Sui-Sidelined

"Speeding
Into the horizon
Dreaming of the siren
Wishing for broken glass on the highway
It could be so easy"
-Vanessa Carlton

What is it about suicide that makes people so uncomfortable?  We always hear about drugs, sex, teen pregnancy, bullying, but not so much about depression and suicide.  It's not like talking about masterbation, which is embarrassing but manageable.  It's not like talking about underage drinking, which is illegal but acceptable to most people.  Is it because it's too heavy, too dense a topic to tackle?  Bring up suicide and people either clam up or roll their eyes.  People either think it's a subject too serious or an emo cry for help.  But it doesn't have to be too serious and it doesn't have to be a call for attention.  It is what it is, just like anything else we deal with in life.  People commit suicide.  People know people who have committed or attempted suicide.  People think about it, whether seriously or casually.  It's there and yet it's not.

I don't think it's uncommon for people to contemplate suicide.  Life sucks.  Hard.  And some people think that's their only way out.  We are all looking for distractions to life's pain.  That's why we have alcoholics and junkies and gluttons and people who are obsessed with sex.  That's also why we have books and television and art.  But for some, these things are not enough.  They don't shut out the pain as completely or as often as they do for others.  That sinking feeling of being pulled down by the world will always stay with them and the only relief can be found in death.  But thinking about it and actually planning to do it are two entirely different things.  As for me, suicide has always been a part of my thought process, ebbing and flowing in severity over the years.  I don't have much of a problem saying it because why should I?  Am I now a freak because I've thought about it?  Am I damaged, a weirdo or a creeper because I've contemplated ending my life?  I don't think so.  I just think it makes me human.  I can remember praying to God to just let me die in my sleep when I was a young kid.  Because I was more religious back then, I believed suicide was a one-way ticket to hell so I certainly wasn't going to be the one to dispose of myself.  But if God did it then maybe it would be okay.  Eventually, I put that thought away when I realized God wasn't going to grant my request.  From there, the thought almost went away but would come back periodically throughout my teen years and came back full force several months ago.

After I graduated from college, I honestly felt like my life had fallen apart and the worst part about it was I felt trapped under the rubble.  I think it's okay to say your life sucks and you can be miserable as long as you know that things will eventually get better, that your sadness is only temporary.  As for me, I truly felt like things would not get better.  Because of my financial situation as well as my living situation and general craziness, I just could not see how things would get better.  There were no other options for me.  I was too poor to move, too alone for support and too depressed to even care.  I was trapped.  While I was working at the bingo facility, driving one and a half hours to and from work, I'd cry my way there and my way back home.  And under the blackness of the night sky, I often thought about jerking the steering wheel off the road and into a tree or just crashing my car into a building.  I'd drive along the quiet road and accelerate at the thought of hugging a light pole.  The broken yellow lines blurred into one hazy guideline that pointed me toward the twisting metal of escape.  The trees zoomed by at a rapid pace until they were nothing but a gray smear all around me.  My heart thickened and pounded as it rose up into my throat.  My palms burned from gripping the steering wheel so tight. 

And then I'd slow down.

It was something I thought about, something I played over in my mind, but not something I truly intended on doing.  I was still worried about going to hell.  I knew as bad as I had it then, hell would be worse.  Another thing that kept me from taking the idea of taking my life seriously was the fact that I'd leave my parents a financial burden.  Since they co-signed my student loans, they'd have to take on the responsibility of paying.  That might sound silly but I was honestly concerned that they might not be able to pay and have their wages garnished or their house taken away.  I'd hate to know I left them in that kind of state.  I never worried about how they'd fare emotionally, however.  I wasn't concerned so much with that.  Sure, they'd grieve but I didn't want to leave them without a house to grieve in.  Plus, they'd still have my sister, whom they always liked better, anyway.  They'd get over it.

Suicide has always been a small part of me, like the quiet kid in the back of math class who has all the answers but never raises his hand.  Sometimes, I'd notice him and just as he'd open his mouth to speak, I'd look away, afraid his answers would be too correct, his solution too satisfying.  But, it's not like I'm really going to ever do it.  At least, I don't have any immediate plans to perish.  At this point, I'm just sort of waiting it out, sitting around to see if things get better.  I still think I have some important things to say.  I still think I have a book or two to write, an animated series to create.  I still feel like I have a voice, a voice that needs and deserves to be heard, as conceited as that may sound.  But as soon as I have nothing left to write and as soon as I win the lottery so my family can take care of my outstanding expenses, I might pull a Plath.  I just hope that God would understand and that I won't just be blindly belly flopping into the lake of fire.

I was reading up on suicide and Christianity and someone had asked a Christian's opinion on being saved and asked if it lasted forever, even if the saved person committed suicide.  The Christian responded by saying that salvation did indeed last forever and that suicide didn't necessarily automatically equal hell.  Of course, this is just one Christian's opinion on the matter and you can ask one hundred different Christians the same question and get one hundred different answers but there was actually something comforting in that thought.  It was, however, a dangerous thought to have.  One of the only reasons why I never blew my head off was because of the fear of God and now I'm hearing that He might not mind so much.  It's soothing and scary all at the same time.

Some people might think I would be selfish to kill myself, that "I have so many people that care about me."  First of all, show me those people.  Secondly, you're right.  For the people who are leaving those that loved them behind, it is pretty selfish.  Think of all the hurt you felt that took you to the point of suicide and now spread that pain onto everyone you're going to affect by killing yourself.  Kind of sucks, right.  And I used to strongly feel that way.  How cowardly.  How selfish.  How weak these people must be.  But, that was before I got to that helpless point myself.  I think it's easy for people to make judgments, to call someone selfish or cowardly if they've never been to that point, if they've never felt that huge hole, that sadness that obliterates everything good and renders all things meaningless.  It's so simple to say, "How can he stay with her?  I'd leave my girlfriend if she cheated on me!" or "I wouldn't be like that parent.  I'd like to think that with God, I'd forgive the person who molested my child."  But would that really be the case?  We never truly know how we are going to react until we are put in that situation.  Oftentimes we are much stronger than we give ourselves credit for.  Conversely, we are also a lot weaker than we realize.  So, we can easily condemn people who are suicidal and say they are just weak or encourage them to go through with it because "no one needs them anyway" but instead of seeing that person as pathetic, maybe people should show some compassion.

I'm pretty sure a person who has reached the point of suicide has most likely reviewed all of the options.  I'm not saying that's always the case but I would hope that more times than not, it is.  They probably already realize how they will be perceived as they step onto the ledge or prepare the pills.  They know the people, the responsibility, the legacy that they will leave behind.  They will be called a coward, they will make their families angry, they will hurt a lot of people but has anyone ever stopped to consider that they know this yet are willing to go through with it anyway?  Maybe all that pain, all that anguish, the ruined reputation is worth it to them because of the pain they are in.  It's better to them to get out of the situation and deal with the consequences later, no matter how devastating they are.  The act of suicide might be selfish but it also might be an act of desperation, a last resort for repairing that pain that runs so deep no one else can fathom it.  Plus, these people might be really sick.  Suicide could be a symptom of mental illness.  Some people might want to take the easy way out, some people think it might be the only way out and for others, it might be out of their control all together.  And because of that, I feel more sympathy for the suicidal than anger.  Once again, though, I speak out of my mouth and not from experience.  It's simple for me to say this but if someone I knew committed suicide, I can't say I wouldn't be angry.  Words are easy to say.  Emotions aren't as easy to feel.

