I know what I must do, but it is the hardest thing for me to do.

I must forgive myself.  I must forgive myself for overdosing on heroin, paralyzing myself, causing the chronic pain I have had to live with for the past 12 years.  I must stop blaming myself for all the substance abuse, for the depression, for the fucked-upness of my life.

Honestly?  I don't know how to do it.  I hate myself.  I hate myself for all the damage I have caused, to me and to other people.  I feel I have been a constant source of anguish and hurt for all around me, and for myself.

I know the only way to end it is to forgive myself, to stop the hatred.  If I can forgive myself, then I won't feel prompted (at all times) to cause more damage.  I won't see-saw between self-righteous indignation and constant despair.

I have to learn to see the good in me.  I have to learn to value what I am and what I have.

But I don't know how.

Dear Debbie and Melissa,

Jasmine tells me that you’ve been concerned for me, and I just wanted to write and tell you that I’m now out of the hospital and, as best I can tell, doing well.  Thank you for your thoughts and prayers; I’m not one to believe in supernatural phenomena, but I can decisively say that it has been wonderful to know that others are giving me some thought.

            As best I can tell, I have a very rare, very strange illness.  For periods of time I will act oddly, and subsequently I will ‘come to,’ in a sense, without any memory of the odd actions, the strange things I say and do.

            The picture is complicated by the fact that I am an alcoholic and a drug addict.  Very often, in these black-out moments, I will drink or use some kind of drug.  This happened regularly – I think – which is why this strange dissociation was not discovered earlier.  We all assumed I was simply blacking out from the booze or the drugs.

            I am told there is no solid treatment for my condition.  I was put on a mild dose of an anti-psychotic drug, and told to go into intensive therapy.  The drug seems to make my anxiety a great deal worse; and neither appears to be stopping this phenomenon.

            I am at a loss as to what to do.  I feel deeply ashamed and embarrassed, especially by the degree to which this illness forces me to impinge upon other people’s good will.  I am close to finishing law school, but now deeply concerned that I should not practice law, as my illness may gravely affect other people’s rights.  After an unpleasant but blessedly brief divorce, I have a new girlfriend whom I care about deeply.  Yet I am sorely worried about all that I put her through because of this illness.

            My faith is worn thin.  What was once a proud and strong edifice now seems a slight, papery wall.  I find it difficult to believe in a loving God, try as I might.  I know it is self-centered and selfish to wish God’s blessing upon myself, but I struggle to understand His will for me or how I might use this disease so as to demonstrate His kindness and generosity to others.

            In short, I feel as if upon the edge of a precipice.  Below me is madness, chaos, the Biblical waters God (and later, Jesus) calmed.  I wait for Him to blow across the surface of the waters, wait for the infinite ocean of light and love but only seeing darkness and destitution.  I cannot, do not believe He intends this.  I fought for faith after my paralysis; I would do so here, as well, if I knew where to begin.

            Thank you for remaining examples of what it truly means to be Christian.  You and your families remain in my thoughts and prayers.

                                                                                    Chris

Letting Go

I have racing thoughts.  A lot of them, and all the time.  It’s either a part of my mental illness, or it’s a reaction to the medications that I’m on.  I have to ask the psychiatrist if there’s anything that can be done, though I dread adding another chemical to my daily cocktail.

With my racing thoughts I want everything done yesterday.  I want to plan for events so far in advance it’s ridiculous.  I’m tetchy, on edge, sometimes nervous other times dickish.  The only total and complete cure for this state of being is alcohol.  Yes, a pair of fingers of Irish whiskey, a fat cigar, and those annoying thoughts settle right down.  I’m in the moment, in the zone, when I have a little liquor in the belly.  As an alcoholic those moments , brief and ephemeral, are like fading glimpses of a nirvana never entirely known.  Clues, ephemera of lost Shangri-La.

