufferable stories of potted plants and parenthood?  I just don't have the energy.

It's sad to admit I often evade these types of people.  If I see them coming (or in some cases, hear them, because their incessant laughing is so booming), I hide behind fixtures or walk in the opposite direction.  I've even ducked into a fitting room like I'm dodging a grenade and waited there, holding my breath until I hear them pass.

Now imagine having to do this dance daily.  And imagine getting caught like a fly in a spiderweb of stupid stories, tightly bound by social niceties, squirming on the inside but knowing it's futile.  You stand there and give up, laugh out loud and let the poison infect and numb your skull.  

victor/victim (i love to complain)

The co-worker who played the race card all the time also called me out the other day.  I said something about how he and the other co-worker who moonlights as a preacher had all the luck with customers.  They always ran into receptive individuals who treated them warmly while I got stuck with the disgruntled, disheveled, and diarrhea prone.

He smiled and said, "Come on, man.  You play the victim."

His words struck me like a slap to the face because that's what my counselor said to me when I was in college.  At the time, I thought my counselor was full of crap and didn't understand what I was going through.  And here was this guy, having only known me for a couple of weeks, giving me the same diagnosis.  He already had me pegged.  Am I that transparent? 

Maybe I am.  Maybe I do play the victim and it's something I've subconsciously done and I never realized it and yet it's plain to everyone else.

It's painful to see myself like that but it's also necessary if I want to correct it.  In some ways, I feel I've made peace with my pain.  We are all hurting.  We didn't choose to be born but yet we were thrust into this cruel world.  We are all victims but some are just more vocal about it.  No one's pain is more important or unjustified than anyone else's but we continually negate other people's negative feelings.  Sure, I agree some people do have it worse than others.  I've said multiple times that I don't even have it that bad.  But does that mean I should strap on a smile and act like everything is fine?

I think there's a fine line between being grateful and being gross about it.  At the end of the day, if we and our families are safe and can feed and clothe and house ourselves, we really have nothing to complain about.  And yet, we all complain.  And then we get annoyed when other people complain.  How many of us really examine our situations and realize we have it better than probably 90% of the planet and then and immediately put an end to our own rants?  I'd venture to guess not many, including those who complain about others who complain.  It's all relative, really.

I complain to vent.  Sometimes, it's how I get through the day.  It doesn't mean I'm not grateful for what I have.  It doesn't mean I think I have the worst life ever.  But sometimes I get pissed off about things and I need to express that.  I express myself.  I complain.  I piss and moan.  It's what I do.  It's what feels good.  And I'm darn good at it.  But it's not all I'm about.  If I had something good to express, I'd express that, too.  It just so happens I haven't had much good to express lately.

And just because someone seems like they have it all together, don't make the mistake of thinking they actually do.  My outside world might seem fine, but on the inside, it's on fire.  It's not so much a physical suffering but an emotional/spiritual one that not a lot of people outside of my blog have access to.  It's that silent and unseen slicing that gets a lot of people.  It's the hurt hidden in plain view.  It's the fear of the consequences of complaining.  We are taught to get up and get over it.  Quit yer cryin'!  Stop yer complainin'!  There's starving children in Africa, for God's sake!  We should be grateful we can breathe, they say, even if we're inhaling hell.

Ultimately, I think a lot of us can be less whiny, including me.  And a lot of us can be more compassionate as well.

I've tried to be more accepting of the nature of my being.  Some people are just more unfortunate than others but with bad luck.  Some are unfortunate but the odds are in their favor.  Some people are naturally happy and some are born bleeding.  Yep, I'm the hemophiliac.  I've made a conscious effort to stop blaming God for my troubles.  It's conceited to think he'd single me out and send a mack truck full of crap barreling into me.  At best, he loves me.  At worst, he doesn't care.  Either way, it's not helping my condition.  What is love without action?  If I don't know about it, does it really count?  Not in my opinion.

I'm just trying to learn to take the blows and keep it moving.  And I complain to get some of the pain off my chest.  It helps and I don't care.  I don't have to justify  myself to anyone 'cause no one knows the extent of my imbalanced brain.  But I try to justify myself anyway.  And I vent to people because I want them to know I'm not a victim and bad stuff really does happen to me.  I point out specific examples, sometimes as they happen, to show them I'm not making it up or playing a role.

But am I trying to convince them or myself?  

new year's evisceration

For the first time, I actually followed through with a resolution.  I wanted to lose weight.  I did.  I didn't lose as much as I wanted but that's no matter because I still did it and consistently worked on it all year.  I have not conquered my weight and I suspect I never will but I do feel I have a better grasp on it than I used to so I consider that a victory.

