Saturday, July 24, 2010

Dark Inventory continued...

Moods,
I love moods.
Assortments of me
and moment makers.
Decisions made based
on unformed feelings.
Emotions?
Non acceptance?



My mother now sleeps on the couch in this blurred unkempt section of my life. The wrists are still not respected. They are held as ransom for attention. The Pastor of our church is called and is on his way to the house. I’m sitting outside after another carving. I am staring at the patterns on my wrist kind of high as my arm lifts the cigarette to my mouth. I know my parents won’t call the hospital or the police again for fear of losing me. The issue with the wrists have almost become a routine for all of us. I understand my parents turn to the church. I am excited by this attention, the more the merrier. Its so dark and I can only see from the light off the kitchen. The road wraps around the house from the left side of the house to our driveway. I can hear in the distance the squeal and hum of the engine. From around the corner I can see the silhouette of the pastor speed to the front of the house. He’s on a crotch rock and it’s odd. His large figure knocks down the kick stand and his feet hit the pavement. He doesn’t even look normal outside of church, with his long beard, glasses, and pipe. Is he’s looking for the santa clause stereotype?
I am excited with the sit downs. Our pastor has been called on several occasions to speak with me. I find a passion within myself that lies dormant the majority of the time. When he enters the dialog, I am lit on fire, so to speak.
He walks down the steep drive towards me. I sit and kind of smirk pulling the cigarette to my face. He gets to the steel table I am sitting at in front of the house and pulls out one of the chairs. He plops down in it groaning and sighing. I blow smoke towards him. "You know, I puff on a pipe in the office once in a while" he blurts out, try not to act offended by the deliberate smoke I have blown his way.
Sometimes I believe I wasn’t given the ability to see things as they are. How instant, formal, acceptable in definition and value some things seem to be for others. When I began to think for myself not to long ago it was similar to a flood. Piles and piles of notebooks analyzing anything I could think of would pile under my bed. I would look deep for an explanation, an acceptable truth. Why did anything have to be the way it is? I felt at times I was tired of living underneath. I didn’t know what I was living under, but all these questions were appearing in my head and given answers had no justice to me anymore. It was a spiral of abstract thought. It just seemed to be a yearning for knowledge at first, but then it quickly turned to fear. Everything was tied down, dulled down to a definition. Everything known had a place. It fit snug in every facet of the world. It made sense. It all made sense and had an end. Where was the change? Where was my place? What could I accomplish in a full world? I am starting to see now that I was, in a way, scared of my own perspective. I still am. I didn’t want to place myself in front of it. I did not want to fail. My eager questioning of ideas and conceptions devoured me. It was too much for a young man to embrace. Anything but the front of the train was where I wanted to be. I needed out of this drastic channel of thought. This turn to nothingness. This transcendental agony of ego and fear. This Nothingness everything seemed to be drawn too.
My view of the church was obviously not spared. It took a huge, obvious beating. To fill my theological abuse craving the pastor was welcomed with opened arms. He shared a set belief system that to me had stopped in motion. I was ever progressing. I was gaining momentum. I was young, fresh and open to the ideas of this tumultuous society. I was beginning to understand that you can only go so far with the majority of the pastors in a religions establishment. Every question had an answer. He seemed obligated in his answers. Nothing was unknown. I was given the ability to question and so was he. The pastor had chose to be a pastor. For some reason in his life he had accepted Christianity and all that comes along with it to be the way.
Acceptance is a virtue. It’s a great one we all must come to realize. It is society, it is structure, it is reality as we know it. It is surviving in a world. Some Acceptance though, needs to be shoved out of the way. My pastor couldn’t answer half the questions mulling around in my head because he was obligated by the structure of the church. It works for him and there is nothing wrong with his acceptance. I will not accept and we always stop from further discussion on why It has to be through Christ, why Christianity and why not any other section of religious beliefs. It works for many. It felt as if I was moving in someone else’s circles. I had a basis of understanding on how a large group of people had come to understanding and acceptance. Christianity was a culture shift just like anything else. Branches upon branches of understanding and then acceptance.
I can not move on because I can not at this point accept. I have every reason to deny and this denial feeds my depravity. I don’t even have a full understanding of what depravity means at this point. It mixes in with the good. It swirls in and settles in me. A thoroughly confused state that physically appears through unchallenged action. I feel as if I am the only questioning person alive and I have every right to unchallenged action because I can not find meaning, true meaning in anything but self abuse. It gets attention and that is all that I know, its all that I want. I continue asking questions and view our conversation as a winning or a losing dialog. I believe I have already won because I am feeding my ego when I ask him questions he can not answer to my satisfaction. I ask him about Christ and all those who don’t know about Christ and will never know him in this world. "Do they go to hell?" I ask. "We can not judge, only god" he answers. "We do know him so we must believe" he continues. He explains somewhat like this, but more was said. More was always said, but I really didn’t listen.
The pastor had won before he even sat down. He has accepted and I have not. He was satisfied and I was not. He found himself in a belief structure that I had every right to question, but did so in the wrong way. I was looking for something more, maybe for my ego, maybe for truth, who knows.
"The questioning and the lose of God is natural" he said. I am not sure if this is exactly what he said. The essence of how I perceived what he said is all that matters in my story for now. It’s how my cycle began and continues, with a perception of what may or may not be how it is. I will twist and manipulate structure and dialog to fit my vision and show you my life’s beginning battle.
Evil though, is real. Evil is a compilation, a word that narrows down an essence of what really is. The essence of Evil, or since I am using words to describe evil, I am really narrowing it down anyway. To get across to anyone who reads, I have to narrow the essence down in some way. There is no way around it. Evil is something in and of itself. Whether learned, whether you just are. It is chosen. There is a lot of gray area to determine when evil exists, where it does and the act of, but it can also be ignored. The essence of Evil may be what my pastor is seeing, it is the narrowing of the opposite of his god. And at a young age, like I am now and was when I conversed with him, I may have been evil in his definition. It may also just be my perception.
