BACK IN BLACK: Part One (TheRapist Continued)
I was a crackhead squatting in a foresaken building that was once my mind. Where I had loathed my appointments, I looked forward to them, my next fix. A direct shot of self-pity and transference straight to the brain. Like Randel P. McMurphy, I was a sane man in an insane world being negated until death was an improvement.
I was a perfectionist, and that was wrong.
My likes, my loves, were tainted; forms of escapism that trapped and kept me from growing. And my lack of interest, my failure to be entertained wasn't the sign of multimedia drivel, but a mind long bereft of reality.
I craved affection, and that meant I was greedy.
I saw life as senseless when surrounded by the walking dead, and that made me self-destructive.
I was stuck somewhere between adolescence and childhood. My search for truth stemmed form my mothers habitual lying making my quest ingenuous, a byproduct of bad parenting. The more I opened myself, the more I felt like an wound left open to the air; healing slowly, getting dirty, infected. I was festering; traveling back in time to a person I thought long forgotten. But, he came back, that lowly boy undeserving of love. And in that heap of despair I found commonality with my mother and the world. We became one. I was a victim, prey, and the wolves began circling.
But things came to a head. Something was stirring. It wouldn't sit still. A voice in my head kept saying: "It's all bullshit. Get off your ass. Do what you know you need to. Now!" There were nights when HST would visit me. One in particular, when I was watching The L Word, HST came to me and I beat the shit out of my laptop, slamming keys so hard I woke my wife. My anger was exploding like planes colliding into the Trade Center, and bodies were jumping from windows because they couldn't deal with it. But, not even HST could battle toe to toes with the self-doubt gripping me. In mid-thought, I stopped what I was doing. What was I doing? Were these thoughts, these truths, even real? And, HST forgive me, I actually began to wonder if life would be better as a "normal person."
That's when the wolves attacked.
I was a perfectionist, and that was wrong.
My likes, my loves, were tainted; forms of escapism that trapped and kept me from growing. And my lack of interest, my failure to be entertained wasn't the sign of multimedia drivel, but a mind long bereft of reality.
I craved affection, and that meant I was greedy.
I saw life as senseless when surrounded by the walking dead, and that made me self-destructive.
I was stuck somewhere between adolescence and childhood. My search for truth stemmed form my mothers habitual lying making my quest ingenuous, a byproduct of bad parenting. The more I opened myself, the more I felt like an wound left open to the air; healing slowly, getting dirty, infected. I was festering; traveling back in time to a person I thought long forgotten. But, he came back, that lowly boy undeserving of love. And in that heap of despair I found commonality with my mother and the world. We became one. I was a victim, prey, and the wolves began circling.
But things came to a head. Something was stirring. It wouldn't sit still. A voice in my head kept saying: "It's all bullshit. Get off your ass. Do what you know you need to. Now!" There were nights when HST would visit me. One in particular, when I was watching The L Word, HST came to me and I beat the shit out of my laptop, slamming keys so hard I woke my wife. My anger was exploding like planes colliding into the Trade Center, and bodies were jumping from windows because they couldn't deal with it. But, not even HST could battle toe to toes with the self-doubt gripping me. In mid-thought, I stopped what I was doing. What was I doing? Were these thoughts, these truths, even real? And, HST forgive me, I actually began to wonder if life would be better as a "normal person."
That's when the wolves attacked.
posted by QABBAL at 1:24 AM
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