Flow

"Michael...”

The first time I ever told my mom to shut the fuck up I felt like a 5 year old who prematurely let go of a balloon, wishing that I could grab that string and pull it back, but I never caught that string, watching it float away helplessly. Once that barrier is broken, there's no turning back. The relationship was instantly changed forever, and when we looked into each other, it was as different people than before.

"Michael?"

              My mom called out to me from her bedroom. This was where she spent most of her time for the past few years. She rested comfortably on her bed, watching ridiculous court television shows and petting our dog, who seemed to be the only one in the family who wanted anything to do with her anymore. That may sound pretty harsh to say, but when your mother, the person responsible for teaching you all of your morals and basically one of your models of perfection, lies to your face enough times, you become desensitized to a lot. When you’ve seen this same godlike person stumbling around the kitchen in a drug-induced stupor enough times, nothing seems too harsh to say.

                  My father was busy working all of the time since my mom had been out of work. Besides that, trying to get him to talk about his feelings was about as practical as trying to get a dog to ride one of those Segways that you constantly see douchebags and yuppies riding.
And at 18 years old, I knew everything about everything. I blamed her for it all. It was her lack of self-control that lead her down this path, not the fault of the drugs or even the doctors who prescribed them. It wasn't her friends' fault who would get her the drugs secondhand and were never looking out for her best interests. It wasn't that the nature of her job as a cocktail waitress kept her in pain all of the time, which was what initially got her the prescription. The very same job she kept for all those years to provide food for me and put me through music lessons. In my mind none of that had anything to do with her affliction, and I despised her lack of self-control, promising myself I would never let that happen to me.

I was busy finishing up my latest blog entry. At the time I thought I was doing something artistic, or at least prolific. I was really just hoping to impress my friends in a roundabout way. Validation was my drug. I needed it just like my mom needed pills, and a lot of what I did up to that point in my life was an attempt to get it. My attempts at brilliance usually ended up looking more like an amalgamation of clichés and emo garbage. I wanted desperately to sound clever and sophisticated.

April 2008,

I killed a man today.

The execution was perfect. Every minute detail of this murder was planned and executed accordingly with meticulous attention and care. There was no trail of blood left behind his lifeless body to leave a trace. No hair follicles nor fingerprints for police to scrutinize. Not even the scent of the victim was left behind. Nothing.

His remains are gone. There is nothing left of him. His family will not miss him. His friends will not find him. Scientists will tell you that matter can not be created nor destroyed, it can only be changed into other forms of matter. I dare scientists to attempt to find any hint of this man’s matter. With proper planning, science can be defied too. This man will only exist in memories and pictures. But with time, those will be gone too.

I killed a man today, and he had it coming.

I suppose you would like to know why I killed this man. Such a heartless act, and here I flaunt it with pride. However, I believe if you knew the all-encompassing story, my side and his side included, you might find that I am justified in my actions.

This man has spent his whole life tormenting me. He has done everything in his individual power to tatter my life with a sick sense of well-being. He has attacked me mentally, physically, and emotionally. It is because of him that I lose sleep at night. It is because of him that I am not where I want to be, achieving what I set out to achieve. I have persisted against him for years, but he is just as relentless as ever.

He is the nucleus of my problems. Well, he was. He poked at my insecurities until I believed his every thought. He conned me in the realest sense of the word. I became nothing but a puppet for his demented games. He carelessly tossed me around by the strings and I’ve still got wounds to this day. He wanted nothing more than to see me fail.

Maybe this is what he wanted all along. His life was agonizing; he needed a way out. Perhaps he knew with his dark spirit that eventually I would be capable and willing to set him free. His duty was to test me and ruin me, and he was not pleased about it. He realized that after eighteen long years, I wasn’t going to give up.

The closer I came to killing him, the more he pushed. Maybe there’s a person like this inside of all of us. A fraction of yourself that is specifically designed to test you. You’ve felt their presence your whole life. The reason you never stick to a regimen or follow your dreams. The reason you trudge along at a job you hate 8 hours a day for the next 40 years of your life. The reason you stick with every bad decision you’ve made and never seem to come across good ones. The anti-instinct. The path to unhappiness. This person inside you stands against everything you’ve ever believed in.

I killed myself today, and I’ve never felt more alive.

“Michael!”

            My friends were going to lose their shit over that mess of blubbering incompetence. My writing was always about a change of some kind; a drastic change in my life that I kept hoping would come soon, but never did just naturally happen.

“I’m coming, hold on.”

If the years of listening to anti-establishment stand-up comedians like Henry Rollins, Bill Hicks, or George Carlin didn't completely tarnish my belief in most conventional wisdom, it was my mom who was responsible. I hated every single doctor she had ever seen, without ever knowing them. Prescription drugs became the devil to me, along with the doctors who irresponsibly peddled them to pay for their next trip to Rio Fucking De Janeiro at my mom's expense.

