Part 3 soon to come …
But, I knew that I couldn’t let things get worse for me. I had to keep going. I had to keep trying. I had to keep pushing myself.
I could make myself … good.
So, I continued walking, wondering if the city was being destroyed and if I was in the worst place on Earth, where reality destabilizes, where you become nothing.
I found my way to another dormitory, this one by way of a guy I found attractive, and someone who I thought was trying to lead me. He had headphones in, and was wearing a red shirt. I sang, “Speak to me, freely. I am listening,” by Between the Buried in Me to him, thinking that would somehow communicate the intense feelings I had in general. The intense feelings I had, generally. It was a beautiful encounter, because I felt like I was connecting to this individual, even though I knew, surely, I wasn’t. Which made me feel more isolated and alone.
He led me to the dormitory. I hung out in an area just outside the actual dorm but inside the building, and saw an alarm that said Supra-Safe. I had been referencing the word “supra” recently, because it was a word I found interesting. I also thought it was a reference to safe sex. I also thought it was a reference to a safe place I could be, because I had the delusion that I was homeless.
So, I sat down against the wall and just hung out here, because I thought that’s where I needed to be.
And then, I thought I met The Dark Kid. Or at least, a shade of The Dark Kid. A possible version of The Dark Kid. He was wearing a black hoodie, which was intense, and I thought that he was kind of attractive. Especially the way he talked. (Yeah …)I talked to him, told him that I once knew a kid I referred to as The Dark Kid, where I’d talk to him on the phone frequently, until he got a cameo in The Avengers movie, the first one, in the scene in New York near the end of the film. I said after this, he talked to me less and less, and this guy said, “Ego can do that.”
I had no idea what to think of this individual, except to just think: It was a pleasant conversation. He let me inside the dorm then, went his separate way, and said, “There is no going back.” I puzzled on this expression for quite a while, wondering what it meant, wondering if I had gone to a new place in my reality, wondering if my reality was going to change. Wondering, what happened now, if I could never go back?
I hung around the dorm for a little bit. I was confused at the paper cut-outs of muffins with eyes and a mouth. I didn’t know what this meant, but I thought it was strange.
I listened to Foxing, because Foxing is good music. “Bloodhound … laying at your door … wild grass … overlapping the front porch …” And I felt good, I felt sad. I wasn’t sure what to think, what any of this meant, what any of this could mean, if there was any purpose. I just loved listening to Foxing. Especially in this moment. It was comforting after seeing such graphic images up at the School of Medicine.
I looked around the dorms, saw that people seemed to be sharing one room, three people, and wondered if they were all doing threesomes. Sexually. This was complicated further when I went to a television room and saw a commercial that was advertising some medication, for three lesbian women, it seemed, though I wasn’t sure. And then, I saw live action footage of an African American being manipulated by police, which made me think of Black Lives Matter. It made me wonder, what the fuck was going on?
Realizing television wasn’t going to be comforting, I walked around the dorm more, trying to figure out what I was going to do next. I didn’t know, because I felt an overwhelming feeling of sadness that I couldn’t explain. (When the tide rolled in, there was nothing left: But an albatross hanging from my neck. And just as you could not contain to see you: You could not contain me …) So, I put in Evanesence on my iPod, listening to the song Tourniquet (My wounds cry for the grave, my soul cries for deliverance …), and decided I was going to go home. I’d seen too much, and I needed a safe place. Home. My apartment. I had the delusion I was homeless, so I needed to go to the one place I could go. The city wasn’t completely destroyed yet.
I tore out a poem from my collection/notebook Separation: Healing, and, feeling betrayed by The Dark Kid, who I believed didn’t exist and could never exist even though he was beautiful, I folded the poem and put it in my pill bottle, which I had been carrying with me all day for strength and a reminder that I could face my fears like Mowgli, I could confront my past. I left the bottle there, and cried.
But when I got on Trax, I saw that they had snipped two lines, the green line and blue line, which was intense. All that was left was the train to Daybreak. I thought then that I should get on the train and go to Daybreak and get lost. Because reality had fallen apart, there was no reason left to be here.
In the midst of this I ran into a friend from The Legacy Initiative. Richard. I got paranoid, but it was still nonetheless comforting to see him. And then I heard people talking about poisonous parties and getting Hepatitis C, and it was the worst fucking conversation I’d ever heard in passing.
I went back to my apartment. When I finally arrived: I realized I’d seen too much, experienced too much. I had finally, after a long, long time: snapped. Completely snapped. I went to my apartment and opened the door and grabbed my fucking condoms and didn’t know what to do but wondered if I should get back on the train and go to Daybreak and sleep with the first man that I found: Because, I was hungry. Because, I wanted more. But I knew I didn’t have the resolve to do this, I couldn’t pull it off with my disorganized thinking, and so I went to the knife stand and grabbed a small knife and pointed it at my heart. I realized in that moment I couldn’t actually stab my heart, though, I wasn’t going to commit suicide, I had to be strong, I had to live, and being sensitive to pain, I was not going to hurt myself more: So, I put the knife down, scolding myself for being so foolish, and then began to think rather quietly about what the next step was.
