Is it possible to completely lose one's way, to stray so far from who they were and what they believed in, and still find a way back from the gutter?
I've been asking myself this question a lot lately. Far longer than I'd even like to admit. Sadly, my tagline isn't metaphorical prose but a despondent mirror image of this bitter, broken bard. In the early hours of the morning I toss and I oscillate in and out of sleep. But I never get rest, because what rest is there for the damned?
For much of my adolescent and adult life I've struggled with my mind. I've always spent more time in my head than out with the rest of the world. Some of this was a defensive mechanism... a means to cope with social anxiety and shyness. Much of it was a general disinterest in the seemingly mundane realities of life. I was always more interested in the 'What If' over the 'What Is.' I suppose mentioning that I'm fairly emotionally...scattered... is necessary. So a lot of factors caused me to behave as I did. And one of my greatest, if not my only, method of coping with myself and my place in the world was to write. From scribbling on cocktail napkins at 4:30am at the Liar to spending entire afternoons clacking away on my 1933 Smith & Corona just to feel the keys beneath my fingers... my only true addiction was to the page and the world.
Mine was not a passing fancy nor a causal habit, though. I was committed to the craft, to the practice, to the life. I made a many great sacrifices along the way to preserve that which I held highest... sacrifices which I still bear the scars for. It ruined friendships, ended relationships, and at times made me more isolated than I could ever imagine. And yet through all of it, as Green Day put it... it was worth all the while. Instead of spiraling out of control and dying young from excess and apathy, I was able to channel my demons and my saints into something other than myself. I could be surrounded by friends I'd never met; I could travel back in time and revisit places and people; I could play god and shape worlds more hopeful than this bleak backdrop we move through blindly. And the most important part of this diatribe is how I keep speaking in the past tense.
Everyone who ever commits to putting words to the page in any creative manner knows what it's like to lose their flow. Whatever you want to call it... you know what it is: a gumption trap where your verve, your motivation, your inspiration, and your very hope just comes crashing down like shoddy scaffolding and leaves you bloodied and laid bare. Sometimes all it takes is reading a favorite author and a couple of days to pass; other times, it takes several weeks and gallons of your preferred spirit. Some intermittent insanity also helps. I've been there enough times to know.
But what happens when you lose the voice? When no matter what you do, the silence in your head just grows louder and louder till you want to break every knuckle on the concrete and scream till there's no more sound to be had.
I never thought that I could lose who I am... who I was. All that I ever was. Little did I know, my entire life could so easily be shaken and broken by one of the most important people to me. That sort of betrayal and heartbreak is something that can't be forgotten. Yet despite my very stern, finite nature I tried... several times... to be forgiving. Only to be perpetually rewarded with disappointment and pain. I took on responsibilities for other people, bearing burdens that should never have been mine in order to keep my loved ones afloat. I became the anchor... and while everyone remained afloat, I slowly drowned. Before I knew it... I had become someone, something I no longer recognized and utterly hated.
I recently spent time at one of my closest friend's place, with his fiancé, brother, and sister-in-law. I'd known the brothers since childhood and grew up with them. While they laughed and bantered with each other and respective partners... I festered in the corner, the social cancer that my circumstances had made me. And they weren't the exception: old friends reach out to connect, and I hear about how their lives are progressing. All the while, mine is simply passing. Each day I try harder to shut myself off from everything, lest I hurt anyone else.... and so I can't be hurt anymore.
This is a fucked up, self-pitying, narcissistic monologue, isn't it? But guess what: no one's got a gun to your head forcing you to read this! I mean... there might be a sniper scope with your forehead dead center... but best not to worry about these things. The reason I chose to write this, the reason I needed to impulsively write this is because I need to find my faith again. My life has changed drastically lately, and I'm struggling to understand and accept these changes. I don't believe in some white bearded misogynist sitting on a throne deciding fate; I don't believe in god's son/god itself/some abstract spirit redeeming me for sins I didn't commit; I don't believe in any heaven where everyone is a virgin. I believe in the power of prose, the impact of inflection, the magnitude between the margins. And while I slowly self destruct, held upright solely by my required day job... I'm trying to find my way back. My odyssey back to a better time, a better self. I have to believe I can rationalize the good and the bad of life through the page once more.
And while I'm waiting for faith... I take my sacrament in cheap vodka