I'm not condoning or condemning suicide.  I'm just simply putting it out there, hoping exposure will lead to a bit more understanding.  We keep scary topics in the dark, hoping they'll just fade in the shadows but because they can't be seen, we don't notice how they grow, how they multiply and increase in strength, feeding on ignorance and distance.  Heck, if you're feeling suicidal, that's actually the best time to pipe up and let someone know.  But, even if you aren't, what's so wrong with talking about it?  I guess it's embarrassing because it's so deeply personal.  And maybe some people just can't handle that kind of profound honesty because so many people aren't even in touch with their own feelings so it's natural that they might not be able to handle anyone else's.  Just like with anything else, serious or otherwise, we should open the lines of communication so that we can shed light on those dark things and take their power away.  Suicide obviously sucks but I think it touches more people than anyone would like to let on.  And people who have thought about it shouldn't be shunned or made to feel crazy.  The truth is, we all go through depression.  This world is not good and will cause us to go to those places we never thought we'd go.  It's no fun but it is real.  And real is human.  And we are all human.  None of us are so far removed from any emotion, thought process or action that we wouldn't say we'd never consider jumping ship.  Because you will.  Believe me.  I've been there.  And in time, you probably will, too.

Bran Keeps You Regular

So, I have been tagged by the lovely Katrina Storm and thought I'd be a good little dead boy and participate.  She also gave me a blog award so thank you much for that!  On to the survey:

1.  What's your personal style like?
Unfortunately, I don't actually have one.  Because my weight fluctuates so much and I'm always having to buy new sizes every six months to a year, I don't have a proper wardrobe, just a mash up of different clothes from different seasons in different sizes that almost fit me and a whole lot of black.

If I had a better body and the time, money, effort and fashion sense, I think I'd fall somewhere between vintage and modern.  Simple clothes.  Mostly jeans and a shirt.  Not so much out of comfort but out of the clean simplicity of the look.  Dark colors.  No flashy jewelry.  Cardigans.  Plaid.  Everything slim or fitted.  Along with simple, clean clothing I'd go for a short, clean hairstyle and clean shaven face as well.  Scruff doesn't work for me.  But, I don't mind shaving so it's not that big of a loss.

Or, if anyone knows of Arthur Spooner from King of Queens....yeah, what he wears.

2.  How did you meet your best friend?
I don't have a best friend.

3.  Describe your family.
Nuclear family:  Average.  I have two parents who are still together and an older sister.  My parents are okay, for the most part.  I mostly rely on them for financial support because all they know is hard work.  They can't really teach me about life 'cause they don't know about it themselves.  I don't keep in contact with my sister very much because she is not a nice person.  I used to look up to her until I realized she wasn't worth looking up to.

Extended family: Ever seen an episode of Cops?  Uh, yeah.  Except both my grandmothers are cool.  All my uncles and aunts and cousins are alcoholic hicks.  I think only a handful graduated from high school and none went on to college.  They don't value education so much as inebriation.  And there's a slew of illegitimate children, too.  There's literally a new baby at every Christmas gathering.

I'm not close with any of my family because I have nothing in common with any of them.  I'm not into mud riding and beer guzzling like they are and they aren't into horror movies and philosophy like I am.  I guess you could say I'm the black sheep and I'm actually fine with that.  I'd rather be a black sheep than white trash.

4.  What's been the best day of your life, so far?

I don't really have one and I don't say that to sound emo.  It's not that every day is the worst day of my life but I just can't think of any that stand out as being worthy of mentioning.  If I had to choose, I suppose it would be graduating from college or seeing my completed short film that I created in college for the first time.  Or when I got published in my college's literary journal.  I guess they aren't big things but when you're life is as bland as mine, those moments are kind of special.

5.  What are you afraid of?
Clowns, snakes, sharks, people finding out I am actually quite talentless


6.  Cocktail of choice?
When I'm feeling really naughty, I'll reach for the hard stuff: A Mr. Pibb.  So sugary, so delicious. 

7.  Favorite movie, and why?
Gigli.

Just kidding.

As for a comedy, probably Dumb & Dumber.  Seriously, I never get tired of watching that film.  Every time it comes on television, I'll watch it or at least have it on in the background.

For a horror film, probably a tie between the original Day of the Dead and the original Dawn of the Dead.  Both films are good cheese but there's also an injection of dread that really gets under your skin and I love it.

I don't watch very many dramas but from the limited selection of those I've seen, I'd pick The Chumscrubber.  I think it's a good social commentary on child neglect and prescription pill cures.

For all time, probably Drop Dead Fred.  Ah, used to be a childhood favorite of mine and I still love it.

8.  If you life had a soundtrack, what are five songs that would play, and when would they play?
This one was so hard to narrow down to events in my life so I totally copied Katrina's moments.  Hope you don't mind!

Sia- "My Love" for when I want to get my snog on.  And I totally ripped this from Eclipse.  Oh, well I don't care.  It's hot.

Showbread- "Sing Me to Sleep" for my wedding

Ben Jelen- "Counting Down" for contemplation

Peaches- "Serpentine" for those times when I want to get silly or have fun (yes, it does happen!)

Showbread- "The Beginning (Nervosa Version)" for my funeral

9.  Favorite Book?
Either The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka because of how much I can relate to it or It by Stephen King because of the sheer epic scope of the piece.  It's beautiful.  Ironically, the movie version literally traumatized me when I was a child and that is why I am terrified...TERRIFIED of clowns.

10.  Favorite TV Show?
Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  The show developed my love for vampires and hot girls who can kick some arse.  I literally grew up with Buffy and so there's a sense of attachment to the show as it's linked with my adolescence.  Also, the show is so dense with mythology and morality.  It's almost perfect.  And also good cheese.


11.  Quote(s) you live by?
"When you're through changing, you're through." -Bruce Barton 

"You cannot slander human nature; it is worse than words can paint it." - Charles Hadden Spurgeon

"We all need help with our feelings. Otherwise we bottle them up, and before you know it, powerful laxatives are involved." -Buffy the Vampire Slayer 

"He was a young man of no particular stature or distinction of feature, with acne scars that neither medication nor spot-spell had been able to eradicate entirely. His hair was dishwater brown and somewhat unkempt, and his teeth were unfashionably irregular. He was obviously a depressive type." -On a Pale Horse  

12.  If you could have a dinner party with any five people, living or dead, who would they be?
Sia, Mandy Moore, Josh Dies, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Stephen King

And if they couldn't make it, Lisa Lampinelli, Chuck Palahniuk and Joel McHale

13.  Pet Peeves?
Everything

14.  Have any pets?
Dog named Sam and cat named Moses

15.  If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I care way too much about what others think of me, my words and my actions.  If I could just be satisfied with myself without worrying about the reactions of others, I think I'd be much better off.

Acceptance

“You can’t turn off that you’re dead
You just deal with it…”
-Armor for Sleep

When I first created this blog, my goal was to chronicle my resurrection.  It wasn't intended to be a documentation of my death.  Sure, writing about being dead was going to be a natural part of my journey but it wasn't supposed to be the main focus.  In fact, I was hoping I'd be alive by now, that maybe there would be some positive changes, that things would be better in a year's time.  Well, it's been a year since I started writing here and nothing has changed.  In fact, things have only gotten worse.