A temporary turn, I have finally let the layers shed. They kind of evaporate into air and create a humid, unbearable ora around me. It is my defense against the whips of my past. The blows I allowed myself to take and take and take. Now the whips will continue, but I will create vents to let the stem out. They may be Evil but I am not. I am using pain against pain. I feel my eyes roll back and feel folded inside out. I let something in to let something out and evil my be what others see, such as the pastor. Its interpretation and it may be right or it may be wrong.
I briefly think of sober times. Sober decisions, sober results. I think of a young God. The kind of god that sits in a child’s perception. An innocent being adults always talk about and strive to retain once again. Its an easy uncomplicated god. Where there was no question and nothing beyond simple acceptance. A child’s trust for what must be the pin point of all understanding, all answered. No question and a happy run around the yard and out across the street to play. Nothing else mattered because everything had sense. No analyzing.
Then came other questions. Then more questions. A few more years. No answers for new perplexing wonders. Something became constant, Compulsive prayer, Seeking answers, frantic prayer. Something growing in confusion, fear and a fading of bond. Something was lost along a fairly typical path of upbringing. Everything was just becoming one big giant question. And I did not care. I was losing more than faith. I was losing connection with myself. There was a time when I did have a connection with me. It may not seem like a wiring that I once had, but I did contain my own self, once.
I ran out of everything. It all just seemed without flavor. I had given too much and now had all too little for myself. I was trying to take back by wringing out the rag that contained my own blood onto there new floors I polished daily. There god was a tradition to me, along with everything else known. I couldn’t find comfort in the known. I wasn’t progressing in my own nature. All I have ever known up to this throbbing time was giving, gave, given. Helping your sake, regardless of mine. And I was happy with that. I was feeding my ego, but wanted your split second shock of thanks in my system. I needed you to feel agreement with the situation I was in with you. I need a smile and a sense of self gratification contained in your appreciation.
Everything was you and then me. It didn’t take much for me to attach myself to your wants and needs. Who ever came along, it became them. It was easier to see through someone else’s eyes to help manufacture my perception.
The pastor would leave and I had hoped he had felt satisfaction with me. I sure did. I felt the grains of ego filling the brim. I received what I needed and that was a debate, however it progressed. I would take it as I had always taken things I grew passion for my way. Whether that way was right or wrong. Whether words of truth vibrated anywhere around the narrowed setting of the moment.
Words are running out and feelings, abstract thoughts are filling the smoked filled porch area. I listen to the fade of the pastors motor bike as my head continues spinning. Frames are all that do justice after playing catch with words for hours. The mind will continue discussing with itself. What wasn’t said? What points did I not get across? Ego this, ego that and it magnifies so little in reality. Its fun to play in the nature of yourself. Everything is dulled down with words. Everything described. It’s fun to let the real thoughts that can not be described verbally swell your head. Maybe that is what I am running from. Maybe that chaos of the surface inside, the real truth of the self swirling insides, scary, intense, real, constantly being dulled and narrowed for interpretation maybe be driving me and my sickness. The unaware blurted into one plain, knowing it truly belongs to another. Words running out and your acceptance running out. Confinement in agony. Watching it all blow away in a cloud of smoke.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Dark Inventory continued...

sporadic realizations,
suffocation under devastating
expectations,
swollen motivation,
infection,
is it the opposite of
acceleration?



I don’t dream. I haven’t for a long while. I have tried to make sense of things, but it has gotten me too many unapproving looks. "Quite down!" is how I translate those smirks. My vivid dreams years ago filled me with ideas I used to write down furiously in different colored notebooks. Before I felt the need to erase. Accepting what I am told and taught year after year would probably not be one of my strong suites.
My early days were ran for me. I allowed it. I let my friends make decisions for me. The lack of self esteem allowed me to be a slave to everyone but myself. I am alone now. So I question. A forceful cleaning of the slate.
I was finally starting to break free of a disgusting grip. My recently lost friendship, which I finally denied was my only decision making process up to this point. My self esteem was buried until this moment. I felt it bubbling inside and it confused me. Me was non existent without latching onto another for direction. My friend, who I will not talk about much, only reference, made my decisions for me. I coveted his relationships with any woman. I believed I could not have any real relationship with the opposite sex, but wanted one very badly. My friends were no good unless I had his approval first. This power he had over me was not laid out in words or on paper, it was a mold I willingly fell into. I really am not sure if he knew what he was doing at the time either.
The wet ink smears as my left hand intensely scratches the chewed up pen across the page. Passion is one word I am begging to grasp. I hit on everything that doesn’t connect in my world. I hit it all. I dissect it all.
I spit pieces of chewed up plastic across the room from my pen. I am hung over from the night before, but focus isn’t a problem. These moments come and go and I recognize this. The idea of nonconforming peaks in my scull. Questions form, questions swell and answers do not come. Tears drop to page out of my eyes. I stop, gaze forward for a moment fried and numb in the head. "Why the hell should I cry for this shit anyway?" My thoughts will all be gone again in a few hours. War scenes progress on the t.v. in front of me as the pages fill. Anarchists ideals bounce inside my scull, fill in gaps, then exit. An idea implanting more questions I really don’t need. Politics inflate and swell my scull. The globe devours me in my basement room and I feel important for expressing questions I am told not everyone asks. "Your not like kids your age" my mother tells me, when I express my feelings daily to her over microwave able bacon and burnt pancakes. I thrive to hear this come from my mothers mouth. My self esteem grows in these moments. Growing up in Central Illinois has given me a right to search for more. You grow up thinking there is always something more. Which is probably typical around the nation. I think it’s the unusual amount of corn in these plain states that does it. You are raised with a wonderful brand of Narcissism. That you are the one that will get out. "You’re an artist, outside the box is where its at." is the feeling I am conditioned to believe. I become a revolver of emotion and expectations rise. I vomit paint and words that point inward. My high school days become a lit fuse that burned quick and bright.
