11/24/08
I gazed into her eyes, or rather the lenses of the thick rimmed seductive spectacles riveted to her temples. The plastic glass lens (alternating my focus from the right to the left eye) revealed to me a lie I was not yet prepared to face. It was the heartache I sought.
She was there to save me. Or just to do her job. I convinced myself of one or the either on every odd day. Inviting me in, I found I needed her for some reason. There was a vacuum in her soul, an emotional void that was endless. I saw a challenge in winning her over, a task I had flawlessly executed time and again on those around me.
But this would be a challenge. I was institutionalized. I do not recall what for, nor do I remember why I have forgotten why I was there. I must've fallen ill. Gotten my wish and thrown the switch, sending me into the care of trained professionals, here I was in her office.
I usually lose her within a few minutes of getting on a roll. I feel comfortable enough to let the brain patterns unfold through verbal communication, but once the complexity hits a grey area, and when even my understanding of the ideas in my skull are limited, despite believing them in my heart, I am foiled. I see the connection break.
"December 21, 2012. Mayan calendar. I am a binary Buddha, a chaotic Christ. I see patterns emerging, fate threading through, tethered to faith, I fly."
It makes so much sense when I think it. Why does it seem so wrong when I see her eyes, magnified and on display for me, her glasses, rectangular microscopes into her soul?
"I'm not sure if I follow, Charles. Where are you?"
She crosses her legs and I withdraw. My mind has been lost in a maze of my own design for so many years that I have given up on communication with the outside world. I sit on my hands.
"Whatever. It's just that all these ideas are in my head. I read so much information off of everything that I can't process it. My brain can't keep up."
"Well, just take a breath and relax. There's really no reason not to just be in a situation now and then. There's nothing more to this than two people talking is there?"
I have to admit, I was comfortable. I was so tired of acting the fool, the hero, the victim. I felt I could own up to my darkest, most base desires. I should dig deep in my ID and expose it to the light. Expose it to her.
"No, I guess not. I'm sorry. I just can't fight the impulse to stifle myself. To invalidate everything I feel. To convince myself that I am unknowable."
I sat for a minute in the mire of my self-pity before adding, "Alone."
She says it was a good session and has an orderly bring me back to my room. I glance over my shoulder and I saw those eyes watch me go away.
The door clanks behind me. Isolated, again. No human contact til later. TV and maybe cards and maybe some time to write. Later. Now, after therapy, I'm sent to my cell. I don't appreciate opening up and then having to shut down. It is bad for my emotional well being.
I pound my fist in a daze against the wall. It's just plaster, sheet rock, paint. But I've never punched anything, except perhaps my girlfriend when she attacked me in a drunken rage. No, that was a slap. She punched me though.
Pity, self-pity, goddamn pity party! There's a hole in the wall when they wake me up. I'm not sure where I am, a hospital, my apartment, her apartment? My knuckles are bloody. I hate myself. I want her. To save me.
'I didn't mean to!', is throbbing in my internal dialogue center as the medication starts wearing off and the door to my prison opens.
I'm out for a walk, thinking all the while. Never stop thinking. I am focused on the bench, my walk, the step by step procedure that gets me there. I ignore the looks, but not really. I take them in and make them judgments. They see everything because it's radiating from me.
Notice me. No don't. I can't. Stop thinking about me. I mean about them thinking about me, which if they are it's because you're telegraphing some weird vibe. Stop!
I run back home. Lock myself in. Everyone says too much while saying nothing at all. Tears of revelation of our sad states is only a moment away. The drugs wear off and suddenly feeling returns. But emotional feelings only, still numb to the touch.
Bed is safe. Curled up. Fetal. Dreams keep me distanced. Who I am is a burden. What I've built is a cage. It fits snuggly atop my persona. I will myself alive as often as I can as I struggle under my limitations. Self-imposed, self-destructive, self-serving needs.
I skip the next session with her. I can't face acceptance right now. I can't justify my existence, nor do I want it to be confirmed, to be made okay. Suffer, bastard, suffer. You are strangling the life from yourself, flagellation of the mind, beating your consciousness into submission. Find your own way out.
So I write. The words bind my negatons, sharpen my syntax, forge furious feelings. The sentences are ideas, ideas are the prison. Constructs of immateria that give us the boundaries of self. I can't do it. This is who I am. This is the way I will always be.
Change.
In the rec room I'm piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. I've hidden the last pieces from myself, but I don't know that yet. I'm not ready to see the whole picture yet. That's why I'm putting it together upside down.
I replay the past as rounded parts snap into rounded slots. A cycle of puzzles, solved and dissolved. What I did with her, I had done to me next. I sought punishment after punishing. Then started anew. Each spin around the track provided a clue. I need something drastic to have a breakthrough.
So I escaped. Slipped out from under their watch. I spent the last of my money on a plane ticket. I'd have to find out where I came from to discover where i'd have to go. My feelings about my family would hold me down until I faced them. I got there and was reborn.
"So remember when you told me that I should think about how I relate to people, the cycles of behavior I keep repeating, and how it relates to my wanting to learn how to connect with my family?"
"Well, I think you may've said that, but I do recall that session, yes."
I was back in the asylum a week later discussing it with her with animated fervor.
"I saw my aunt and we talked. And it was like everything made sense. We were Crowns, and we are insane thinkers. Our insanities mask our sensitive natures."
