Epiphany And Seachange

I’ve sunken into a state of being in which I’m in a near-perpetual funk and I don’t like it. What I really hate about it is that I’ve had a tendency to share much of it and there’s nobody that needs to be exposed to that shit. So, I’ve been waiting for that shroud to lift and weeks and months have gone by and I’m sitting here unshaven and stinky, fishing about in my head for something to talk about. Something positive.

It’s not easy, that. Primarily because I don’t get out, much. Don’t experience much beyond my own headspace, anymore. That’s on me. It’s probably mostly true of anyone that what clouds us is the result of our own handiwork. There’s always chance and acts of God… I dunno. I guess that, for me, although I often seem like a fucking leaf floating about on the sea, helplessly like that – or feel as such – I’m just- Nobody’s gonna be my rudder for me. Nobody has been. I guess, even at my worst, it feels good to acknowledge I’m not at the mercy of some outside force, some other person, when it comes to my control. It feels “good”, this, because it means it’s within my power to alter course when headed in the wrong direction. Even if I’ve been headed there for some time, even when I’ve been lingering there, it means that it’s within me to get myself under power and away onto the proper course. Am I there? On my way? Doesn’t seem like it. For that, I’ve only myself to blame – regardless of whatever’s heaped on me that’s affecting my actions and/or judgment.

I’m a physical and emotional wreck. Neither is an excuse. I’ve just- I’ve forgotten my way. I haven’t even tried, until now, to switch shit up. I’d all but given in, decided I was done and that I’d just allow life to happen to me and when you’ve reached that point, you’re done. I found myself praying for the end. “I’m tired,” I’d mutter to God, to the wind, to myself – whomever or whatever. I remember when I was young, what a waste death of any sort was to me – even that of old age. I’d wanted to somehow affect some manner of cure for it, even – if not by science, then by funding. I needed to be successful, wealthy to do it. That’s why it was so important to me excel at my studies as an older kid. Somehow, it fell apart. My health waned… My outlook, too. I gave up. As time progressed, I slowly became about phoning in my work as well as my life – until I could no longer work and life switched from an adventure to something of- I counted it as a “curse”. I mean, I’ve never been one to assume it owed me anything. I’d always thought it was me who owed it something. “My best,” the young me might say. Once, there was value to that statement. It’s become something more subjective, “one’s best.” For some dude, “best” is a dog turd. “Ugh. I just squeezed out ‘my best’ for you.” It’s no longer a person’s “gold standard”, output-wise. It ceased being mine.

Occasionally, I’ll have an epiphany. About where I’m at and, if need be, how to change it. Less-frequently will come a sea change – a period afterward that’s reflective of having faced some one of life’s dilemmas and tackled it. Successfully. The way I exist in total is generally turned on its ear, thusly – and for the better. Even the manner in which I carry myself. Chin held high, corners of my mouth upturned to a smile. And social interaction? Like night turned to day. When I’d formerly hid myself away, the gregariousness of my childhood returns. Sunshine returns to my heart, my soul. My mind dances free. Unfortunately, I allowed myself to revert after some kind of sorrow. Refused to emerge from it, perhaps sinking deeper. I’ve sometimes found myself- Ideating suicide. Moreso, following through with it. Obviously, I was revived. But I got to that point.

I lost my train of thought; stepped out for lunch.

So. Where was I.

Yeah. The subject of suicide. It’s not a light one. People don’t want to discuss it. Or, they’ll misrepresent it. It or the soul who’d attempted it. For whatever reason. There’s always that one guy who makes somebody else’s struggle about themselves, always that one dude who wants everyone to know he knows more about you than you do. HBO ran a special for awhile on the subject, produced by two brothers of a departed man who’d killed himself. The entire program was about their anger, the anger of a particular first responder – that kind of thing. A guilt-aimed chop piece directed at somebody who’d never see it. Nobody ever brought up why the cat might’ve wanted out, why he chose to take that route. Nothing about his pain, nothing about reaching the moment at which you lose your last ounce of faith in anything. In God, hope, tomorrow – any of it. They’d made it all about them. Conversely, after I’d survived, I’d made it all about me. Know what? Both points of view are wrong. It took me some work to get through the outer shell of pain, but I eventually saw this, accepted it. It turned out I’d not sought the help of my family as hard as I thought I had. But also, neither were they able to- It’s- That kind of communication was beyond them, at the time. Beyond us all. Even now, it’s something they’re uncomfortable with. And that’s okay. I don’t really feel altogether okay bringing up with them, either. Some things are just- Taboo. For some. I’ve been undergoing therapy for years, since. So I have an outlet for what I can’t communicate to family and friends. And someone who might have advice, as well. I’ve often doubted its effectiveness, but… No therapy, no antidepressants or the like will fix me. They’re more like “safety valves”. The real work is done within. Of late, I’ve given up. All sorts of negativity’s washed in like waves of filthy seawater, smashing into my mind. And I’m there, rudderless. Rudderless because I’ve chosen to be. I’ve grown tired and I’ve had enough. Bringing me back into that familiar dark territory of wanting death. “It’s not that you want to die,” I tell myself repeatedly. “It’s that you’ve forgotten how to live.” I’ve forgotten the enjoyment the things I love brings. I’ve forgotten hope and how to dream. For years, I cautioned folks about my missteps and assured them that help and hope were available. Somehow, I forgot my own advice. That it can get better. That it does, with effort and determination. I know what it is to lose all that, however. Thing is, if you’ve ever attained something better, you’ll know that it’s possible to grasp it once more. It’s what I’m trying to convince myself of, that. And you.