Confusing is one word I should probably use to describe these years. Everything has to melt together for some sort of base or platform to stand on and scream or moan or what ever the fuck one does in this miserable period everyone goes through. Girls become women and even more unobtainable. That vein in your pants screams "I’LL GO AWAY FOR A WHILE IF YOU JUST SHOW ME TO HER!" Instead clawed at the bottom of your desk. Making sure you set aside at least two hours after school for yourself. A girlfriend? What the fuck is that in these decadent times. The cool kids have that. What does a pussy feel like? Sweat rolling down forehead in math class. Cock about to burst through pants. To what? The sixty five year old math teacher spewing out painful equations as I try to act confused so I don’t get called on and have everyone staring at my boner under this half desk? "O I was just staring at the big boob blonde who’s asshole straddles dental floss in the front row" I wish I could have said at one of those almost awkward moments if it would have ever arose. My nuts weren’t that big in high school though. No gull. Everything so unobtainable. Then comes the acne, the weight gain, the confusion of what fad is in and where you click, if that fails what sport to join so you can at least ride the bench and look humanoid. Searching for something. Hunting for something. Anything that will satisfy your insecurities of this accelerating four year growth. This could be were the vibrant spirit of a child is lost. Were rebellion begins and life begins its suck. The fangs pierce and sink in deep. All appreciation is lost because we all know and hear that times always could get a lot worse. I should begin to realize and appreciate what I have in life. It really seems to have no meaning ever more so in that time of my life then any other. The gloves began to wear through and the bloody knuckles began to pulse. I gave up. I switch gears. Fed up. So early in my life. My art showed it. I began to write more because paint just didn’t seem to do the job any longer. Not blunt enough. Not sour enough. The point could be delivered directly to the heart with just a few words. The interpretation could be narrowed down to a fine point. A painting could take days for someone to figure out. I needed a blade and maybe some metaphorical bullets.
My notebooks I wrote in daily were left open and out for my nosy parents to stumble on. They are good parents and I knew they would recognize my wannabe difference. They would fuel it and I would rise in my own little world of un ordinary bliss.
With so much arrogance at such a young age, and so little self esteem, I might as well be a mutant breed of some sort. I strive for a philosophy of my own, with so little information of the world around me. I want an answer or a conclusion to every question so quick that life becomes more confusing and diluted then when I originally began.


like a rabid dog,
rampant in savage times,
Chasing infectious deeds,
finding death
only a shallow pit to fall...


I remember that night and the change of plans. Devon was out of the picture because of an occasional fling with one of his women. Sex came first and who could blame him. I of course had nothing of the sort to worry about yet. My ass fell down in the big black thrown like rolling chair in front of the computer. Messaging begins with friends I barely know. A riot of a night may occur in just a few short hours.
My dark red 98' Saturn quickly drops from our steep drive onto the cool black pavement. The sun is setting and im off to another interesting night. A splurge of immoral disaster on myself and witnesses. I cruise excited down the street once again. "Maybe they will have pot" I think to myself. Wondering what my fairly new friends use for recreation. I pass the Lutheran Church before I make the right hand turn into the neighborhood. I quickly burst into the basement door located in the back of the garage. I plummet into the room, witnessing three freaks holding tinfoil over lighter inhaling some sort of fumes. "D-MONEY, WHAT UP!" they scream as I walk through the door. "Not much" I calmly say. I tried to be calm at least. "What the fuck is that?" I mumble intriguingly. "Awe nothing, just some yellow jackets." One of the swine muttered, choking on the foul smelling smoke he just inhaled. "Here you snort it" another one said. Without a whole hell of a lot of words I had a dollar bill shoved in my nose as another broke open some yellow and black capsules and let the powder spill on the magazine into semi-looking lines. I plugged my other nostril and snorted fire. IT FUCKING BURNED! My eyes watered and everyone stared. "Good shit huh? I said nothing. I cleared my eyes of the tears and tried to breath through my clogged nostrils. I sat there and asked for a beer. "Out in the fridge in the garage." I heard from one of these fucks who really didn’t matter to me. I chugged a beer and followed everyone upstairs. My face still hurt and the beer seemed to cool the fire. The cheap speed like substance and the beer blurred the night good.
Soon these fucks were handing me beers with broken capsules dropped into them. They didn’t think I witnessed them dropping them in, but I saw there smirks as they added to my liquor. I could have been shitty. I didn’t retaliate though. I drank rapidly. This night was starting to fade as fast as it began. Some football game was playing in the background. My gaze quickened then slowed on the formations on the screen.
I must have been aggressive because the night was ending quick. I was in the passenger seat of my own car and some kid named Randy I think was driving and laughing.
We soon turned the corner to my home. Randy parked my car and laughed, mumbled something, gave me the keys and jumped into the other car and sped off. "Fuck" I thought to myself. My nights increase in chaos and grow shorter every time.
Its only ten o’clock and im home. I feel energized and aggressive as hell. I storm through my house and past my mother on the couch without saying anything. I head for the computer room and force it on. I start to message. She is on. Yes a girl. One I secretly want and force myself to love. She isn’t responding to my fucked ravings and I am boiling. I grow depressed, then I rage. I am up and down and feel like I am in a cage. I can do nothing and small thoughts set me off. I can’t connect anything for real meaning and storm out to talk to my mother.
She awakens and knows I am defiantly a mess. She doesn’t have really any sympathy in here voice and that is what I am craving for at this point. Pity and nothing else. Her words don’t mean anything. I am only searching for the tone. I am not getting what I want and my tears flow in anger. I storm to the basement, leaving her in mid sentence.