"Michael!"
"I'm coming, hold on."
I finally responded, with a prepared, yet undeniably annoyed tone in my voice. I knew what was coming next, the guilt trip. 'Why don't you come talk to me more often Michael?' or 'Don't you still love me Michael?' Meh. I would never have the balls to tell her that I may be undecided on that second one. Instead I kept to myself in my bedroom, the only place where I really felt comfortable anymore. I was already an introvert by nature, and this ongoing saga only helped push me in that direction more.

I stayed in my room, and I kept myself distracted.

At 18 years old, distractions are at a premium. My favorite one was the girlfriend I'd had who was way too pretty, cool, and just about everything else for me. And I spent a lot of time taking advantage of that distraction, the neighbors could attest to that. They heard everything. I've always thought of myself as an average looking guy. If looks could kill, my looks would just bruise. Five foot eleven, medium build, with brown hair. I would've been a perfect model for one of those Back to School ads had I not just had my braces removed and been afraid to smile without my mouth closed. This girl was starting to bring me out of my shell though, and a lot of things I'd held back were suddenly bubbling to the surface, about to hit a rolling boil. I could feel that the tension surrounding my mom and I was about to hit a high point and maybe result in a complete falling-out or something equally irreparable.

I minimized whatever filth I was currently into on the computer and left my sanctuary. I put on a walk and emitted a general aura that getting up to talk to her was quite the energy draining task, if not the most annoying thing I had to do all day. My hope was that this would eventually stop the constant bickering and requesting of menial tasks, but her resolve was strong. Which is to say, she could give a shit less how I felt about it.

I made my way to her room, or her cell as it seemed, imprisoned by sheriff Xanax. The first thing I noticed in the room was the Gazelle Freestyle leaning on the wall, one of those elliptical training machines that got about as much use as good judgement at a metal concert. If this machine was to imitate the grace and beauty of a gazelle, it certainly looked like one that had been shot and mounted on the wall, drained of its essence. She laid under the covers almost all of the time, these poor covers that have taken the abuse of so many cigarettes burned into them while my mother fell asleep with one carelessly planted in her mouth. She wasted more cigarettes this way than a villain in a movie wastes bullets. The first few times I came across her sleeping with a cigarette in her mouth I woke her up and chastised her as well as a teenager can to a parent. After that, I figured she would learn after burning herself enough times.

Her room was a mess. There was this random pink chair in the far corner, covered in probably a year's worth of little white dog hairs. I can't exactly say the the pink chair matched the forest green carpet, or the off-white comforter stained yellowish from random foods with little black rimmed circles from cigarettes that the designer certainly did not have in mind when they embroidered the nice flowery pattern onto it. But the chair was just as much a staple of the room as everything else. Nothing changed other than wearing down rapidly.

It was interesting watching her bedroom deteriorate at the same time as her body and mind. The floor probably got vacuumed once every five months, and that was only when I had gotten disgusted enough to do it for her. My dad slept on the couch, every night. He told me it was because the bed hurt his back. He must've thought I was fucking clueless. I don't blame him, I would have slept on the couch too. Except it would've been a couch in a different house. But he was a lot stronger than me.

The small lamp was there to do the sun's job and keep the room light, as any natural light had not been able to get around the blinds for months. The dusty television was playing some Judge Joe Brown, and two giant neanderthals were bickering about how one of them was too violent while injecting the other one with steroids and that the fight that ensued was in self-defense rather than a blatant assault. I wondered if they had a special breeding ground for people this stupid.

"Michael!"

My mom shouted my name again, and instantly I was in distress. I was standing right there in front of her, wearing the same basketball shorts and t-shirt I always wore and looking as recognizable as ever, yet she was calling out to me as if I was still in my bedroom, or even in some other distant place.
"What mom? I'm right here," I answered, trying to remain calm.
"Michael, grab your sled."
What? Utter confusion is the only way to describe what I felt at this point.
"Grab my sled?"
"Yeah, I want you to go down the hill with me. It's our turn."
"Mom, we're in your bedroom. I don't even own a sled. Did you take your pills without eating again? How many times do we have to do this?" I swiftly dealt the blow, making sure she knew I wasn't going to let her off easily.
"Oh," she sighed. Apparently I wasn't the only one who was confused.

"I thought we were at the mountains."

I was one or two fights away from being completely done with this battle. How could she think she was at the mountains? There were beads of sweat on her forehead, most likely from laying under the covers in the middle of the day in Las Vegas heat. Her thin, sticky hair that hadn't been washed in a few days showed the evidence too. I thought of days past where she took care of herself, her hair beautifully crafted and her bedroom a blueprint for a clean and neat room. I had seen her fumble words before, and barely be able to keep her balance, but this was something completely different. She seemed perfectly coherent, yet it was as if we were two people occupying the same physical space, but we were in two different worlds.
"Are the people from the internet here yet?"

I inched closer, trying to see what was going on. She never looked at me, just kind of staring off as if she was watching something happen. All the anger, annoyance, and everything else went away. The only feeling I had now was one of fear. Deep, survivalistic fear. It was clear what was happening to my mom at this point. She was hallucinating. Something must have finally convinced her to quit taking those pills, and the drugs were fighting back.

