4/15/15 I’m Thankful I Understand This

I sit in front of a blank page and don’t know what to write anymore. There’s this long list of ideas in my head and none of them seem worth putting on the page–even when I’ve just been woken, when my mind is less judgemental the quality of my writing. What I’d like is to write small 500 word stories every morning, but that is impossible for me right now. Stress is the creative killer. It creeps into the places between synapses where all your ideas form and then it just takes root there. It courses through your mind so nothing else can fill that space between your consciousness and the matter that makes up your brain.

See: it seems to me there is space in between these places. Between the brain itself and the consciousness it forms. Perhaps this is where the unconscious self lurks, and so too is where the stress builds. The brain are the thoughts. Our feelings will mirror our thoughts. If we focus on negative thoughts then negative feelings will follow. If we focus on positive thoughts, then positives will follow. Here are the positives in my life. Here are some gratitudes.

Last week–well, just on Saturday, ended one of the most stressful weeks of my life. It ended a relationship I had had high hopes for. It left me distraught and if not broken, at least hurt. Instead of getting home and having nobody to talk to I texted my friends in order to hangout. It was, after all, Saturday night. It was like the Thundercats assembling. Everyone rose to the occasion and I wanted to cry, not because I had just been treated horribly by someone I cared about deeply, but because all my friends rallied around me and lifted me up, even if they didn’t know what they were doing. So this is to my friends that have helped me through so much.

Next is to my own bravery. This may seem conceited, but for the last year or so I’ve been continuously dating in a semi-serious manner a handful of women (not at the same time, just in progression). For anyone who knows the dating scene then you know it sucks. But I’ve continued to put myself out there and be open with people. I’ve continued to make myself vulnerable and that takes a lot of guts–because it gives others a lot of power–but through feeling and hurt, I haven’t been broken, but just made more aware how special true feelings are. So, this is to all the feelings I’ve had in the last year, good and bad–they are both precious.

Lastly, it is my words that I love. My words and how they seem to always make things more clear to me, even if not to others. This is to, somehow, I can write the truth of a matter before it is completely apparent to me. It becomes some kind of warning to myself that I have been unable to head. Perhaps in the future I will be able to, but for now–I’m thankful I understand this.

4/14/15 I Told Him We’d Try

My ability to write fiction has deserted me. Or that is, it seems burdensome like a car I’m not use to driving. The concept of scene, conflict, change, and resolution, as well as the structural integrity of my fiction has come to a sudden halt. I believe this is due to the fact I have confronted so many difficult things within my life lately. Suddenly dwelling on existential issues isn’t something I have to pretend to do.

Last night I committed my roommate to the psych ward. I woke around 3am to her screaming and wailing.

“Make it stop,” she screamed.

“Get out of my head!”

“I fucking hate all of you!”

I called the Crisis Line and spoke to someone about the options we could take. The lady on the other end of the call wasn’t very helpful. The main thing was, nothing could really be done against my roommates will unless she was a danger to herself or others–at the moment it sounded as they was a danger, but I couldn’t be sure. When I hung up I saw that my roommate Sean had texted me three times. He didn’t want to go out and face her alone. We did together.

When she first saw us she was scared–like she’d forgotten we existed. Then she said she needed the key–but the key was lost–Nexus, her dog, knew what she was talking about. Nexus could go and get it from the void.

“Go get the key Nexus,” she said. “We can’t burn it without the key.”

I asked her if the knew what time it was. She didn’t. I asked her when the last time she slept was. She didn’t know. She continued to talk about something she needed to burn.

“Would you like to talk about someone with this?” we asked her. “Someone who might be able to explain?”

While sitting on her bed, she nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good,” I said. I called the Crisis Line again. This time a man answered. I can’t remember his name. It was short and started with either R or D–but I can’t recall. I told him my roommate had been yelling in the night. Screaming, talking to herself and her dog.

“You can give her the phone now,” he said.

I gave her the phone and at the point could only get half the conversation. At one point she said, “Yes,” and then, “Nope. I won’t do it. I won’t kill them.” Then she said something about burning documents and she named Desolation Angels by Jack Kerouac.

Then all of a sudden, she said, “You did it. You opened it! How did you do that. You just scrambled my brain!” She was visibly scared of the man and gave me my phone back.

“So it sounds as though she isn’t aware of what reality is,” he said.

Okay, I’m not a doctor, but I could have told anyone the same thing.

“What it sounds like, is that she hasn’t slept for a long time, so she’s suffering from sleep deprivation, also.”

I agreed that that seemed to be the case.

“Is she taking any drugs?”

“She smokes a lot of pot,” I told him. “And I’ve noticed that doesn’t help anything.”

“The main thing is that she needs sleep, so if you can get her to do that and not smoke marijuana right now, that would be good.”

I told him we would try.

4/13/15 She Tried to Explain

Jamie had been going crazy go for a while. She’d tried to explain it, she’d tried to deal with it herself, she’d tried to smoke the insanity away with pot but it only made it worse. When she talked about it she was unable to tell anyone what it was. She would start with lines something like–

“I think I can explain it.”

Then launch into a story about a tiger and a mushroom trip. But when she stopped talking and nodded in satisfaction as though she’d finally said the words she’d been trying to say, nobody knew what she was talking about.

On the day in questions one of her roommates had called friends and thrown a small get together before going to the bars, downtown. They drank good beers and took shots of Jameson that had been floating around since christmas without any resolve. The kitchen was a mess of a place with dishes piled near the sink and food splattered over the stove. The floor was stained and marked by food and shows alike. When they cleaned it they would throw down some bleach, the spray water on the linoleum take a long, stiff haired brushed, rather like a brume and scrub it like the house had horrible teeth–though it was only the floor.

There were five or six people in the kitchen on this night. All drinking. One or two with ciders, the others with beer. All laughing and having a great time. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then a black dog ran into the kitchen, wagging her tail. The dog’s name was Nexus. Then, behind her, in the doorway Jamie appeared. She’d shaved her head some time ago on both sides and left a small amount of hair near the top, and though 26 years old, she hadn’t been able to shake the acne that spotted her face. Even if she had not been going insane, she would have looked crazy.

“Hey, Jamie,” someone said.

She leaned on the doorframe. She had a habit of wearing clothes that were far too large for her. Her eyes were severe, turning inward and it was clear she was seeing something other than everyone else in the room.

Her lips moved but no sound came out. Then, with what looked like great effort, she spoke.

“Can someone explain?”

She didn’t say what needed to be explained.

“We’re hanging out. That’s all,” someone said.

She mouthed words again, but this time no sound escaped. Then she sank down onto the floor, he back to the wall. A couple people asked her questions but she didn’t answer. She just looked ahead, unseeing and unaware, as far as anyone could tell, that the only thing that was wrong was her.

She said one last thing, “Where’s Greg?”

Years ago Greg and her were a couple, now they were good friends and when Jamie was afraid and scared of nothing Greg was the only person who could communicate with her.

“Greg is at work,” said someone.

Jamie’s lips moved then she began to shake. Her breath was shallow and nobody knew what to do.