Which is why being told that if I let go into the tao of living, the racing thoughts will subside, is so hurtful.  I know it’s right, but all those racing thoughts say no, say to pack a parachute first, to be prepared.  Trungpa Rinpoche said that the bad news is that you’re falling, no parachute, nothing to grab onto.  The good news is that there is no ground.  I recall that in moments like this, and wish I were braver, wish I could step to the edge, look down into it, smile and jump.

It’s more like I cower my way to the edge, close my eyes rather than look into it, cringe and run away.

I can’t this time, though.

I’m looking down into the gaping maw of life, the rush of it, the forceful strength of it, knowing that I have to jump in, that it’s the only way the thoughts will go away, it’s the only way I can move past the pent up fear and fully live, fully embrace life.  It’s the only way I stand a chance of keeping my girlfriend, it’s the only chance I have to drop all that hurt and annoyance when it comes to my family, it’s the only way I can accept who I am with all my limitations and not cry over all the spilt milk.

I have to do it.  Forced to lean over the edge like this, hair tossed a million different ways at once, face revealed in a golden glow and all sound reduced to the white noise of rushing air.  I must jump.  I must trust there is no ground.  I must do it.

OK, so how?

Days of Faith

It’s days like today I wish would cease for all time.  Days where nothing is wrong, but there is a pit in my stomach.  I never really got over it; I don’t think it’s one of those things you “get over,” but then that’s just part of the illness, isn’t it?  The hopelessness, the sense of futility, the… despair… I hate that word, but that’s really exactly what it feels like.  You have a Cassandra complex but you know that having one means you’re crazy, and you don’t quite want to admit that.

Days like today thinking it’ll ever be OK, you might some day not be crippled – even if it’s just the terror that goes away – and you might reach the promised land of being, oh so simply, OK… days like today, being able to believe in “OK” is a fucking pipe dream.  You’re wasting your time.

Time to time now, I can smell it, picture it clearly.  I’m with her, she’s with her son, and all three of us can meet our problems with… joy.  Sure, not knowing whether or not you’ll triumph, but knowing that you can only fall just so far… knowing you’ve got family and friends and home, that wonderful concept, remaining blissfully ignorant of the full distance to the ground…

I like those days.  They’re usually Sundays, usually with her, usually in Meeting.  The silence is so delicious it should be served á la mode.  I don’t know how she does that, how Meeting does that, how sitting in a room in complete silence with relative strangers can make capital-H Hope out of the hollow nothing I am all the rest of the time.

In a Jewish mythos, God himself is in exile from the promised land, shattered into sparks existing in His Creation.  I feel as if I am collecting them, ephemeral ephemera of Eden.  I love it, but am scared of it, this quest.  I feel the bird flying from blackness into a house – wondering whether more blackness is coming or whether this is a really, really big house.

There are days of faith, and days of evidence, but never both.  On days of evidence I feel a sense of security – small though it is – inside of me.  I feel brave, almost fearless.  On days of faith, like today, I don’t.  It’s a small thing, that security, but it makes such a large difference.  With it, I can face the world in small doses.  Without it, I can’t.  I want to crawl into bed and hide under the covers.  I know it’s stupid, but for some reason that seems both reasonable and safe.

I wonder what’s going to happen with me.  I’m very, very broken.  Maybe more than other people; at least some of ‘em.  I fake “OK” well.  I’m on Law Review, but my GPA clearly shows how scattershot my actual performance is under demanding circumstances.  Some days I wonder whether I really belong permanently in a psychiatric hospital.  Or I wonder how smart the shrinks are when they let me go.  Maybe the electroconvulsive treatment should be given.  It can’t make things worse than they are.  It sucks that I have to be suicidal to get it.  I dare not try to kill myself.  I’m too afraid of it.  And I’m too afraid to hurt people with it.

And so we have days of faith: days where the sparks are too slippery to actually hold, so I have to take it on faith that they’ll catch me instead.

Epidemiology of Depressive/Traumatic Thinking

When I'm with her - more so when I am with her and her son - I feel happy.  I don't feel guilty for feeling happy, but in my mind I know: we will be punished for this.  The happiness will be taken away, and replaced by something horrific, painful.  And we will both go quickly quiet and numb inside.