I turn up the music load in my room. Only load enough for me to be content without waking everyone in the house. I am restless and want results. Results that will calm my confusing, pointless irrational anger. I see the lining of shot glasses on the shelf above my bed. I remember lining them up there the other day. I took so much time to make them look perfect too. I grasp one and throw it at the wall. It shatters and I stumble over to pick up a piece. Without hesitation I start scrapping the shard of glass across my wrist violently. I can’t seem to go as deep as I want to though. Or do I want to go deep? A desperate attention getter. I start to bleed a little from the horizontal, vertical, and cris cross scrapes on my wrist. Almost an abstract pattern forming on my wrist and working its way down my for arm. I stop and stare at them for a moment trying to retain what I am doing to myself. My head starts to motion to the aggressive music blaring from my speakers. I smirk and catch myself. "I should be depressed" I think to myself as my room starts to spin again. I turn up the music slightly and crawl into bed. The bleeding is good enough now. I position myself on my bed so my sheets will soak up what little blood runs down my arm. I know my mother will be down any minute now to tell me to turn down the music so I shut my eyes and get comfortable in this awkward position I lay in and wait.


A cry for help,
A coming to a head,
A world shakes
and all must fall apart
to come together...


The majority have a method, ideas, and then pursue. I wound myself like a desperate animal, waiting to be fed. Fed with the attention a confused idea less child needs. Someone who needs pity. Who believes suffering, even unnecessary to most, will continue to put himself through this because everything is fragile and needs to be tested. Extreme lunges are taken at what seems to be the definition of chaos and disaster to the majority. Insecure and desperate. Whatever has spread inside my mind, insecurity or a multitude of baggage whether conditioned or inherent, rots. These thoughts flood a young mind. They decay with a simple push. For the longest time, not deserving was the lining of me. I didn’t know how to show everyone important to me that I really truly wasn’t gifted and deserving like they praised me for. I wanted to destroy that image of me that may be deserving or may have any potential that could grow into something more.
I need all the attention though. It’s the cry for help. As I write now, I talk about the past as if I have fully grow from it. I talk about the past as if it’s the past and no longer the present, but its all still here. I try to be my own therapist to pretend I have a grip. That it will never get as worse as they say it could because I’m in some control in my mind. My family hasn’t let me hit the bottom. I haven’t let myself hit bottom. I want room for more usage. I don’t have the concept of life and death. I don’t know what it means to lose. So I push the limits and I fully don’t know what those limits are yet. Maybe my perception of not deserving will become a reality and all will make sick sense.
My mother was lured down the stairs that night by the music. "What the hell! Derrick!" is all I remember hearing from my mother standing above me. The reality hit and the embarrassment set in. Towels wrapped around my somewhat bleeding arms and forced out of my room and up stairs. I didn’t want to hear anger. I buried myself in the couch cushions as soon as I hit them. I could hear my mother yell for my father. I could hear someone pick up the phone and start to quickly dial. I knew exactly who they were trying to reach and I knew they would get a hold of her. We lived across from her at the time and I knew she would come through the door at any moment.
My grandmother was the last person I wanted to witness whatever I was putting myself through. They saw the thin line I straddled. My grandmother was angry too. She unwrapped the towels and examined my wrist and the urgency started to calm when they figured I was safe. I could hear there voices converse. I didn’t piece much of any of it together. I wasn’t drunk anymore, but exhausted. I passed out.
Sometimes the world seems easier to swallow when your perception is twisted. I know that sounds backwards, but its true for me at least. Does this world revolve only when my mind continues to function? Would people really exist and go on if I didn’t? Is it my imagination running a muck only for a short moment and in it all this? I have continually heard people tell me I am not alone, many people think and are similar to you. You are not alone in this. Maybe I want to be unique. Maybe I want to be alone in this for a while. Maybe I want to self loath, feed my demons, and drag on miserably. Nothing helps when you don’t want it to. I defiantly do not want it at this point. I really just want to continue to see through this perception and only this perception for now. Not knowing and defiantly getting peoples attention through my way. Gaining whatever I can through my cause. Figure out who holds on to me through my cause. I know its sick. I enjoyed that chaos though. I fell in love with it because no one knew how to grasp it fully ever.
As an active, using, unaware, drug attic and alcoholic at the time, I tend to embellish, but it all leads to the truth, even through chaotic abstraction. As I write, I grow. As I write I remember the broken structure that was my mind and may still be now. Its healing though. I remember every day, every minute, how easily the structure can crumble in mind. The abstract process that is my mind will never leave me. It’s a nature that can devour so easily any healthy structure I attempt to build and you must see the chaotic mindless side. I must accept it. I must show myself and make amends to those close to me by showing them the unrealistic depravity of my consuming nature. For my sake I must show you. The sickness must be exposed. It must be known or it will give me every reason to hold on and in stressful times return to the darkness and depravity. It must be brutal at times. Whatever mood the memory ignites, I must write.
The self mutilation had past. The next morning arrives and I get ready for school. I want to forget and move on. I want it to pass without any hesitation. I want it to pass. I remember my mother only. My grandmother was gone and my father was gone at work. My mother scrambles. She doesn’t understand and I want this. I want her in this chaos. At the moment though, I want her to let it pass. I continue to get ready for school. "Your not going to school" I heard from her around the corner.
Its me and her. She knows this. All I have to offer is resistance at this point. I know what comes next. She made a phone call and it wasn’t my grandmother. I flip the dinning room table in a rage. Anger is my instant reaction to anything that I don’t agree with at this point. I feed every emotion because I don’t know how to deal with any feeling. It’s a feeding frenzy in my mind. Nothing is ignored or channeled. As my mother sobs and screams I dart to the back of the house. I race through my parents bedroom and lock myself in the back bathroom and wait.
I hear the door open up front and many voices converse. I hear voices over radio scramble as they got closer to the back room. A knock on the bathroom door, "Derrick, can you come out here please?" a stern voice echoed. The reality always hits me, especially now. Its easy to resist my parents. Its always easy in that familiar bubble to be your disgusting self. For me the reality comes crashing down when it bursts, when others find there way in. I can no longer escape the careless destruction I provide to our house, our family, they can only swallow and take so much alone. I open up the door. Three officers are standing there, staring, talking into there shoulder phones.