I remember looking in the mirror, shaking, staring wide-eyed, manic and out of control. I was afraid. I was trembling. When I looked in the mirror I saw my hair unkempt and crazy, my facial hair making me looking wild as well, like a pup werewolf, my heart hurting, my thoughts stinging my mind: and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know, because I was afraid. I was trembling, shaking in fear. I didn’t know what to do, or what was wrong with me. As I looked at my reflection, I wondered if I could ever be beautiful, ever be a beautiful soul. Could I ever be someone who meant something. I didn’t know, I just knew that my heart hurt, and I in this moment thought for sure it was the end of the world, and the end of my world. So, wide-eyed and manic, I didn’t know what to think, I didn’t know what to do, so I just … thought. I just thought. My face was bruised, sunken, dark in places, the bruised forbidden fruit, too much hurt: I thought that I had been in a fight, and gotten beat up bad. Both mentally, and physically.
I realized I could go to my friend Weston. This thought came after much deliberation. I went to him, and he invited me on the back of his porch. I told him, “I’m out.” I meant, I’m out of the closet, but I’m also out of meds, I’m out of the city, I’m out of my head, I’m out of the Devil’s deal: I’m done. I can’t do this anymore. It’s too fucking hard. It’s just too fucking hard.
He called the Crisis Line. I literally lay in a fetal position on his bed, while he told the Crisis Line what was going on. He was a really good friend to me, and I appreciate it deeply. It meant even more because I have deep respect for his kid. I felt like I had people looking out for me, which meant a lot, especially in the moment where I had hit my absolute worst in a very long time.
They decided it would be a good idea to let me to go intake/23 hour observation. So, Weston, after some negotiation, drove me up to the hospital. In the meantime, he made it clear that he thought my meds were out of whack: Which made sense, because I have been taking my meds normally and regularly.
As we drove to intake, he told me, no God is going to save the planet. He said, we have to save it. I wondered about this, wondered what it meant. Would we be able to save the planet, or is it destined to die, fade away? Are we destined to extinction? The sixth, seventh extinction? Indeed, it makes me wonder. I felt like this was an internalized truth (the possibility of us going extinct …), because nothing looked the same. Everything seemed dead, destroyed. I had in the past felt like this before, but never to this degree. Perhaps this is because I had heard much more arguments since then about extinction and extinction of the species, and perhaps, I finally admitted to myself that the world was certainly in trouble and I couldn’t run from these arguments any longer.
My experience in the destroyed city reaffirmed this perspective.
After Weston took me to the hospital, I hung out in intake for a while, wondering what the next step was. I told them I needed to be hospitalized. I needed to be admitted. This was because I knew that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I wasn’t thinking clearly at all and I needed a med adjustment.
One of the people there reminded me of a philosopher I’ve seen give many lectures. Lawrence Cahoun? Anyway, it triggered a ton of memories of me studying philosophy and trying to figure it out. I told him, as we were sitting down, that I liked Heidegger because he was a Nazi. What I meant was: Why was Heidegger so fucking intelligent if he was so fucking cruel, and is life and reality so destabilized, the journey of life so destabilized, that killing is simply a natural part of the human condition, and it’s normalized? Because it seems prevalent with us, and I wonder, why do we kill ourselves and kill others? Is it because of philosophers like Heidegger? Does his thought represent something deep about the fundamental being and ontology of humanity?
I later told another person that I liked NIetzsche because he wasn’t a Nazi. I talked about Kierkegaard and his differentiations of lifestyles, where we must choose: I talked about Derrida and the fact that he upset Western metaphysics like a devil, making us and forcing us question new things. To show just how destabilized our reality is.
I wondered where I was going to end up. What I meant by wanting to be hospitalized is that I needed help. My body was crying for help, so was my mind: I needed help. So they interpreted this to mean that I needed to be hospitalized accordingly. Committed against my will.
But, I was happy to have made this choice.
Not because I felt it was the right thing to do, but because I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed help. And in the end, you can only turn to what you know. Freedom is powerful, and freedom is painful: And in that moment, I chose to choose the choice I had feared I would make for a long time, but finally made. Just like my novel Rebirth was the Batman Versus Superman.
I saw a book by Mark Twain which was cool. It praised experience. He said, experience is the writer’s/author’s best tool. I took this to heart in the moment. Where would my experience lead my writing? I’d suffered for so long: Would I finally heal? Could I finally heal? “Catabasis.”
I played around with the cards as well, playing cards in a game about strategy. I wondered if I had the strategy to win this game I’d pitted myself up against. Did I? Could I do it? Was it possible? I wasn’t sure. So, I put cards everywhere, and rolled the dice. Scored a lot of ones, which in some games, means you scored highest of all.
And in the meantime? As I thought about philosophy and my mental health and my happiness and the desire for sex and the desire to understand and the desire to think and the desire to confront my past and the desire to be innocent? I waited for hospitalization …