"What people from the internet?" I tried to have a conversation with her, maybe bring her back to reality. I thought maybe logical talking could somehow bring her back to the real world. For her the hallucination was very real.  

"The people that are coming to get Daddy, are they here yet?"

When you hallucinate, there is no filter discerning what you should and shouldn't talk about. All of those deep seeded fears will come up along with other random fantasies and memories. Fear of computers is pretty common in older people. My mother was old when she had me, so she was already in her fifties by the time I was a teenager. My dad had gotten into technology and the internet, but it was something that completely baffled and apparently scared my mom.

I shook her a bit, trying to wake her up from the daze she was in. It seemed as if she could hear me, but couldn't see me or feel me. I shook her a bit and finally her eyes locked with mine. They were glazed over and seemed to lack the vibrant greens they once had. I looked at her and saw a confused and scared woman, unsure of what was happening to her.

My fear grew immensely. The first thought that immediately came to mind was 'what if this kills her?' Suddenly this relationship that I thought had been frazzled to the very core was strong. Strong enough to give my stomach fits and cause my palms to sweat. I looked her straight in the eye and said something I had meant more than anything I had ever said before. I meant it more than every time I told my girlfriend I loved her. I meant it more than every time I told my teachers I promised I would start doing my homework because I was better than I gave myself credit for, and more especially more than every time I
told myself I hated her.

"Everything is going to be okay. I'll figure this out. I'm here for you. Just stay awake mom, I love you."

She didn't say anything for a few seconds. My damp hands rested still on her shoulders. I wondered how to fix this, how I could help. I had done enough reading on the subject to know that if hallucinations are serious, they can cause serious damage and sometimes result in death. She probably needed a hospital, and strict doctor's attention. But instead she suffered in her cell. She finally looked up at me.

"Michael, where is your jacket? It's freezing out here."

Walking the tight-rope

1/11/16

Sometimes when I write, I find it difficult not to do it without being cynical and self-defeating. It’s almost akin to walking a tightrope.

                He ascended onto the high-wire, his feet tripled its girth. His balance stick waved to and fro, bending with the wind like an overloaded barbell. He tried not to look down, but became consumed with the thought. Not the thought of dying, but of looking down to see just how deep the sky goes. How long he would have to spend cascading to his splattering doom wondering, “did I leave the crockpot on? Even if I did, those things are meant to run forever, right? If there were an electrical problem, it would just cause a short due to fancy technology and safety regulations, right? What if it’s on for several days, and the juices have all cooked out of the roast and the potatoes catch fire..” SPLAT.

                Birds didn’t even fly by, he was so high. His stomach gurgled and he regretted the handle of bourbon from the night before. Like, he would have never bet his buddies he could traverse a tight-rope if he wasn’t plowed from Jim Beam. He was a cab driver for Christ’s sake. Even worse, he would have never eaten all of those greasy tacos in a drunken stupor, which is also pretty bad for your health. He worried that an El Nino fart brewing from bourbon and tacos would be just the gust of wind to undo his equilibrium and send him bobbing for concrete.

                “Get yourself together,” he confided in himself, “this is exactly like that time you thought you couldn’t stay awake through another episode of MasterChef, but you did it, damnit. And that Indian vegan chick cooked a perfect medium rare filet, and it was a beautiful moment. This will be your vegan filet.”

                He neared the half-way point, his knees shook like a white NBA player being chased down on a fast break. He thought about all of the good things in life he would never get to do again if he died, like shining laser pens at oncoming drivers on the freeway, or dipping French fries into milkshakes, cause it’s so wrong that it’s right. Oh how he would miss the euphoria of executing a perfect handshake with a black guy, the rare and momentous highlight of some truly memorable days.

                As he continued he had a slight hitch, and the two people watching let out a barely audible groan, because nobody knows or cares when a cab driver decides to walk a tight-rope. I mean, he announced it on Twiter, but he only had 12 followers despite a ton of witty and controversial posts. Mostly memes. Even most of his friends who dared him to do this didn’t show up because they couldn’t call out of work. He considered his legacy. He would forever be known as an honorable gentleman who didn’t back down from a bet. Like the time he did the cinnamon challenge, and threw up profusely. Or the time his buddy bet he wouldn’t ask a girl if she liked cider, and when she said yes, he said “what about dickincider?” and she punched him square in the nose because even girls train in mixed martial arts now. He started to notice a pattern and his fright began to overtake him. What about his newborn child, growing up without a father? Then he realized it was better than his son growing up with a fraidy cat for a father.

                And just then, as the sun shined in his eyes, he had an epiphany. The rope was just a metaphor for the fear that had held him back his whole life. If it wasn’t for that fear, he would’ve quit his job and became a musician just like he had always dreamed. He would’ve went to the gym and gotten ripped instead of growing soft and doughy on the couch. He could have the life of his dreams, and it was the fear of failure that was stopping him. And then his knee gave out and he fell, realizing that not everything is a metaphor with a deeper meaning you self-indulgent, pretentious dummy.