"Can you tell us what is going on?" one said. I didn’t say much, but followed them out into the living room. I sat there with them as they asked me what I did to my wrists and why. I still didn’t say much. I got the impression that we were still waiting for someone. My mother distraught in the corner. My mother is a strong woman. Her mother was a strong woman. I backed my mother into a corner though. She had never seen anyone put themselves through something like her son was. Her son. Her son was in pain and cried loudly in self destruction. He needed an escape from the sudden flood of life and no answers were available. My pulse was anything that gained eyes. Compulsive action coursed.
Her son, my mother, in twined in pain and confusion clawed at answers. Internal, environmental, whatever the course, answers would slowly evolve, painfully evolve. Who we were waiting for came through the door. It was a councilor of some sort. She was here to observe and make a decision if I was to be off to the hospital. We conversed but I wasn’t focused. She looked at my wrist and me being sixteen at this point, I was under her control. "We have to take you to the hospital for an assessment" I heard. "I want to go to school" I said under my breath. I knew that wasn’t happening and there was no way out of it. My drastic decision making process had got me to this stage and I would have to follow through. No escape. My mother though. My mother. No control now either.
Im pretty sure they stuffed me in the back of one of the cop cars or maybe the woman councilors car. I can’t remember. I do know it had a cage like wall separating the back from the front.


I do have a song of myself.
I don’t sing it yet.
I do attempt,
I clear my throat,
Multiple times.
I defiantly am trying to strum.


I read a lot of Whitman in the hospital. I wrote a lot in the hospital. Some of my best was written that first stay in the hospital because pain can be so beautiful when it is not fully understood or felt. I read Leaves of Grass as if nothing else inspired. My room was lonely. A couple beds, but only me. I have no clue and couldn’t live with any structure or boundaries right now. Everyone else was out there and I had time to myself.
The psychiatric wing of the hospital painted a pretty vivid picture to anyone who cared to know were I was and what had happened. Family was really starting to know now. Sometimes I really thought I was a canvas and my issues and my families true colors were quickly showing themselves vibrantly through me. There is no fault, it just is. Its how it is. I just felt so sick with emptiness for so long. No love, no affection existed. Through my standards at least. I have no idea where these standards have come from, but the need to full fill them has landed me in the hospital. A jolt of chaos. This jolt and lack of structure may bring emotion, anything, something more.
I just think in a jumbled mess. I have attempted attention before. I remember the first self mutilation. I had a green striped button up on. I remember rolling up the sleeves as I locked myself in the bathroom downstairs next to my room that had a kitchen sink in it. I always liked that in the room because it was unique to me. Anyways, I think I dug at my wrist with a sharp fork or something. Memories to me can be vague and vivid at the same time. What was vivid to me still to this day was the lack of outlet. I didn’t know how to express such strong emotions. I just wanted and nothing came. I wanted everything to fit the way it made sense to me in my mind. Whatever that means that is how it was. I just held out for to long without talking or whatever a sixteen year old would do backed into a corner. I lay back on the floor and scraping as strings of flesh peeled away to blood. Small amounts of blood and tears and cold tile. I think I had the shower going so my brother, who’s room was right down the hall or my parents couldn’t hear. I did make sure after composing myself and buttoning up the sleeves of the shirt that my mother saw a slight glimpse of my scrapes as I painted at the kitchen table that night. And she cried that night when she called me into her room and I sat on the edge of the bed listening. Of course, this is what I wanted, but I really am still unsure if I knew what kind of attention that would get.
Then the nights of getting drunk in my brothers room with my buddies. Getting caught by my mother, her emotions getting the best of her and calling me a loser as I stumbled upstairs yelling obscenities drunk as shit. Her words impacting me and my rash decision to flee in the night. I remember the dead of winter and walking miles numb and drunk. Dark, sad and lonely. There is no blame. It just was.
Its amazing, I tried to read leaves of grass once before. I was in my room in one of the many houses we lived in over the years. It didn’t have the same impact then as it did in the hospital. Its crucial to me to take in moments like these. Its full filling to find different meaning in something with a change of environment. Like going on vacation or moving away for a while and coming home. The newness of yourself mixed with the old simmers. It makes you appreciate something in the mixture. You sit in the middle of something becoming one. Its simple in its combination. It only takes a few days of absence or change sometimes to realize and appreciate your surroundings. I love to leave my familiar surroundings. I have a need to disappear. I’m sure a lot of others enjoy a vacation in one way or another, with company or without. I just love to disappear and mainly I love to disappear alone.
Most of the time my departure must be recognized, someone must know. The drugs were good for the isolation and sometimes they are good for a scene. I can act out the insanity on drugs with little or no stage fright. Sometimes I can consume to extreme levels and force mental isolation. In this extreme desperation im searching for something. Whether it be attention or whether it be something higher or something deeper. At this juncture its something higher alright and all its going to get is the wrong attention at this point. My chemicals are fucked in my head. They are not of my own and what is left of my own combined with the foreign substances put in my body at extreme amounts along with the ignorance of youth are a great chaos. I am foreign now to my parents and to anyone close to me. Monday has almost passed and Tuesday is on its way. Maybe I will be gone for the rest of the week as well, who knows? I might as well admit I take pride in some abstract way where I have ended up. I know friends I was with that extreme night will start to wonder why im not in class. Why I haven’t called. I can’t wait to explain my actions and where they have landed me. The attention is sweet in such a sick way. I now have wounds to wrap and scars to hide. "Maybe they will ask when they catch a glimpse of my war wounds what has happened?" I think to myself. I am taking so much pride in this hospital visit and reminisce while reading and writing. I justify and smirk at the outside world. And the idea of the "outside world" gives me some foreign comfort. I feel like an individual and want this. Now I feel like I am singled out and not along for the ride. Im not living up to anyone else standards at the moment and they have to listen. I am not sure what I want to say, but the attention is there now. Its not on my brother anymore. Its not on my father. Its not on anyone but me right now and I know this and the feeling is overwhelming.