There's been a lot of conflict arising within me lately.  I'm trying to deal with the fact that everything around me is crumbling while simultaneously coming to terms with the notion that there's nothing I can do to fix it.  When I was alive, I was an optimist.  That might seem hard to believe considering how negative I was, even back when I was breathing.  Yet, despite my misanthropic attitude, there was a spot of hope, a glimmer of idealistic positivity that dwelled within me.  Even when I died, that idealistic positivity didn't.  It was probably the only characteristic that crossed over with me in death.  Unfortunately, death dwindled that away over this past year, as if it were cutting the final thread that held me to life.  Now, I don't have hope anymore.  Everything I can imagine, from my future to the people I'm surrounded by to love to faith, is stooped in the dark ink of cynicism.

You know those trite messages that people always vomit out to propagate positivity?  The ones that go something like "You can be anything you want" or "Your dreams really can come true!"  That's garbage.  Yes, dreams do come true...for some people.  For others, they will never have the money, talent or connections that will allow them to do what they've always wished they could.  The hardest part about life, and death, is acceptance.  We have to accept there will always be certain things we cannot do, certain tasks we cannot accomplish and certain talents that will never be acknowledged.

As for me, life was always hard to accept.  I was a happy baby but most babies are pretty happy, I suppose, as long as their bellies are full and their diapers are empty.  I grew up and grew out of my parent's small-minded tendencies and leaned on my peers to push me in the correct direction.  I followed everyone else's lead while ignoring my own path.  I swayed from myself which caused conflict.  I allowed the world inside of me, to penetrate my passion and singe my self-esteem.  I swam to the surface of superficiality and waded in those waters for many years.  Yet, I wasn't as beautiful as those around me.  I had to work twice as hard to be half as attractive.  The harder I worked, the dumber I looked.  Sadness slipped through shortly after and was something else I had to battle.  My family was foreign and no one cared about my problems so I turned to food and became overweight, which only highlighted the hatred I had for myself.  I pulled away from people because I wasn't good enough.  I couldn't accept who I was so I put on a mask and pretended to be this other person for so long that when it came time for me to really express the true Brannon, I couldn't because I was already too entangled with those who only knew my facade.  It was hard accepting that I would never be good-looking.  It was hard to accept I was not wanted by girls.  It was hard to accept that I wasn't wanted by anyone.  It was hard to accept that college wasn't going to save me like I thought it would.

And death is hard to accept, too, especially when I haven't done anything to justify my time on Earth.  I'm twenty-four years old and I'm dead.  I'm useless.  I have nothing to offer anyone.  And it's hard to realize that.  It's hard to let go of all that potential that I can no longer utilize.  Maybe I could have been a great artist but I wasted it on depression.  Maybe I could have been a good writer but apathy ate up my talent.  Maybe I could have been a great animator if only I would have tried harder.  And I can see all that promise washing away, spiraling down the drain.  There won't be a hugely successful film franchise or series of novels.  There's only the decaying headstone of a loser who lost it all over the span of three years because he was weak.  And that's the hardest aspect of all to accept.  I am to blame for my death.  This is partially my fault.  As much as I've blamed every thing and every one else, I also have to accept some responsibility.  I wasn't strong enough to handle everything and so I allowed myself to give up.  Do you know how hard it is to wake up every day to a miserable existence and know that it all could have been different if only you would have made difference choices?  That's the way I feel every time I open my eyes and go to my soul-sucking job and have to be smothered by closed-minded morons.  All the pain, the tears, the frustration never had to happen.  None of it ever had to touch me. 

Death is a drug.  Once you've had your first hit, once you find it swimming in your veins, you realize it will always be a part of you.  You're addicted to the atrophy and you hate it and crave it all at the same time.  You can fight it every day, scrape by as much as you can but if you slip up just once, let your guard down just slightly, you relapse into rotting once more.  And I'm just a junkie, juggling life and death each day, usually failing and falling into the dirt again and again.  I try to be with the living and I feel uncomfortable.  I try to accept my condition and that doesn't sit well with me, either.  I go back and forth, going outside to put on a fresh face for humanity and then come home and sink back into the dirty bathwater of my body.  I'm constantly fighting to be alive again but I just can't so I allow myself to go back to that dark part of me.  It's like taking a small dose of something, just enough to ease the aches, to dull the withdrawals momentarily.  In the end, it doesn't help but to draw out my death all the more.  There's an irreparable damage that will always be with me, something I can temporarily mask but something I cannot heal.

Yet, there's something else crawling around inside of me, something that's been slowly digging its way to the surface of my awareness.  Another conflict, small in scale yet strong in scope.  It's something that's a bit crazy, something that goes against all that I've believed for the past year.  What if, by some chance, I'm not really dead at all?  Maybe I'm just now coming to the realization that I was never truly alive in the first place, that I was more like a human facsimile, something that looked and breathed like a person but wasn't quite entirely.  I was just existing.  And when I realized that I wasn't what I thought I was, I went straight to my corpse conclusion because what else could I be?  Perhaps I've simply mistaken existing for being dead?  I mean, I still feel.  I still hurt.  My nerves are not frozen in formaldehyde.  My lungs are not soaked in cement.  Everything still works.  It's only working in a downward spiral.  But, does that necessarily mean death?  Maybe it just means brokenness.  I suppose there's a needle thin line between existence and death, a line that I've been slicing my feet on over the past year.  Maybe existence is dangling between joy and disappointment and excitement and despair, touching all feelings but never embracing any of them.  It's a numbness that's close to death but not quite death itself.

This possible revelation isn't necessarily a good thing, nothing to celebrate or feel good about.  Dead or not, I'm still here, still in this miserable muck of a life that I've poured over myself.  Maybe I'm not far from death, after all.  Maybe I'm only alive because of the sheer exhaustion that death brings.  It's hard being a carcass.  Maybe my laziness is the only thing keeping me breathing.  If that's the case, besides being pathetic, is it worth it to just breathe, to sit in place and wait for my heart to pump out its last bits of blood?  If I'm not dead, maybe I should be.  Maybe I'm not deserving of the oxygen I breathe, the blood I bleed or the life I lead?  There were times when I'd sit and wait for the finality of my death and times when I thought I would take that finality into my own hands, times when I thought maybe I'd just finish the process.  After all, what was I waiting around for?  What was there to learn but the cruelty of life, the afterlife and the people who filled both worlds?  I already knew that well enough.

I guess you could say I'm having a bit of an identity crisis.  Am I the monster I convinced myself I was years ago and now am I the dead monster that I have believed myself to be for a year now?  Or am I just confusing being depressed with being dead?  As hard as it is to be dead, being alive isn't a great alternative.  So, maybe I should just stop trying to figure it out or fight it.  I'm obviously getting nowhere.  Just accept who I am and what I am.  Yes, accepting yourself and your situation is one of the hardest things we do.  It's a process that can take years, maybe even a lifetime.  As for me, it's taken me a little over my lifetime to come to terms with myself.  Acceptance invites clarity.  And when you stop struggling to hold onto the idealism that you have embedded in your brain, when you cut away that corpse on your back that's been holding you down for so long, you are free to feel better about yourself and your situation.  It doesn't make the situation any better but once you embrace it, it's a bit easier to swallow rather than spending your time choking on it.  No, I will never be what I've always dreamed of being.  It sucks, yes, but at least I won't have to waste so much time clamoring for recognition, for satisfaction.