So I feel, even now, impotent.  I radically distrust pretty much everyone I know.  I trust only that the Universe is a cold, heartless place, our world intentionally cruel, and others sadists deriving brutish pleasure in the misery and misfortune of others.

I honestly don't know why I'm alive; it's not as if I particularly enjoy existing in such a world.  But I have to do so, for her and for him I guess, though I also spend a great deal of time wondering whether or not they would be better off without me.  I wonder if I keep her from him, if the mere fact of my existence prevents her from seeing her own son.  Whether it wouldn't in fact be kinder to leave her be, perhaps send money to her when I can to help her.  The thought that I was keeping her from reunion with her flesh and blood is terrible to contemplate.  Almost as much as the fact that I know that there is nothing wrong with me, that I am a good person, a bright, intelligent, driven, and compassionate person, and yet by simply being around I must be a bad influence upon her, upon her son.  I have taken every step I can think of to ease the minds of those who are concerned by me; but I can never earn their trust, and I don't even want it.  I just don't want to keep her from her child.  I couldn't bear the thought of keeping her from her child.

It's the wanton and yet predictable nature of the cruelty, it's calculated application to crush any sense of self-efficacy, the way it is designed to teach helplessness.  For a grandmother to take her grandchild from her own daughter and to use that grandchild as a pawn, a tool with which to inflict pain on the daughter: I cannot think of many greater evils, and I spend my life contemplating evils.  But this must be the most horrific act imaginable: to have your mother tear your own child away from you and use access to the boy as 'leverage,' in a game of emotional abuse.

All I hope is that at least I am not harmful; and perhaps, if I am fortunate, I might be helpful.

I dare not hope-

and yet I must-

that in some way

I earn your trust.

I want everything I never had. Therein lies the problem. I want everything I can never have. I want the pretty blonde cheerleader girlfriend, and I want to travel around the world living out of my backpack, and I want to take joy in all the tiny little things of life that I know are joyful but cast aside out of jaded cynicism.

I don't want to be sarcastic, or ironic, any more. I have no interest in looking down on others. I don't want to be so involved in judging that I can't be a regular person that regular people get along with. I wanna be salt o' the earth; I want to be part o' the earth.

I fall in love with this very particular class of people: orange juice people. They're bright and vibrant and wholesome; they're beautiful to look at and magnificent to watch. They have a certain grace in their movement, a delicate musicality to the sound of their voice, and I fall for them, hard, every single time. I'm tired of pining after them. I'm tired of standing around like a dark and bitter reflection of everything they are. I want what they have. I want to be around them and be amongst them and be one of them.

That is why I want the blonde cheerleader girlfriend. I want the stupid corny Americana dream. I want to be and feel a full part of a regular life, not some ancillary if witty critic to the course of life's events. I don't want to spectate the spectacle: I want to jump in and experience it, taste it, smell it, feel it.

And... I can't.

Maybe it's too late; I don't know. Maybe I hit 30, my legs are paralyzed, and I seen some shit (man), some stuff that really shouldn't be seen by anybody. Because really I'm craving youthful enthusiasm like nobody's fucking business. I want to be fascinated by music again and stay up all night, do things I'm not supposed to do and suffer the consequences the next day. I want to spend months in foreign locales, pick up the subtleties of Lao, Burmese, Azeri.

I'm sick of television, the internet, the billion and one fucking things we concentrate upon instead of our lives.

... But I guess, mostly, I feel alone. I feel like I'm the only one around with this kind of exuberance.

And so it's the loneliness that's once again killing me. The choking, suffocating solitude.

I'm not ready to grow old, yet. I'm getting older, but I'm not quite willing to "settle," whatever the fuck that actually is. I can't settle if it means losing adoration for cheerios and apple cider and red wine and summer nights out in a field staring at stars.

I'm not ready to be done... I just wish that someone was there to join me.