Maybe I am reading and writing in this moment more because I feel I need to have something important to say now that I have the spotlight on me. Something profound and something containing truth that will piece together everything. Maybe I don’t want to be the lost child anymore. That corner was getting cold. I am so sensitive to the world I live in that containing was not a option anymore.
My parents will search for the truth as well. They will only make it worse for now. They are ignorant in this search along with me. Once again, there is no blame. I will defiantly help in making the wound swell as well. It must be inflamed and that is all I know to do for now. The infection must continue for now. My parents will run for the church, to the pastors for answers. They will run for cover in therapy. I will sit in the hospital for now and the list of questions will grow. My insecurities, my unworthy inner feelings, my anger, my pain, my inner scream will grow so loud that my passion to please others will mutate into such a large selfishness that everyone who has love for me will lose trust in who I used to be.
This abuse of substance and of myself could be said to have been the first of many cycles of searching, because that is what I am doing, searching. I may not fully understand what that means at this point, but I am on my way. Down some path that has to be extreme at this point. The delivery of what I am trying to say is so brutal to myself and others that it is almost impossible to really focus on reason at this point. It is especially hard on my mother and father who only want the best for there children and are so baffled at what actions I am taking. They give and care to an expected point. My brother and I have been raised in a typical middle class, middle American family and all should have an outcome of expected smiles. At least this is how I perceive there perception. I don’t want it that way for some reason. I have allowed myself for unknown reasons at this point to be backed into a corner. A push over with insecurities that are best ignored by pleasing others, but like I said the container can only hold so much volume. Holes must be made for relief and the spill is violent at first. The breach in self must be patched and concentrated on before the whole can be focused on.
The hospital is the most comfortable place I have been in a while and I have a great starting point here. I have attention here and the professionals will help me in there own way for now.
I am curious about being here and still almost proud of landing myself here. Its almost the first in a series of decisions I have made for myself and these are the consequences and I am almost excited about them. I am so controlled at this point(and maybe I still am) about what others think. Its all about what I want to show them, what I want to prove to them. I am independent in chaos in a way. I try to figure out and conclusions are drawn. Maybe my actions are a cry for help from the lose of a friendship I put so much effort into. His name doesn’t matter, but the "friendship" is a great example of my insecurities. He dictated any other friendships I may have had at the time. I allowed him to judge them for me in order to control who should and shouldn’t be in my life. He controlled every facet of social growth I may have. I now know my insecurities as a person and a multitude of other reasons allowed my addictive behavior to begin with people. In a progression of about eight years of friendships from about age eight to about sixteen no other friends matter but him, my first drug. Wherever my lacking came from, it was filled with his "friendship". This was a progression though. I had other friends, but they had no meaning like he did. Finally when he found a girlfriend the deterioration began. He found another to exert his energy or control on. This also meant that I had to exert my energy elsewhere, my addictive, maybe learned behavior, maybe genetic, onto something or someone else. I was lost, my perception was lost.
Whether I continue to dig, no matter how far down deep I go, it can all be narrowed down to my perception. My insecurities may have come from the lack of communication between my parents and I. Whatever it is, I still have some skewed perspective and it will effect choice in my life. It’s a reality that will almost faithfully end drastically every time. These cycles will continue for years and this one ends and also begins here in the hospital.
My contemplation of my contemplation will reflect many emotions and may not come together terrifically in words. I am trying to explain best what I remember feeling then and my interpretation and feelings on it now. Words hollow out emotion sometimes when trying to describe the full intensity of a situation, of a turning point in life. I am beginning another addiction in thrills, in attention. At this point in my life its been on my brother in my perception. Once again, communication was lacking and I began to form my own conclusions of the world around me.
I had no clue how to feel equal or worthy in my parents eyes. How would they know the impact of the de focus from child to child? Where a balance was needed? My father was interested in athletics and so was my brother and that is where the attention would lie. My mother was a mother and tried to focus on both, but that must have not been enough for me. She would follow, I would follow and I grew a hatred for athletics. I grew a hatred for myself. I grew resentments for a great many things. How could anyone know, even my parents, what I was evolving into? I was quite and went along. I was a people pleaser and wanted nothing other than to feed into what happy means to others. My perception was corrosive to myself and anyone who sees my hand out to help. How would they know the rotten perception they were feeding into? A natural reaction of anyone would usually be to take what is given.
Out of the ignorance of my perception grew an unhealthy revenge. A revenge on myself because I learned to loath myself because I perceived I wasn’t good enough for those who were closest to me. The ones who truly mattered and would be standing next to the bomb when it went off. They would also stand by in the continuous stretch of wasteland I considered my playground for years. My mothers tears would quench my sick thirst for chaotic attention and pain. There they are though, outside the glass of the hospital for now. Right where I want them for now. I want them to see the separation now, even though I don’t see it. I want to see the tears for my self destruction. I want some attention at a distance and I want to watch them squirm at my demands now.
I am called out of my room by a nurse. She needs to do a physical before my first class on how to live. She is attractive so I willingly and excitedly comply. While we are in the secluded room she examines me and takes a look at my wrist. "I don’t know what is so bad that you children to do this to yourself" she says in a soft caring voice. I can see she is teary eyed and I do feel for her. She has either seen too much, or has gone into this work because she has someone close to her in pain, or she herself struggles internally.
We leave the room and she leads me into the main room across from the front middle desk. There are a few children about my age in the room bull shitting with each other. Some black, some white, some Hispanic, and all at the end of some rope. I am tired of hiding and need attention. I want to befriend them even more. For selfish reasons, not because I give a shit about them. I want to hear there stories and feed off of them. I want to allow an even more corrupt self to form, even if it is not me. I want to steal there stories and out do them. I want to run further and further away from anything familiar. Understanding my psych ward pers will help me in disaster.