Acceptance may be hard but it does come easier when you die because when you die, nothing really matters anymore.  Your looks, your money, your sadness, your joy all goes the way of the grave in time.  You realize that all the effort you put into being becomes pointless at the point of expiration.  Of course, I suppose you should try to make the best of your life while you still have one so that when you're dead, you won't have to regret so much like I did.  All the good things will disappear but so will all of the bad.  There's a certain sense of peace with that knowledge.  Know that your struggles won't chase you in true death.  Know that all the pain and the hurt will wash away.  But, so will you and everything you've ever done or said or felt.  You will be erased and forgotten.  We all can't leave a lasting legacy like the great artists and entertainers before us.  Some of us will live on through our art, our words or our music but the grim fact is that most of us will rot away without reaching anyone.  We are born and then we grow up in insignificance and then we die.  All the while, the world will spin on, unaware.  We will leave nothing behind.  No indelible impression.  No scarlet scar.  Just always fading.  We are something and then we are nothing.  I realize now that I am nothing, that I have been emptied out and wiped clean and now I'm just floating in an endless line, waiting for my turn to be grafted onto the great void.

And I think I'm okay with that.

Showbread
"The Sky (Nervosa Version)"

When I was small you might have thought of me
You might have spread apart the fat webs in your heart
But there was never anything inside of me
I'm just dried mud casing that cracks and comes apart
And now I'm being crushed beneath your feet
And all the mud is disappearing into me
You're rising up like fire while the memories halt
Don't look down to see me or you will become a pillar of salt

You'll never see my face

You are a song to sing
I am the dust and ash
You are the queen of clean
I am the world's trash

There is no candy center in the middle of the world

When I was small you might remember me
You might have drained the black oil from my heart
String me up and hang me upside down
And let the wild animals tear me apart

Depression

“I've been walking dead
Watching you
Long enough to know I can't go on…”
-Flyleaf

There's a duality to depression:  the pain that fills you up and the emptiness that hollows you out.  It's like a tidal wave that crushes down on you and then washes you away.  It drags you back to the shore and then crushes you again.  Rinse and repeat, literally.  And as you're pulled apart and slammed back together by the current, less and less of you is reformed as the water erodes at your breath and your bones.

The truth is, I've been deteriorating for a long time now, long before I even died.  Depression has been digging at me ever since I was young.  It's come in cycles, dictated by the huge trials and small victories I've experienced throughout my short life.  Death has only deepened the already present sadness.  Lately, I've been going through periods of intense pain followed by bouts of crippling apathy.  There are days when I feel so selfish, so victimized, that I just want to be left alone.  There are days when I don't care who lives or dies.  There are days when I'm desperate for companionship, to have someone to talk to and understand me.  There are times when I feel too much and times when I feel nothing at all.  I wish I could express the swirling emotional content that gets stuck in my throat and in my stomach but there's really nothing to say that would adequately articulate what's happening inside of me.   What can be said that hasn't already been lamented by the lifeless?  Although everyone will grieve in a different way, Emily Dickinson came eerily close to how I feel with her poem (even inspiring my blog title):

Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

It's almost as if that element of blank is your body's own defense mechanism to counteract the pain, a way of preserving what little nerves are left.  The agony is so intense that the body deadens the spinal cord so as to protect from the pain.  Unfortunately, the body is not a perfect mechanism and instead of releasing enough pain killers to ease the suffering, all feeling is completely wiped out.  This causes a dramatic shift in the perception of pain and numbness.  As the dueling ache and emptiness battle each other within you, you're pulled into different directions in a matter of seconds, swirling in a torrent of feelings too erratic for the body to have time to fully adjust to, which leads to little control over yourself.  It's frustrating and only sends your emotions into even more turmoil.  It's maddening to go from anger to tears to maniacal laughter in one sweep.

One of the most frustrating parts about being so empty is the residual resolve to connect with someone.  It's the kind of feeling that never totally goes away.  It's natural to want to be social as a human.  It's as commonplace as lungs and teeth.  It's just there within us.  But, when you're hollowed out, that desire is dulled but not completely cauterized.  Dead people were once human, after all.  And when you find yourself in that in between glass state of undeadness like I am, perished but not passed on, the humanity is gone but not at all forgotten.  With all the reminders of connected people that we encounter, such as couples in relationships, friendships and family, it's natural that we would want to sway in that direction as well.  It is then that the sinking hiss reminds us that we cannot be like those people anymore and the rectifying numbness sets in once again except it isn't rectifying at all.  It only drives us deeper into the dark portals inside ourselves.

Death is the necrotizing fasciitis of feelings.  It eats away at your emotions and drinks in your dreams.  Once it has sucked you out of your body, it vomits out vitriol to fill the empty space.  Your body is just a sack of puke with no structure or strength.  And I've been walking around like a bag of barf over the past year.  Death is the kind of disease that can't be treated, something that only gets worse with time.  It will continue to eat away until there is nothing left, until you are nothing more than a carved out carcass left to wither away under the sun.

As I'm being consumed and I realize that I can do nothing to stop it, what am I supposed to think?  Where am I supposed to go?  Should I continue on until I literally can't take another step?  Should I stay stubborn and trek forward until death has taken all my limbs or should I lay myself down and let it finalize?  It all just seems so futile in the grand scheme of things.  There's no escaping death, after all.  It's only a race we begin as we're born.  Death is kind enough to give most of us a head start in our younger years but eventually it takes off, catches up to us and casts us off the track.  And when death has latched itself onto your back, you can fall to the floor or keep going until the weight of it drags you down and flattens you out.  Neither solution is too promising.  You're choice will only hasten or hinder the inevitability that you will not cross the finish line.

They say life is hard.  Death is harder.  Too hard for me, in fact.  If I could, I would just stay in bed forever.  There is nothing outside my bedroom that would do me any good.  There is no person, no food, no substance that will bring me back from oblivion.  Once you've dug deep enough inside yourself and clawed away at everything you are, you clamor for clarity.  It's like breaking through a wall only to discover a black hole on the other side.  This is me, this is what I've become, maybe what I've always been.  And I'm too weak to deal with it, too selfish to care enough to try, too broken too fight my ephemeral fate any longer...

Bargaining

“But with demons sitting at my side,
An angel's come to ask me why
And slowly I give up inside to say
To feel alive, I'd give it all away…”
-Ben Jelen

Happiness is like an ever-dissolving diamond. When we are young, we find it solid and perfect. We run our palms over the smoothness and twirl it in our fingers to see how it catches the light. The sad fact is we’ll inevitably handle it too much until we’ve ground it down into dust.  We'll watch, helplessly, as the particles fall to the dirt where we sit. From there, we spend our whole lives trying to gather up the grains to reform that perfect pearl again.  We sift through the dirt and gunk and pack the remnants together to reformulate the rhinestone.  We use spit, glue, even hope as an adhesive to try to keep everything together.  Unfortunately, once the bauble has been broken down, it can never be built back up. We come close but it’s never the same, only a trinket tainted with the inextricable impurities from the ground. Hope can only hold it up so long until it falls away again and again and again. Yet, we keep trying in vain, keep compromising with the crystal but once it has deteriorated, sadness rushes in like a stream of water to fill its place, making our fingers slick and slippery until we can no longer grasp the glass.  We sit, surrounded by the shards of happiness that can no longer be solidified.

