Do it (for) myself

Managing my mental health is like piloting a houseboat. Or using a pressure cooker.  The effects of changes take time to develop.  It’s easy to overcorrect.

I keep having dreams in which you are alive. And when I wake, you die all over again.

Hey Buddy, It’s been 11 days.  It doesn’t seem real anymore.  Maybe it’s because you would always be home and then off on your next work contract.   Your next big adventure.  Six months would pass before I’d see you again.   But when we saw each other again, it was as if no time had passed.  Frenetic conversation, often crouched in uncomfortable positions in inhospitable locations. I think part of my brain stills feels like it’s just one of your adventures.  That six months from now I’ll awake to an unannounced truck in the driveway, only to find you sleeping in the bed, like that time you came home from the Grand Canyon. Other parts of me know you are gone.  The funeral is a blur, but I was there.  Flashes of memory.  I remember carrying you one last time.  I set you down, for the last time, and stood there staring into the hole for what seems like forever. And then I faded to the back of the crowd.  It never once occurred to me that one of those chairs placed front and center was intended for me.  When they asked everyone to ‘gather in,’ I instinctively moved back.  I thought that you’d think that was funny.  It never even occurred to me until I looked at a photo I’d taken, and saw everyone in the family sitting there except me. I took photos at your funeral.  You might think that’s weird, but I’ve been taking as many photos as I can since you were diagnosed last July.  You caught me back in January.  We were sitting in the Radiology waiting room, you were filling out a form, and my flash went off.  You asked what I was taking a picture of.  “The wall,” I replied.  Not entirely a lie, as the concrete pattern was interesting. But easier than admitting I was taking a picture of you because I never knew how many more I would be able to take. I learned to turn off the flash, and to mute all the sounds from my phone, so my photographic intrusions would go unnoticed.  I hope you’ll excuse me, but it was a coping mechanism and now I don’t have any regrets. I have it all:   The start of treatment, the holidays. The decline. The hospital. The homecoming. The farewell tour. The funeral. Part of me knows you’re gone.  I didn’t sleep at all the night you went.  I was still awake when Mom knocked on my door a little after 5am. I figured she needed me to come up and help move you, to get you comfortable.   I know you’re gone.  I sat there alone with you.  Told you once again how much I love you, how there’s no man in this world I respect more.  I kissed your cold forehead, tried to shut your eyelids so no one else would meet that glassy stare. It’s the little things that fuck me up, though. I found a huge bruise on my forearm, which was already fading to yellow.  I spent three days trying to figure out where such a bruise could come from, I could remember no relevant trauma. I was describing it to Mom, trying to relate how large it was.  For some reason, I held my hand up to it to give a comparison.   It was the same size. And that’s when it clicked. The same size as my hand. The same size as your hand. That’s where you would grip to brace yourself when I picked you up. Now the bruise is almost gone but I don’t want it to fade. Or I’ll think of an idea, and my first impulse is to tell you.  I have to remind myself that I can’t. Dad and I finally got the engine pulled out of the Explorer.  It took us the better part of today to get it the 40 feet onto the porch so we can rebuild it.  It was a classic Fisher clusterfuck, and nobody could appreciate the story the way you can. And there wasn’t anybody else I wanted to tell it to. You and I both know that I don’t think you’re still out there somewhere.  And you would think similarly.  Maybe that’s it.  To cope with the fact that you no longer think.  I don’t believe I’ll ever see you again, Buddy, never speak to you again. I’ll never again meet someone who understands my world the way you do. Who understands me the way you do. This whole letter has been yet another coping mechanism.  One more shout into the great void. And I shout: I love you, Buddy.  Now and forever. =Ben

My annual pre-birthday tradition is making my birthday private on Facebook.

And now all I have is malt liquor and music.

Late one night, when I was cashiering at Whole Foods in Lexington, a young couple came through my line. They were tall, beautiful, and smartly dressed. I couldn’t help but think: “Wow, they’re thoroughbreds.”

If he moves too quickly, he passes out. Each time he comes back to, he apologizes: “I’m sorry.  Was that scary?” “No,” you lie. You’re as worried about how he feels as he is worried about how you feel. But it is scary. Because sometime, that vacant look in his eyes will be permanent. Sometime, your instructions to “BREATHE: Innnn....Ouuutt” will be ignored. Not even ignored.  There will be nothing to ignore them. Part of you can’t help but think he’ll come to again. Part of you can’t help but know that one of these days he will not. It is scary, but I won’t tell him that. Each time like a mini-death, Which only serve to remind me of how unready for this I am.

This is probably denial, but I’m going to keep pretending it’s acceptance.

Most of the time, I’m just trying to keep my crazy in between the lines.

There are a lot of people in this world that have only met my manic side.