I sat down at the table right across from her. She looked directly through me with a smirk. "What did you do to get in here" she said in a sexy voice. I could feel her foot sit on the seat of the chair between my legs. She started rubbing my scrub pants I was wearing. I let my wrist show a bit, stretching them out from my long sleeve shirt. She glanced down at them. She didn’t seem surprised and continued to move her foot up my leg before I stopped it from going any further. I looked up at her with kind of a frustrated glance as I made sure she wasn’t going any further and let her foot go from the grasp of my knees. She still had the smirk on her face as she stuck her tongue out at me in a playful manner. "My name is Jamie" she said, reaching her hand out for me to shake. I hesitated then took it. "Derrick" I said nervously.
At this point I didn’t know much about the touch of a woman. I had a few good kisses and hand jobs, but nothing worth boosting my ego about. I was nervous when someone was interested. I was in here though, what really, did I have to lose? It would add some flavor to my brainchild of self destruction. We talked for a while and then class started.
The class was about self esteem or some shit. I really can’t remember, but I know it was about identifying the cause of many things in ones life that lead up to the self mutilation. Whether it be by drinking bleach, like one of the other girls had attempted or pills or self mutilation. We are all just kids though. How was any of these self motivating and identifying ideas going to make any sense to us in a grand sense. We are all running or confused and structure is denied or wasn’t ever a factor for the majority. We need understanding through chaos. Whatever you want to call it, immaturity, ignorance, lack of social understanding, who knows. This moment though is filled though, the moment is filled with us and nothing more. We will be together and alone in a class of ideas that may or may not stick for any outcome or cause. It will calm us for now and help us understand for now how we are supposed to live. I zone in and out of the conversations wanting to make sense to the group and sound profound when I do speak. Thought of ego run in and out of my thoughts. Why are you here flows in and out of my head a hundred times and nothing sticks. Emotion floods but I shut it down. I’m a child man concoction bubbling to the brim and I don’t know what is over flowing, the child or the man. I don’t know what is going to stick. I don’t know what I am going to become. I just want to be and drastic decisions to fill moments will only make sense no matter how teachable I may think or they may think I am.
Class stops and they let us watch some t.v. I turn my chair and watch the figures on the tube and don’t take the plot in at all. The beauty of the women, the expressions of every character, that is all that matters to me in the moment. I am shuffling a stack of cards I found on the table, sloppy and some fall to the ground. I do this for about an hour without moving my head from the t.v. I don’t think anyone could see me blink for the hour either. Later Jamie told me she thought I might have had something mentally wrong with me. I laughed hard in an offended way about that one.
I was starting to see the source of Jamie’s problems that night though. It was visiting time and was filled with her screams. Jamie was just screaming defiantly at her parents the whole allotted time. Did they create a monster child? Her screams didn’t even seem human in those moments. She seemed to be screaming just to be screaming.
My parents came through the door and we talked. I can’t remember what we talked about, but it seemed to be filled with my selfishness. They were at a lose and I was taking advantage. This was, in a way, a beginning point of there awareness of some kind of ignorance. I was taking advantage in a demanding way. All I had was demands. I was sixteen and lost all care of one set of images I had for myself. I was trying a new set of standards that would guarantee attention. They had questioned me about smoking cigarettes before, but I always denied. I demanded a carton of camels be waiting for me when I arrived home from the hospital. They acknowledged that this would happen. I had a rotten voice, but I had one. I was using it to plague any sense of who Derrick was. I was defiling that trust they had for me. They would constantly be questioning and have an extensive eye on me. They left through the doors to somewhere dark, my wasteland. My co dependent wilderness. They would continuously look back right before those double doors would close, all in their hands and all out of their hands.
The rest of the hospital was a drug experiment. Depakote, Seroquel, some other pill combinations that made sense to feed me at this point. They had ideas of Bi Polar, O.C.D., A.D.H.D., Anxiety, and some other diagnosis I can’t remember. I just remember filling out questionnaires and answering questions and being intrigued. More pills, more sleep, blurred, interaction? They sent me home after a week and a half I believe. I was clueless as ever, gaining weight from the medication and walking on eggshells with my parents. My brother was around, but he wasn’t. He didn’t register in my mind anymore. I was so self involved that people were just figures. The main reminder of those moments in time was and still is the family portrait that hangs on the wall. I remember going to our church to have portrait done. I was wearing a black turtle neck and sitting on the stage in the gym of the church with my family. I just remember how heavy I looked in the picture from pills prescribed to me, how pale the whole family looked. Maybe how fake we all looked. Simple reminders.
Later on my mother would accompany me to the office of the psychiatrist that met with me in the hospital. He wanted to try new medication and new multicolored solutions. I wanted out of that office right then and there. He wanted up close observation and interaction. One hospital visit was enough for me. I received enough attention from the first visit as far as I was concerned. The conversation swayed to a second visit and I was not able to leave the hospital. Right back in. Not going home with mom. I was underage and was told at the time that it wasn’t up to my mother. I was yelling at her to do something and I was escorted out while I watched her face flood with tears.
More pills, more attempted answers. The beds were cold this time and I had a roommate. He was gay and annoying. He was flamboyant, blonde hair, flaming, proud, and obnoxious. I had no urge to write or use the experience. I was just confused and in a blur. More ideas of what was wrong. Excitement in form was still lurking. Another roommate after a day. He was a liar and exaggerator and I listened. He talked about endless money and cars. Women and young love. I listened. Absorbed and used mentally. I was shy in a way still and wanted experience. So ignorant in my wanting to be use and be used. I associated with and progressed wrongly with.