What else can you do when you die but ask, “And now what?”

That’s what I was wondering as I wandered back home. Obviously, I had some things to figure out. First, I had to deal with this new dilemma of my demise. That would be harder than I ever could have imagined. You can’t just settle into death. Believe me, it’s a big adjustment. The next thing I had to do was try to fit in with everyone else like nothing had ever happened, pretend to be human although everything within me was screeching out that I was not a part of humanity anymore. It was as if the social aspects of my soul were wiped clean when my life was cut off. The concepts of love and family were foreign. Connections were incomprehensible. But, I had to feign familiarity with people although I no longer knew them or had the desire to know them. I had to get my feet back onto the ground, feel something substantial, bring myself back down to earth from the floating glass state I found myself in.

My life was filled with a lot of disappointment.  But, of course, whose hasn't been?  I fumbled through my teenage years waiting for high school graduation so I could finally break off from the structure of adolescence and begin building my own life.  I had planned on following the usual route of college, of course, but it was my decision to do so, not the government's or my parent's.  I was going to do school my way, learning what I wanted to learn and choosing my friends instead of having them grouped into a classroom with me.  I was going to study hard, learn everything about everything and become fantastic.  It was my chance to slip out of my small town bubble and spread myself out in all directions and touch and be touched by intriguing people.  I wasn't dead yet but I felt like I hadn't lived.  I suppose that's silly to say because I was still a child.  It's not uncommon for children to not have lived a full life.  I wasn't abnormal but I was itching for something more than what I had experienced before, which wasn't much at all.  College, however, would change all of that.  Yes, it sure would, just not in the way I was hoping.

In fact, all these years later, I'm still dealing with just how much college would change my perceptions and reflections on life and people and the particulars of expiration.  Yes, I thought leaving my old life behind would save me.  It just killed me.  What a huge one-eighty, a gigantic slap in the face of everything I had spent years wishing and hoping and praying for.  I saw each one of my dreams crumble before me, one after the other.  The dream of a mentor crumbled.  The dream of finding friends who would understand me crumbled.  The dream of finding the artist within crumbled.  The dream of feeling like I was actually going to make it crumbled.  So, what do you do with that?  Negotiate, of course.  You haggle with heaven, make a deal with the devil, whatever you can do to keep going until you can leverage your life.  

I already knew that my animation career wasn’t going to take off when I got into the thick of my classes at college. It was a little disappointing but I tried not to get myself down. I thought that I’d be able to get a nice office job in a nearby city once I graduated, something simple to get by until I could afford the animation software and equipment to continue my training by myself. Nothing ever came up. After weeks of looking, I tried to expand my searches a bit. Looked closer to home. Nothing. Eventually, I started looking for any kind of work I could get. It's true when they say looking for a full-time job becomes a full-time job.  I sent out physical applications and online applications and collected newspapers to find jobs in the classifieds.  Resumes and cover letters infiltrated my dreams. Nothing. Meanwhile, feeling depressed over not being able to get a job and with a lot of time on my hands, I did the absolute worst thing possible: eat. Instead of working on my book or my fitness, I sat around and ate whole pizzas and bags of chips and candy. It was easier to turn myself off with food than it was to deal with the facts of my failure. I wanted an office job because of my previous experience and enjoyment of office work. It was easy. I didn’t have to deal with the public, which was a definite plus because I despised people. The office thing never developed because I didn’t have the necessary skills or experience so I reluctantly went back to the customer service route because that’s the only experience I have. I got the job at the bingo facility and it was horrible because of the work environment, rude customers and hour and a half drive each way every day. I literally only had time to eat, drive, work and sleep. My writing dwindled as my creativity dried up. I was working toward purchasing animation equipment and software but would it have been worth it if at the end of the day I was too tired to dookie, much less draw?

When that ended, I tried to go for the office work again, to no avail.  Eventually, I had to go back to my old retail job and grovel for them to hire me back.  All because I really need to buy that animation equipment and because my ridiculously expensive student loan payments were coming due.  The saddest part is I even tried more high-end retail jobs, places where you most likely wouldn't find cross-eyed old women with body odor that would choke a donkey.  But, no, I'm at a low-end clothing store filled with low-end co-workers and low-end customers.  Always settling, always lowering my standards.  Not because I want to.  Because I have to.  I settled so much after I died in the vain attempt to find some kind of normalcy, some kind of contentment.  I realized corpses can never be content.  Death is like a too-tight t-shirt.  It constricts not only your body but your movements and the nagging discomfort digs at your head, slowly worming its way in until it's all you can think about.  Settling, for the dead, is a lot like how paper cuts are for the living.  It's not one huge incident or tragedy but small pocket-sized miseries that multiply over time.  Settling, always settling just to try to find the breath that will never come.  I realized you can only settle so much before reaching sediment.

They say life is all about bargaining.  All humans have dreams but sometimes those dreams have to be compromised in order to find some measure of contentment.  Sometimes humans have to settle for something less to get to where they want to go.  You start out small and strive toward bigger things, start from the bottom and make your way to the top, work from the inside out.  Well, that also works in death.  Except in death, you're working from a smaller scale than the living, a lower level, less material to manipulate into something meaningful.  The problem with this is that it's nearly impossible to reach a satisfactory outcome.  It's hard enough to make it in life and death will set you back in a big way.  It's like digging a hole that pushes up it's own dirt.  No matter how much progress I've made, it's negligible, superficial, pointless, rendering me pointless, just spiraling downward...

Anger

“Despite all my rage
I am still just a rat in a cage…”
-Smashing Pumpkins

The heat kicked in shortly after. I was still ice cold on the outside but my lungs were set on fire. To cope, I tried to place blame wherever I could. I went straight to the top and lashed out at God. How could He allow this to happen to me? Was I not good enough? Did I not do enough good things? Was I going to be punished simply because I didn’t go to church enough or read enough chapters from the Bible? Even before I went to college, I had prayed nightly to be saved, prayed that I would find love and friendship and acceptance, not only from people, but from myself as well. And it never happened. Those night prayers went unheard or ignored. This wasn’t a case of the biggest miracles spinning from unanswered prayers. This was a case of outright neglect on His part. At least, that’s what I thought. What a slap in the face of someone who tried so hard to be a good person, tried so hard to do the right thing and always made other people happy. I might not have been the best Christian but I felt like I was still carrying out God’s will. I was still serving people, still loving them and wishing them the best despite their less than stellar behavior toward me. I was still trying to spread a message of hope and love to others. I gave up so much of myself to others only to have them take advantage of my willingness to please. For all of my life, I lived for other people and my reward was dying alone in a bed that wasn’t even mine. Where’s the justice in that? Where is the reimbursement at the end of a life? Where was God when I screamed His name at night? Where were those loving arms that I had heard about so much in church and in the words of believers? They were not holding me up.

What is the point of living a life to serve others only to be refused, abused and ignored by them and then left alone by your creator to die like an insect in the dark corner of a kitchen?