I closed my eyes for a minute basking in the glorious feeling of connection. That is my addiction. Connecting with another. I don't want to be alone, but everything is telling me I am. I keep telling me I am.
"I had lunch with my grandma and I even stood up for myself when she called me a college dropout in front of my cousin. I got my associates degree, and maybe I've only recently gone back for my bachelors but I had a degree."
I have never successfully stood up for myself. I usually rely on friends or lovers to provide me with self-esteem, self-worth, and to do my talking for me. My niceness makes everyone want to take care of me, for I am naive and unable to function in the world.
"But I defended myself. And boldly, firmly, stood up to the overbearing woman who had praised my father into prince status. The manipulative maiden of my genetic masculinity. And I wasn't hurt like the sensitive baby I always was."
She nods and semi-smiles. I may've gotten too abstract in an effort to make my life more poetic. So now I've lost her. I could be rambling mad. This makes sense in my mind. But something in her face makes me think I have not gone anywhere. That I am imprisoned, entwined in a intense insanity that will never end.
Reality is bleeding. Or is that my arm? I have a shard of glass in my left hand. There's a wetness dripping from the other. She's staring at me sympathetically, but I feel stupid, sad, pathetic. I glance at my forearm and gaze upon the lightning shaped gash carved into it. A jagged wound, the mystical thunderbolt, the power of Zeus.
"Charles, just put it down now. You don't need to hurt yourself. Or me."
Is there another option? I mean really. I don't see any other way for things to go. We can really only condemn each other, pushing others down to advance, being pushed down to become submerged and bob back up to the surface as equilibrium is sought and we fuck it up once more. The world is drowning in sadness.
The electricity pumps through my body. My body spasms and dances convulsively in the office, freeing the glass from my grip. The orderlies catch me as I fall back. It's a peaceful thing to be made to submit against your will. Sometimes it is necessary, for your own good.
They drag me back to the cell. Alone in the dark again. I watch a movie of my life, memories scultped by stories told. The lingering of electric impulses make my body feel alive, charged with purpose. If only I could make it fit into the world, if the habits could be broken, if I could get what I wanted. What I really wanted.
I follow a thread of the web and it pulls at the corners of all that I know. I work out the angles. Co-dependency. Imprisonment. Fear and anxiety. Low-self esteem and guilt. I need conflict. I dread conflict. Who could handle me if I can not?
I get my medication and sit in the common room. I watch some movies beside some peers. We're all sitting, soaking in the fictional sentiments of paid professionals. I cry at the parts that one is to cry at. But for all the wrong reasons. I want to feel. We all want to feel.
"Hey friend. I know your secret."
A bearded inmate was begging for my attention, his sight set on me in my peripheral. He had a friendly smile but his tone was sinister.
"What secret might that be?" I scanned him from the side. He was two-dimensional and now so was I.
"You're not crazy. You're trying to drive yourself mad. But you're sane and shirking responsibility." He inched closer.
He spoke what I feared, what I knew.
Later, we found ourselves in his room, I was undressing, lying back naked as he climbed atop me. My body tensed up, his muscles and body hair bristling up against my flesh. I recall the calm serenity that came over me as I ran my hands up his back and pulled him into me. Two male bodies embracing in the nude in the naked white light of angels transcending physical form.
All is peace.
My being was possessed by pure joy, and I sought everything. I placed him in my mouth, gripping him firmly, pressing my face into his stomach. The soft, spongey flesh of him filling up my mouth, gliding along my tongue, driving deep down my throat. A true wand of power placed within my body, imbuing me everything I was missing, all the power I had blocked.
I sucked for all I was worth until I could taste him. I tried time and again to get him to release himself, to allow me to drink from him, swallow the genetic map of his manliness. But he refused. So I hurt him.
He needed to learn. To take it. I held him down and caressed him forcefully with my tongue. One knee holding back one arm, my clenched fingers of my left hand pinning him to the bed, the right, delicately held his balls. I needed his cum and I’d crucify the fuck until he gave it up.
Finally, after furious, fist pumping action, the hot cum shot forth from the tip of his splendid cock and slid into my mouth, and across my lips. I opened my eyes, turning my gaze towards the crown, and Jesus smiled at my cum covered face.
“Charles!”
She had burst in on this moment, that fucking whore. She’d never be able to do for me what you just did. God, everything has changed. You’ve helped me like I never knew was possible. Thank you.”
“Charles, you’re going to hurt your neck if you don’t…”
I hissed at her, the light from the doorway igniting the cooling semen dripping down my chin, splatters flipping from my lips. But suddenly my weight shifted and everything began to reassert itself. Gravity swung around and I hit the floor hard. My pants were down and my cock was in my hand, thankfully preventing it from becoming damaged in the fall.
“Jesus?” I looked up to the bed.
“Charles.”
I was allowed out for walks more often after that, despite the cold weather making me all crackly. I drifted along day after day until I began to notice that people would talk to me, stop to say hello, or to ask how I was. They smiled when I seemed happy, and sad and withdrawn on those days when I forgot. Suddenly everyone was my friend, and no one didn’t not like me, I was loved. By Jesus.
For years later, I got shit for this chapter. Too pretentious is the way it was often referred. But this is what I wrote up until the day I woke up. My life was truly split up into two parts: before this chapter and after. I had escaped my internal institution.
This is my fucking book and I’ll do whatever the fuck I damn well please.
Including sucking Jesus’ cock, you jealous fucks.
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