But I'm not done.  I still want to lose more.

And I want to do more.

For 2013, I want to become more financially responsible.  I'm old now and I literally cannot afford to be so careless with my spending.

I want to finish my book (and get published if possible).  I'm so close already.  I've finished writing it and I've done a first edit.  I need to finish my second edit, write up all the changes, get some "test" readers, take their opinions into consideration, then publish that baby so I can start seeing the ones of tens of dollars roll in.

I'd like to re-discover my passion for drawing.

I want to find God again.  This one is a bit ambitious since a lot of people spend their whole lives trying to find God.  Not sure I can do that in a span of one year.  Maybe I just mean I want to find peace with how I feel about God.  Confession time: I don't think I'm a Christian anymore.  It's not that I don't want to be but I don't think it's fair to the true Jesus followers to call myself one because I would set a bad example to others.  But hopefully I can either come around (still waiting for God to come around) or I will just remain agnostic or maybe I'll go in a completely different direction and become a Buddhist.

I want to accept myself for who I am and who I will never be.

I tried the whole "alive" thing earlier this year and having a pulse hurt worse than withering.  I've retired the resurrection and have returned to rotting.  Sorry to disappoint.  I've made peace with it, though.  I don't have time to worry about a beating heart when I've got bills to pay.  I'll get all that sorted out later when I can concentrate on it.  For now, I'll just continue to coast as a corpse.

Cheers to the new year.

holding severed hands

"You wish that you won't wake up but you can't even get to sleep
six feet under for these six months, just dying to be buried..."
-Sacha Sacket, Sweet Suicide

"I'm waiting for blood to flow to my fingers
I'll be all right when my hands get warm..."
-Dashboard Confessional, The Best Deceptions

I've come across peculiar customers throughout my years in retail.  One gentleman used to come in through the rear entrance of the store and always went through my area to get to the jewelry department.  He was a tall man in his late 40s with a big, round belly.  He always wore polo shirts, shorts, and white crew socks that stuck out from tennis shoes, no matter the weather.  His shaggy hair was brown and unkempt, swept across his brown eyes and over his ears.  He had bristly hair that hung down from the nostrils of his Roman nose. 

He liked to pass the time talking to the jewelry associates, sometimes spending a whole hour looking at jewelry and chatting.  Sometimes he branched away from jewelry and talked to other associates in other departments.  Eventually, he made his way to my department to talk to me.  He spoke with a deep, booming voice and also with a lisp.  As he talked, his tongue darted between his small, brown teeth, muffling his "s" sounds.  Right away, I could tell he had a mental handicap.  He often spoke in circles, repeating himself as he stood with his hand propped on his jutted hip.  He talked about the weather a lot, hoping for rain or wind to break the southern heat.

I noticed he wore women's jewelry.  His hands waved in the air as he talked and I noticed several rings on his fingers.  The bands were thin gold that supported small diamonds.  He also wore a delicately thin necklace with a heart pendent nestled in the hair that crawled up over his open shirt collar.

I inquired about his taste in jewelry to one of my coworkers one day and she said the rings and necklace belonged to his dead mother.  He wore them to feel closer to her.  I didn't know if I thought that was touching or creepy.  Maybe a bit of both.

He also bought a lot of women's panties and his name was Roger.

But out of all his eccentricities, his incessant talking was the most problematic.  He talked about things I was not interested in, therefore it was painful to stand through one of his rants or daydreams.  He also often showed up when I was busiest and, not wanting to be rude, I stopped what I was doing to listen to him talk about hoping to win the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes and what he would do with his windfall.  I mostly nodded and even chuckled when appropriate.  Sometimes I folded a stack of shirts and then picked them up and slowly walked away from him to give him the hint that I needed to get back to work but he never picked up on any of my cues.

He made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn't articulate.  He wasn't rude or intimidating.  He was just awkward and I'm awkward as well so we didn't make a great pair.  I found myself hoping a customer would need help or the phone would ring so I could shimmy my way out of his conversational grip.  It came to a point that when I saw him stomping my way, I sprinted in the opposite direction so as to avoid his laser gaze.

I've known him for years.  He was one of many customers that I'd see and feel that sense of familiarity coupled with a bit of unease, but nothing I couldn't handle.  In his own way, he was a part of my routine, a consistent face, an expected presence during my time at work. 

While I was on vacation, he shot and killed himself.

One of the scariest moments of my life was when I had to talk a good friend out of committing suicide.  We were only children back then, in the middle of our teens and awkward with acne and agony.  I wasn't writing down my life back then so the events are foggy at best but I remember I caught wind that she was thinking about taking her life and so I called her on the phone at two in the morning and tried to calm her down.  She sobbed and I stuttered to find the words to talk her out of it.  I threatened to drive to her house in my threadbare pajamas if I had to just to get her to not hurt herself.