The anger pumped through me, literally turning my stomach. Nausea washed up and out of me and I could feel a rising tension in the area where my stagnant heart was. As the thoughts tore through my brain like rotating razor blades, I worked myself up into a frenzy. I wanted to scream until my vocal cords corroded from the stomach acid I was churning up. I wanted to rip something, someone apart. I had never been a violent person in my life but in my demise, I was all too willing to deal out some death of my own. Why not dole out the same detriment that was dumped on me all of my life? What did it matter anymore how I acted? I saw that I was already damned. What did I have to lose?  My life?  My salvation?  They were already gone.  An when those two most precious gifts are gone, you are free to follow the foul feelings that have been previously kept locked away.  It’s amazing the thoughts that will pass through your head when you feel you have been stripped from the rules and regulations of the world. You allow yourself to move into the corners of your mind that were once closed off, those tender areas where malicious thoughts marinate. The uncharted path is terrifying. Exhilarating.

There are times when I literally believe I am capable of killing. It’s not the kind of killing that is planned out, the revenge against someone who jilted me or the careful orchestration of evisceration against an ex-lover.  It's the kind of killing that comes from snapping, from being pushed toward my breaking point until I break someone's neck.  One day, someone will say or do something so infinitesimal that any other person would shrug it off as a mere annoyance but it will be just the push I need to negate any space for reasoning and that rage that has been building inside of me will boil over into me bashing someone's brain in.  No need for a gun or knife. Just my bare hands.  It feels more fitting, more animalistic and satiating to the primal perversion inside. Just me taking someone's head into my palms and slamming it on the ground with a wet crunch, like splitting open a watermelon.  Crack.  Splat.  Repeating until there's nothing more than a mound of wriggling pulp.  Just one more bad word directed toward me, one more dirty look, one more disheveled shirt and I will have no more control over what the anger does, taking over my body and taking it out on someone. And it sickens me because this wasn't me before, this wasn't what I was about before I was transformed into a pale pariah.  In life, I had wanted to help people, to save them. Now, there’s a part of me that feels no one is worth saving.

And I blame people for being undeserving of salvation.  It's mostly their own fault I have no hope, no tolerance for people anymore.  This is not a blanket statement.  There are some individuals out there who I believe deserve the best that life can offer.  I'm talking about the mean people, the rude liars and selfish thieves.  The world itself is so cruel on its own that there's no need for bad people to worm their way in and cause their own havoc.  There should be no more room made for such hate and evil and the people who actively incite disorder should be disposed of.  It's sad to know how the evil world and the evil people who live in it are in cahoots to cut down the good kids, to turn innocence into apathy, beliefs into broken dreams, hope into heavy laments.  And the worst part isn't how the deviants reach people and tear them apart.  The worst part is how the deviants break down the good people and build them up to be a part of the population that pollutes others.  Recruiting those who ridicule.  It's the real life zombie epidemic of emptying people out and converting what's left of them into mindless, heartless bodies that carry on the disease of darkness.  And maybe saddest of all is the fact that I'm one of them.

And I blame myself.  I'm angry that I wasn't stronger than the people who pulled me down.  I'm mad that I wasn't calmer in the face of frustrating circumstances.  I'm angry that I focused more on my anguish than my art.  I did everything wrong, everything backwards.  I took care of everyone else instead of myself.  I wanted God to serve me instead of me serving God.  I wanted to be a great artist yet stopped drawing.  I was depressed about being fat so I ate to quell the crushing weight of body awareness.  I am angry because I never found my own joy.  I don't think my life was very significant and I'm angry because I was never given the chance to be significant.  I mean, I had just finished school and should have began truly living but my life was cut short.  I was weak and let everything overwhelm me.  The constant heartache was too much for my body to take and it simply gave out.  Where was that strength that I should have had, the development of thick skin and confidence in myself to keep me pushing forward?  Where was the courage, the persistence, the knowledge?

I’m angry that I’m dead but I’m more angry that I never truly lived. I never felt romantic love and barely felt familial love from my parents. I never loved myself. I've only kissed one person. I never spooned with anyone. I wasn’t touched, hugged, caressed enough. I never explored the country or the body of a woman. I never lost all the weight and gained all the confidence it would take to be socially accepted.  I never did the things I dreamed of, the small wants and the big needs.  I was a victim of my small town's limitations and never utilized the opportunity I had when I finally escaped.  I was too busy breaking down.

I’m most angry about the fact that I never did anything about those dreams and desires. I just kept wallowing in my own waste hoping that one day things would change.  I never took the initiative, always hoping God or someone special would intervene.  No one ever did.  And now I'm in this in between deadness and I suppose nothing matters anymore.  I've never had an effect on anyone and as I move toward a more permanent death, I guess I never will.  The anger flows through my veins and comes out in hot waves but what does anyone care?  I am not new or unique.  No one will bother with me because they have their own problems.  I'm not the first unsatisfied customer.  I'm not the first failure at life.  I'm not the first dead guy.  So, my anger will never be heard, felt or acknowledged, only added to the giant sea of self-pity that I now drown in daily, taking my places in the water along with all the other broken and bitter bodies of undead past.

I am here but I am not.  I am trapped to the world like insects on fly paper, dead but still attached.  I'm withering away on the inside, a pain, a rage so concentrated that it bores a hole into my very existence.  I'm just another lifeless loser, a statistic.  When I was alive, everyone turned a blind eye to my bruises because they were mending their own wounds.  Now, in death, no one has time to mourn me because life builds up while death deteriorates down.  And I find myself down here, screaming for someone to save me, to hear me, to understand what I'm going through.  I'm not naive in the notion that I am all alone in my pain.  As I said, I am not unique.  I have not and will never experience a sensation that countless others haven't already endured.  But, I am alone in my own way.  While pain is universal, it strikes the nerves in everyone just a bit differently, just enough to let us know that our hurt is alienating.  And because variety is the spice of death as well as life, hitting us all in its own unique and twisted way, you actually don't understand my pain because you will not die in the way that I did.  Death is not the great equalizer.  Death is the great divider...

Denial

“How could this happen to me
I made my mistakes
I’ve got no where to run
The night goes on
As I’m fading away…”
-Simple Plan

My life wasn’t supposed to end up this way. And it wasn’t supposed to end at all. Not yet, at least. Not like this.

Death is kind of peculiar in how it will come for you. For some, it makes itself known gradually in the form of a disease or old age. For others, it’s as quick and unexpected as a stray bullet to the head or a car crash. Existence is like a bulb that dims over time or blows out in a flash and blankets everything in darkness. Sometimes, death can come from behind, give you the ol' reach around and startle you into awareness and other times it stares you right in the face and you never notice.  You catch the glance of oblivion yet remain oblivious.  We'll never know how many times we've danced with death, been twirled by its twisted hand, only to be spun out of its sights and allowed to bust a move on our own for another day, unaware that a silent choreographer just crawled on the carpet past us.

As for me, I was the oblivious one, the car crash bullet boy. That’s about all I know. I couldn’t tell you when or where it happened exactly, only that it was some time between the end of my first year of college and the middle of my third. My demise disguised itself as the normal aches and pains of existence, except these were the aches and pains of expiration. There was a constant pain in my chest that I simply mistook for broken dreams. My head felt foggy but I still had work to do, classes to go to, papers to write, books to read and lab work until four in the morning. All the while, I hurt. But, I ignored it because it wasn’t really anything new. But it wasn’t typical chest pains. It was something harsher, something beyond the normal wear and tear of being alive. But, I kept going because what other option did I have? Meanwhile, my eyes blurred and needed to wear my glasses more. I was tired all the time and started taking naps any chance I got. I started closing my blinds to shut out the light. I lay in bed as the hurt splintered off in all directions. I would perspire despite being cold.  The symptoms sunk into me and spread out of me, pooling pain in all directions.  This went on and on for days until the crescendo of crushing agony eventually slid into a dull ache. I felt something slowly flowing out of me, thick and viscous like honey but not substantial enough to grasp onto to keep it from slipping away.