More small paper cups with a different pill added each time. Classes and meetings with psychiatrists. Showers and discovering side effects. My mind wanders and wonders and stops. Something is different, is it good? More paper cups, minus some colors and some added. Everything runs together in class and I keep getting the chills. Im tired a lot and go lay down. I lay down a lot. Everything is just so blue and not the same. The have a point system to use headphones or anything of entertainment. I ask about it but don’t care. I am back in kindergarten I feel. Don’t really care. I meet with the doctors again and they feel something must be working. I go home tomorrow. I go back to my room and try to ride this light of excitement. I pick up Whitman and try to read, something fades. I go to sleep. I awake to someone, I think its one of my roommates, telling me its time for class. He gives up and I roll over and go back to sleep. I remember another paper cup and take the pills with some cold water. It wakes me for some minutes, then back to sleep.
I wake up to my parents and its time to go. We go home and im still tired. Im quiet and want a cigarette. I haven’t smoked for the two weeks that I was in and its sounds fantastic. Its quiet and I get home and go straight to bed.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Dark Inventory continued...

there is a past that lives,
it breaths,
and it haunts.
It is an inner bullet,
cocked and ready to be used,
for any occasion that suits...



Apart from the somewhat real world I try to live in day to day, the serene scene I purposely abstract in my melon is somewhat of a fuel for my real chaos. The truth I grasp and disregard. The hate, the pain, and the embarrassment I passionately sort, file and manage for future use. I fall into a sort of dream meditation. Everything is melting away around me, everything about me is soaked in doubt and pity. I allow this emotional binge to occur as I melt away on the sour smelling sheets of my coffin size bed. I sizzle inside myself because I am willingly flipping a switch, denounces all normal inhibition to heal from any mental pain. I collect any self depravity for an occasion such as this to use against myself, to destroy myself. After therapy I am a roller coaster of thought and reminiscing revenge against any real part of my true self. My past walked right through a door I unlocked and cracked open slightly.
I was back in high school. Where sabotage was a defining word in this shitty confusing time. I was unheard of until this wonderful year. I was a whisper slowly fading. Now I found a way to make these peers that crawl around me day after day, imitating, devouring and clicking together without me, to swarm aggressively towards me. I purposely became friends with an outcast named Devon. He intentionally slapped a head lock of a sort on me, metaphorically speaking. Devon figured me out. My generous nature glistened in his eye. I was a loan for a good time. Or maybe he got a good laugh out of my antics occasionally, but nothing else. I was also lost and searching for something at that moment. It was obvious to anyone with some intelligence. Devon wasn’t stupid.
He introduced me to the true meaning of the word binge. At the time, the experimentation, the newness of it was exhilarating. It was an overused adolescent rebellion which I embraced. I didn’t budge under Devon’s grip. The different buzzes from different assortments of drugs and quantities of alcohol consumed in as many nights as I could became my goal. I was introduced to a world and a lifestyle that would quickly get attention. It was hard to ignore my carelessness. It was hard to devour yourself without it being noticed by the meaningful ones. I was belting out intentionally, but indirectly. I was screaming load, but not clear.
I was on the floor and seemed to be laughing. "You all have to get the fuck out!" I heard from the crowd of people that seemed to be standing over me staring and laughing wildly. Some faces stared shockingly. My eyes blurred then focused. My head seemed to melt and re gel into some sort of sanity. "Leave! Get him the fuck out!" Was the reoccurring phrase of the night. The reality of the moment. I didn’t give a shit. I plummeted into this night in the back of a rusted out, old green and red beatle. One hand loosely held a bottle of cheap vodka with the label soaked off. In the other hand I violently gripped a multicolored pipe filled with what seemed to be a premium marijuana. My hands were full so my green was lit by some guy who sat next to me in the back seat. Did I know who this guy was? No. And I didn’t give a fuck. He was a friend of the night and he was helping me in the direction I wanted to go. Three hours later I vaguely spotted his laughing face hovering over my fallen body as I composed myself. I managed to grab a hand from the crowd as my sticky leather jacket peeled from the linoleum. "How long was I lying there?" I thought to myself. I stunk of vodka and cigarette smoke. I stood up and looked around as people walked away laughing and muttering. "What a god damn train wreck" I heard from wandering drunk spectators. I looked down at my pants and my right leg was soaked with something alcoholic. I was plastered well. I was holding onto the refrigerator door for support as it came flying open to spew beer bottles all over the floor. More laughter. More taunting. I love it. I seek it. I chuckle a booze chuckle. I grab for something non alcoholic to quench my normal thirst. Devon tosses me a bottle of what looks to be lemon lime soda. I hold the bottle to my face. It drains into my gullet wildly. As wild as the laughter which grows with every gulp. It burns. It burns from carbonation. No it burns from unnatural consumption of what I slowly realize is straight vodka contained in the safety of what should have been soda in my bottle.
Thrown to the door by a grouping of hands. Familiar face all around and laughing. I am in and out. My head explodes wildly and disgustingly. No thoughts of meaning. I am out into the cold, away from the late night booze cult. I want to walk. My house is not too far away. I think the next street up. So I walk. I don’t get too far when I feel someone grab me and pull me into the back seat of a rattling car. Im in the back seat of the shit beatle. Devon is sitting next to me laughing a laugh of what reminds me of a burn out. "You aren’t walkin’ man. Who knows where you’ll end up" he blurts out. He mutters other things. I grasp nothing. Not two seconds later I am rolling out of the backseat. Standing in the middle of the dead end that stretches too two acres of weeds ten feet behind me. Im spinning, but can here clearly the electrical sound that buzzes from the street lamp that towers over the black dead end. The squealing of the bugs tires as it races around the corner seem so natural. "It might take off." I think to myself. Those doors might part into wings, looking so unmechanical at the time. My mind is defiantly gone. This night has been rubbed out. I walk up the incline of our cracking driveway, slip and catch myself in the damp bushes. It should have hurt. It doesn’t. I bust through the front door. Dogs yapping. I walk through the kitchen. I form some sentences that I think make sense to my mother who lays on the couch. I don’t think she lays with my father in there bedroom anymore. I fall to my room in the basement. Not knowing how I managed to scramble through the dark cave containing a pool table in front of my room door at the end of the basement. I get to my bed fully clothed, turn on the television and spin out to some late night talk show host.