I remember the panic in my stomach and this heavy feeling of hopelessness that wrapped around me like a lead blanket.  I suppose she was feeling the same hopelessness, just filtered differently than mine.  I asked her to consider how killing herself would make her parents feel, would make me feel.  Through sloppy sobs, she told me she didn't care how it would make us feel.

I was hurt and offended but I pushed through my feelings to try to save her life.  Eventually, through an hour of calm coercion, she settled down and decided not to do it.

I didn't realize until several years later what it meant to not care about the ramifications of suicide.  I went through life with darkening eyes.  I felt the pain intensify every day, the hurt bubble up and bloom out over everything until it was all I could see.  All the laughter in my life didn't make a difference and was rendered ineffective, like putting sugar on a suture.  I realized I wanted out.  I realized how selfish it might be.  I realized I didn't care.  I saw how my friend's unconcern for my feelings was not personal.  I didn't want to hurt anyone but I was hurting more than anyone realized, more than I could express.  I was living in a skin that sizzled and the only way to stop it was to slide out of it.  Sometimes, pain is stronger than love or fear and you find yourself willing to do anything to end it, no matter who it might hurt.  It's not something you want to do but something you feel you have to do.

I think my friend didn't kill herself because she wasn't really ready.  I don't think I had much to do with it.  I was an ear and an assuring voice.  She just made a rash decision, a moment goaded by a bad day or dialogue.  I think if she was really ready, I wouldn't have been able to change her mind.  We always hope we have some kind of influence, that our love or language will steer the outcome toward life.  But I don't think that's so.  When someone is ready to go, there's no stopping them.  It may seem like a personal blow to you but it's not.  You can be there and try to create a connection.  You can reach out and hold their hand to comfort them but then you realize their hand is severed from their body and you're only holding onto a few fingers and a fledgling hope that somehow you'd be enough to make a difference.

You're not.

I kept thinking about Roger.  I didn't feel bad about him.  I wasn't upset over his death.  I wasn't going to miss him but he stayed on my mind and I wasn't sure why.  I guess I knew him enough to think it was a shame he passed away but it was also mixed with a perverted kind of reverence.  Some people think suicide is taking the coward's way out but I think it's kind of brave to belly flop into the unknown like that.  He was the first person I actually knew who had committed suicide.  This guy I saw around my store for years wasn't going to walk in with his tennis shoes and shiny gold rings on his thick knuckles anymore.  Why did he do it?  How had he summoned the sadness or courage to pull it off?  What was going through his mind?  Did he have anyone to talk to?  Did his impairment have anything to do with his death?

The possibility of ending my life is always there, always peeking its head out from under the shame and rage that fills my body.  It calls to me, reminds me it's there, waiting.  It all presses down on me until I feel crushed under the weight of every person and voice and insecurity and I have to put my hands up and wonder if I really want to die at all.  I say I do, under my breath when things go bad.  I say it almost every day.  I joke about it too much to be healthy.  But do I really mean it or am I exhaling empty threats?  

I keep imaging scenarios in which I'm faced with true death. What if a disgruntled customer comes in and points a gun at my face? Am I going to press my head against the barrel and tell him to do me a favor or am I going to piss myself and scream for mercy? If a truck comes barreling toward me, am I going to whip out of the way or am I going to stand still with a welcoming smile?  If I'm ever diagnosed with cancer, am I going to fight it or fall frail until I break apart?  Am I all talk and no toxins?   

I guess I'll never really know unless I'm confronted with the true possibility of biting it.  There's a wholly undiscovered world on the other side of a gun.  But I'm scared that world is as empty and cold as the one I'd be leaving and that's why I haven't pulled the trigger yet.  It's the unknown we fear, the possibility there really is a hell or there is nothing at all waiting for us.  We wake in emptiness and live in it and die in it and then we are extinguished.  We have to face the possibility that we are not important and our lives don't mean anything and neither do our souls.  We're all born and suffer and die and then grafted onto the Great Void and it's terrifying to think that there is no point to anything because pointlessness leads to chaos and chaos leads to death and no one wants to die. 

I have no roots, only regrets.  I have no wings, only chains.  I have nothing.  I think about my friend's nothing.  I think about Roger's nothing.  I think of the nothing hidden away inside everyone.  One day, I will be nothing.