And then there was emptiness.

I convinced myself it was some freak occurrence, some stress-related spasm. I knew better but I tried to reason with myself because there was still some semblance of rationale within me, a residual trait of humanity. I feigned fatigue in front of people. “You know how finals are,” I’d say as I let out a heavy sigh. Saturday movie nights still continued and I still participated. I sat around my roommates, these people I had went to class with and lived with, and realized I was not a part of them anymore, if I ever was in the first place. I laughed at their jokes and I smiled when they walked into the room but I didn’t feel any of it. It was all so surface. Maybe I really was just tired, I tried to reason with myself. I had been “on” for so long, pretending to be normal in and out of class, that maybe my body had shut itself off involuntarily. It’s hard to keep up appearances all day, every day. I gotta act normal, gotta try to be funny and likeable. But it wasn’t me just being tired. It was me realizing I was completely incapable of understanding these people, these humans that could sit and talk and create connections but I no longer understood what connections were. How do you like someone? How can you make them like you? How do you fake affection when you realize affection is foreign?

They walked to class with me. They helped me with my projects. They sat and watched television with me, ate with me, played video games with me. But they didn’t know me. I didn't know myself. I had lost what I once was. Or maybe it was stolen from me. Like a thief in the night.

A yearning that led to desperation that led to pain that led to atrophy.

I tried to bury it in the back of my brain but the truth was coming out, oozing from my skull like Play-Doh between a child's fingers. Everything around me screamed that I was not normal, that no one would understand me because I was too messed up, too incapable of making friends, of being human. I cried quite a bit back then, hiding my sobs in loud music and my tears in the cases of my pillows, praying to God and asking Him to make me okay, to restore me. He never answered.

I was alone in a way that I hadn’t felt in years. I had spent so much time trying to turn myself into something acceptable to society, shaping and carving myself into someone who appeared normal to the outside, donning a disguise so I could trick people into befriending me before my internal mess manifested itself as it always did. But, I was starting to feel that all that subterfuge wasn’t working anymore, that the disease inside of me was squirming its way out of me, splitting my skin and dislocating my jaw. It was as if I had climbed a mountain and before I could appreciate the apex, I was shoved over and I toppled to the bottom. Beaten down and broken, I looked up and realized I couldn’t climb that again. I wasn’t strong enough. I was quite literally incapable of standing up and even trying. My motivations were missing, my life was extinguished and it all felt pointless.

I graduated. I moved back home. I became a recluse. The emptiness only expanded into a void that could not be ignored nor corrected. And I told no one of the change that had twisted me into a monster, a heartless, soulless shell of something that had long since passed.  Who would believe me?  Who would understand me?  People that I once cared about so much no longer mattered to me. Art didn’t matter to me.  Writing didn't matter to me. Nothing mattered to me. I cut people out and began to rot in my own private hell.

And that’s when I couldn’t deny it anymore.  My condition was beyond sadness, beyond bitterness. 

In my eyes, I was dead.

The question of why plagued my mind. How could this happen to me?  I thought I had done everything right.  I was good and decent and didn't deserve this.  I left home to start living, not to meet my death. How could it be that the one thing I thought would save me actually wound up killing me. The irony only made the deep hole inside of me expand into an anger that consumed what was left of me, driving my body into another state of existence until I had been pushed outside of humanity and into a world made of glass.  Cold.  Sharp.  Transparent.  Just like me...

I Walked with a Zombie

i wandered this road

caked in the gravel

that chipped at my toes

and filleted my feet

blood left in the wake of my walk

sending up a scent for him to swallow

an attraction born from crimson

he came to me

and we walked together

his charm captured my trust

so I took his hand

in hopes for guidance

but he gripped my fingers

and crushed my carpals

his mouth pooled with blood

as my own flowed from my fingers

my eyes widened in horror

when i realized his were glazed over

i struggled to get away

clawing from his reach

and tearing at his face

i tore at his shirt

and as the flesh fell away

i saw the vacant hole in his chest

i turned and ran
barely escaping

as he leapt forward

in a feral frenzy

i fell into the arms of a beautiful girl

who took me in her grasp

and comforted me

my blood soaked her shirt

and she stared at me

with a gorgeous gaze

i finally felt safe in her eyes

as she kissed my lips

then tore them from my face

with her rotted teeth

a cascade of crimson

spewed from my severed skin

and i saw her eyes were vacant as well

i escaped her clutches

but couldn’t run far

for the dead were all around me

they closed in

and took the rest of my fingers

ripped off my clothing

and tore out my heart

i slipped into an undead slumber

and woke with an insatiable hunger

they took the best of me

my fingers

my lips

my humanity

now i’m nothing

but a walking corpse

no lips for passion

no soul for remorse

no heart for love

no hands for art

no head for reason

they tore it apart

now all i have

is the capacity to kill

i must, although i’m filled

with disgust

the desire to devour

is my only will

although i was dead

a thought dawned in my head

my evisceration born a revelation

aren’t we all just dead anyway?

the world will always catch up

and shut us down

like a virus through the blood

that makes us bitter

and filled with a red rage

don’t we all lash out

at everyone around us

don’t we all tear each other apart

for our own sustenance?

we shuffle toward our futures

but our futures are filled with blood

black and bitter

and we hurt each other

to make it feel better

but we're only making it worse

it’s a cycle that spreads

like a disease that funnels

through the veins

and we’ll all be affected

and infected

eventually

until we’re all torn

limb from limb

Residuary

In my last entry, I mentioned the fact that expression wasn’t allowed in my home and I want to elaborate on that. I think I’ve discussed it here before but I obviously need to reiterate it for my own peace of mind.

My mother felt like she was the only one who could show emotion. If I was a bit silly, she would call me out on it and say I was being childish. If I was sad, she’d coldly tell me to grow up. If I got angry with her, she’d get angry with me.  That just made me feel worse until I found myself apologizing to her instead of her apologizing to me, which is the way it should have been.  Eventually, I just learned to keep everything inside because to express myself meant facing ridicule from my mother.  And maybe that's why I'm so open now.  Maybe that's why I might over share in some situations.  Maybe it's my way of making up for all the times when I couldn't be silly, and even worse, when I couldn't be mad or sad.  I realized that you can't keep yourself bottled up in your body.  Yet, I'll admit that maybe I take that epiphany a little too far sometimes.

When I discovered writing, I discovered a way to let out all those emotions that had no where to go.  I was finally able to be silly or creative or mad without the fear of anyone putting me down for just being.  Over time, the writing transferred over to people.  It's not something I mean to do but one thing leads to another and suddenly I find myself laying out too much too soon and I have to start backing off.