I'm just exhausted.  It's that simple.  I'm tired and I want out.  I'm tired of living inside my head instead of living in the world. I'm tired of constantly feeling like there's nothing more to life than what I've already experienced.  I know there's more to life than what I've lived and that's almost worse because I know there's love and happiness out there and the fact that it dangles out of reach is what corrodes my insides.   My life is shallow and trivial and I've become petulant and pathetic.  I see the world through morose-colored glasses glued to my face.  The tentacles come out and lap at my face and neck and chest and sink thoughts of death and dying into me.  They slide the slime of self-hatred across my body, slicing at me until the light pours out.

I'm not ready yet.  But I'm making plans.  I've said to myself that I'll give it a few more years.  I'll give things a chance to turn around.  I'll try to turn things around myself.  I'll be proactive in producing better days.  But if I don't see a change, I'll have to get up and get out because I can't go on like this much longer.  And the consequences won't matter.  The words won't make a difference because I've come across worlds my whole life.  Words feel good on the surface but it's the actions, the feelings, the love behind them that make them effective.  And that's what's been missing all this time.  And it's kind of too late to correct that because that love would have kept me from ever getting to this point.  I'm beyond it now.  I'm coasting. 

One day, I will sever my hands so no one will be able to reach me or come running in their threadbare pajamas.  I'll be beyond help by that point.  In a lot of ways, I already am.

It'll take a miracle to move me.

vestiges of humanity

"I am so scared of what will kill me in the end
for I am not prepared
I hope I will get the chance to be someone
to be human..."
-Ellie Goulding, Human

"I'm not attached to your world
nothing heals and nothing grows..."
-Marilyn Manson, Great Big White World

What does it mean to be human?  Is it our physical makeup, the fact that we get up and walk around on two legs?  Or is it something more abstract and intrinsic?  Is it logic and intricate thought?  Morals and judgments?  Is it love?  Faith?  Boredom?  Is it the invisible wires and nooses or the concrete machinery and hands that hold us to humanity?

Is it textbook or contextual?

I go through periods of wanting desperately to make a connection with someone, to feel grounded to the earth by love and affection and mutual respect and admiration.  There are also periods when I want to be completely isolated and left alone to rot away inside myself.

The unfortunate fact is I usually get my wish when I don't want it.  When I'm by myself, I want company.  When I'm in the presence of people, I want to dash away.

Loneliness once made me its bitch but one day I turned around and drop kicked it into the ether.  I've been better ever since.  That's not to say I still don't feel pangs of loneliness.  It's an unrelenting feeling always scratching at the skin on my chest, begging to get in and make itself home.  But I keep it away with distractions.  I go through an assembly line of lethargy consisting of waking up, eating, Internet, television, eating, eating, pooping, eating, more television, eating, going to sleep, and repeating it all the next day, all in an effort not to face myself or what my life has become.

I'm going to die and it's just not going to matter.  I don't think I've greatly affected anyone and it makes me a little sad to know I quietly slipped into life and will exit the same way.

To some degree, all of our lives are meaningless, at least when you look at the big picture.  The husband who dies doesn't matter to you unless you're his wife.  The child who dies is quickly forgotten unless you're her parent.  We all come and go and the world does not stop to scream and that's okay.

We all can't be in the history books but because I am not influential to anyone in my personal life, my ambition spread to the world.  What if I could impact the masses?  I always hoped I could leave some lasting impression through my art.  But I'm not an artist anymore.  I hoped I could leave a legacy with my writing.  But I'm not a writer anymore.  Okay, so what am I?  What can I do well?  What can I accomplish?  What kind of mark can I leave on the world?  Wait, maybe I need to lower my standards.  What kind of mark can I leave on people?  Still not so sure.

I'm not the boyfriend who taught the girl how to love.  I'm not the child who taught the parents how to think.  I'm not the artist who taught the world how to see.  No one carries me in their iPod or Kindle or in their hearts or minds.

"He's dead.  That's a shame.  Who's on Letterman tonight?"

I've kept my capillaries to myself and consequently, I've converted into a claustrophobic outcast.  I don't know what it means to love another person.  I can relate to people and their situations but beyond that I just don't get it.  What makes you like someone as a friend, as a lover, as a spouse?  I can't comprehend dizziness over another individual, kisses that weaken muscles, love that causes tears.  Is that what being human is all about?  Is it connecting, sacrificing, giving oneself to someone else?  Or is being human a process, a journey of faith and interaction and giving?

I've given humanity a shot.  I've tried to be kind and considerate.  I've sacrificed my own comfort and happiness many times to improve the quality of other people's lives.  I've been respectful.  I've been a team player.  I've hurt with a smile, cried with a laugh, died with a joke.  I've hugged and held hands and kissed and never felt anything but a sweeping sickness in me telling me it wasn't right.  I wasn't meant for it.  Sometimes I keep trying.  But mostly I'm over it.

I cut people out of my life easily these days.  I used to hang on in hopes something would spark but I see now it's mostly useless.  The only genuine relationship I had was something I screwed up, which tells me I am just not capable of maintaining a connection.  If they don't leave me by their own volition, I will force them to with my frustrating nature.

I'm consistently disappointed with people because they do not carry out the roles I have set for them.  It's not their fault and I don't know why I do it.  Maybe because I never had a group of people in my life who came along naturally to fulfill certain needs.  Now, I have to make up for that lost fulfillment by coming across those with roles to occupy.  These people don't know they are playing a part and it frustrates me when they don't act the way I want.  I construct these elaborate dramas to feel included.  To have a story to tell.  To cover up the truth of my deviancy.

"Yes, I've been involved.  Yes, I've had my heart broken.  Yes, I've loved and I've lost.  Yes, I've experienced."

No, I haven't.

Instead, I fall apart and break bonds.

I can't accept anyone for anything other than what I want them to be and that is selfish and shameful.  But no one sees that because I'm playing a part, too.  I take on the role of human, someone who complies with love and decency and understands the value of relationships.  But inside, emptiness is the only thing I understand.

fearfully and wonderfully slayed, part 2

"Just let your faith die..."
-AFI, Sacrilege

I hear people say that unanswered prayers are still answered.  I keep thinking of that stupid footprints story.  Maybe you've seen me through all the pain and I never realized it or maybe I just made it on my own.  How will I ever know because you'll never tell me!  How can I keep the faith when there's no sign, no feeling, no subtle recognition to keep me going, to let me know I'm doing the right thing?  Am I just wasting my time? 
 
I kept praying, turned away from my sins, tried to think positive thoughts, focused on you and nothing ever changed.  I was empty on the inside and disappointed with the nothing in the sky.  Why couldn't I get a sign or a feeling of reassurance?  Why was there such a disconnect between me and you?  Was I still doing something so wrong as to keep you so far away?
 
I looked for you and only saw sadness.  I saw confusion over the course my life had taken.  I saw this little boy who sat alone, teary-eyed, wondering where the love and comfort was that was promised to him in a big book with big words and big promises if only he would believe in it all.
 
I believed in you.  But you didn't believe in me.

I put everything into college and it was the biggest financial and emotional mistake of my life, one that I will likely pay for until I die, which will probably be sooner than later.  Not only did college not work out but I barely scraped through graduation with all of my limbs.  My mind was destroyed as well as my spirit.

fearfully and wonderfully slayed, part 1

"If I ask you 'what is truth' will you be silent still?
My questions and doubts made a chasm
That I fear you can not fill..."
-Showbread, The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things
 
I met up with God the other day.  He actually let me record our conversation and I have conveniently transcribed it for you.  We had a long talk, or actually I had a lot to say to him.  You might notice he was sparse with the responses, which wasn't surprising.  Below is our exchange.

Me:  What's up, Lord?  I know you're busy not answering prayers and and standing idly by as the world crumbles, yet somehow swooping in and saving certain individuals from damnation to propel the proselytizing of non-believers, but we need to have some tea and a chat.  You've been dodging me for twenty-six years so the very least you can do is spare me a few minutes. 

God:  *irritated, pointing to iPhone*

Me:  Sure, I'll let you finish your call.  Tell Jesus I said hi and that I miss him.

God hangs up after several minutes, looks at me, becomes morose.

Me:  Please, have a seat.  Can I get you a Snuggie?  Nescafe?  Comfortable?  Good.  This is gonna take a while.

God:  *rolls eyes*

Me:  I hate to be negative right from the start so let's get to the good stuff first, shall we?  First of all, I am an incredibly fortunate individual.  I guess you'd prefer the term "blessed".  Sure, we can use your terminology.  I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and say you played some part in the positive aspects of my life.  I've never starved because my family couldn't afford food.  I've never been beaten by my mother or molested by my father.  I've never been left out in the cold or went without adequate clothing.  I've never had loved ones torn away from me by death or divorce.

My life is easy.

But I am absolutely miserable.   

I know this doesn't make much sense but please hear me out, okay?  As much as you might want to lambast me, I've already beaten myself up about it plenty of times.  I feel guilty and selfish because there's no real reason why I should be so miserable.  Looking at me from an outsider's point of view, I have no reason to be sad or even complain at all.  There are people who struggle twice as much as I do and aren't half as unhappy.  It's not something I can explain.  Believe me, I've tried to figure it out.  It's just those small things I've mentioned before, the small slices of pain life inflicts, the paper cuts that add up to amputation.