And how about this for a leap:  this is also why I wanted my former roommate, Keith, to be such good friends with me (I know, when am I gonna stop talking about this guy??).  He was one of the first people I knew outside of my family and my small town bubble and I hoped that he'd be the one I could finally open up to.  I saw him as a potential mentor, someone older and wiser who would help me develop into a mature adult.  Of course, when I did open up to him, it blew up in my face.  He basically had the same reaction as my mother always did.  He was cold and uncaring.  Dead end with him.  I realized, despite my limited experience at life, I was actually the more mature one.  The disappointment with his attitude was all the more crushing when he not only didn't become my mentor, but became my menace.  So, then I went to that lame counselor who told me everything was all my fault so I had to stop going to him because he made me feel worse.  And then I had no one.

Sure, it's pretty sad that I don't really have anyone to talk to.  And sure, there are a lot of people who offer their ears but I doubt many of them truly mean it.  People always extend that offer but rarely ever follow up on it.  Plus, everyone else is so bogged down with their own problems that it would seem unlikely that they'd take on someone else's baggage.  My dad is made of brick and isn't easily approachable and my sister doesn't care about anyone but herself so I'm pretty much left to myself and my blog.

You could say my over sharing might be an inadvertent cry for help or a natural response to repressed emotions.  And I would probably agree with you.  Then again, I guess it goes back to whether or not sharing yourself with people is good or bad.  It depends on the person and how much you share and how soon.  Just because because I have a natural inclination toward sharing myself doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad thing.  I just happen to share with people.  I don't think that's the trouble.  I suppose the true trouble comes from choosing the wrong kind of people to share information with or maybe coming on too strong with certain tidbits.  And that's something I'll have to work on over time.  And that just comes from interacting with people and maturing as a social person. 

Ha, yeah, like that will happen.

Branomaly

I was watching the latest season of The Real World (I know...stay with me) when one of the girls said something I found interesting.  She and another girl were talking about their cast mate.  As they stood in front of the bathroom mirror and applied their makeup, they were discussing his reserved qualities, commenting on the fact that he never shared very much of himself.  One of the girls seemed concerned while the other girl expressed her admiration for his quietness.  To paraphrase, she said that people are all too willing to share too much of themselves these days.  Ask someone how they are and you're hearing about their struggle to come to terms with their alcoholic parent or the triumph of overcoming a speech impediment.  She said she actually liked it when people kept to themselves and didn't spill too much.  I found that interesting because that is the complete opposite of who I am in real life and in my writing.  And it begs a few questions:  am I sharing too much of myself with people?  Am I somehow diminishing the mystique of me by revealing more information than necessary?  And are people finding this annoying?

I think the reasons I try to be so open about so many things are because 1) when I was younger, expression wasn't allowed in my house and 2) I hope that openness can possibly create a connection with other people.  I think there are some thoughts, some feelings, some situations that people find themselves in.  These thoughts, feelings and situations might be embarrassing or maybe scary.  And when someone else can come up and talk about them, it makes you feel like you aren't the only one.  You don't feel so alienated and if you're really lucky, whoever talks about their similar circumstances might even work out a solution that you can also use.  Over the years, I've come to realize that expression is important.  You see all these programs and therapists that talk about expressing your feelings and airing things out.  The fact that communication is so open these days only reinforces that notion of expression.  We can just about talk to anyone in the world through cellular phones and Internet.  So, I feel there's been this giant push to be more communicative with others because the technology is there.  So, we might as well use it.

And maybe that's why the girl on The Real World didn't mind her cast mate's inclination toward privacy.  Perhaps she found it refreshing?  A nice change of pace from the emotional/verbal vomit that has been assaulting our senses for the past several years?  And it makes me wonder if I share too much, too fast.  This new(ish) job is actually a great opportunity to find out.  Reviewing my behavior over the course of the past week or so with my coworkers, there are times when I think I've over shared.  It's not so much that I automatically lay out my life story.  They just ask questions, which open the doors to answers, which open the doors to an explanation of answers, which most likely leads to over sharing.  I wonder if this annoys people or if they find it nice to see someone so open or maybe they don't care either way.

There's a part of me that thinks I should keep some things to myself.  Maybe I should be that guy who keeps to himself, the one who is reserved.  Not that I should shut everyone out but maybe I shouldn't be so quick to lay it all out there within the first conversation.  Besides, being quiet and mysterious is sexy, no?  There's something about wanting to know something more about a person.  Once you've found out what you wanted to know, the spark of mystery is pretty much put out.  It doesn't mean you lose interest completely.  I suppose it depends on your level of interest in the person in the first place.  I don't know.  Maybe if I hold some things back, leave some things up to the imagination, that might generate interest.  It kind of goes back to the whole "chase" thing.  People like the chase.  They chase fame and fortune and lovers and friends and material things.  Once they get it, it's not as gratifying as the desire for it.

And then you have to think of the dangers of the interwebs.  If you're too open, some of the info you've so graciously shared with the masses could end up in the hands of a teacher/boss/probation officer and that can get a little awkward.  It's one of those tricky areas.  It's information you're comfortable enough sharing with a large audience of strangers but not something you would necessarily want people close to you to know about.  Does that make sense?  You can talk about your abysmal bathroom habits or your interest in Scientology and it might make for good blog material but it would also make for interesting water cooler fodder in your office.  You wouldn't want people knowing what you're doing in the crapper during your lunch break.  I guess it's a bit weird to feel so comfortable sharing the most intimate parts of yourself with a group of unknowns rather than the people you actually interact with on a daily basis.  It makes sense, I suppose.  You're safe behind your computer screen.  You don't have to see the faces of the disapproving and those who don't like you can easily be blocked or ignored.  And those who are into what you're sending out will come to you.  It's a process of elimination.  It's a steady flow of traffic.  In real life, you pretty much have a set number of people who see you at any given time and if they find fault with your expressions, it could cause tension and future problems.

Then again, this is just who I am.  I've found something that eases the pressure of existence and so I will continue to use this medium as long as I feel it's beneficial to me and those who might have something to gain from my words.  I'm open.  I'm easy to talk to and I'll easily talk to you if I find you're a suitable fit for my fits of mad talk.  And over the years, I've pretty much talked about everything that was on my mind.  I can't think of too many times when I censored myself.  If I feel it's worth discussing, I will.  If it's not worth it, i won't.  But, I don't actively pick and choose what content goes into my writing.  It just happens to be whatever I'm stressing about at the moment of writing.  And with that being said, I'm not going to claim to be super open.  There are some things I haven't discussed (did that intrigue you?  are you curious to know what those things are??) and that's only because I haven't personally found comfort in throwing that kind of stuff out there.  As I said, it's all about what I'm comfortable with.  It's all about relieving stress and feeling better about certain issues.  And as I get to know myself better and discover who I am as a person and as a voice and as a soul, different things will come out and need to be discussed and/or vented.     

And what I find more interesting than someone keeping information to themselves is someone who reveals that information slowly over time.  It's like leaving a bread crumb trail to your brain, revealing a little more with each epiphany, peeling back the layers of behavior and personality.  For me, when I read someone over a period of time, I find them more interesting the more I learn.  Sure, mystery is sexy in its own way but I much prefer revelations.  Not only does it work for me for writing, but reading as well and I can only hope my readers feel the same way.  I mean, who doesn't want to be intriguing?  Who doesn't want to be an anomaly?  And how do you get there?  Do you take away?  Do you give a little bit?  Do you pull back in bunches of break off bits and pieces?  I suppose all I can do is keep myself as open and honest as possible and hope I'll find an audience who will find me a tad bit awesome.