Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I’m less than garbage, less than dirt. The lowest of the low…I’m truly the definition of a scummy, wasted, worthless existence.

~I’m sorry Mom~

You raised me with nothing but love and care. You were so small, but I haven’t met anybody who can match your strength. A day never went by where I didn’t get at least one hug from you. But I stole something from you. With every hug, I was betraying your trust and wasting your warmth. Everything you gave to me wasn’t enough to fill in the holes I’d already begun to cut from my soul. I can’t remember a single hug, a single moment with you, where my body was whole. I know you hugged me before I began making these scars, but I can’t remember it. There are pictures and stories, eye witnesses and undeniable video evidence, but still… I can’t remember what it felt like… and before I knew it, all I could give you was this half human shell. Everything was gone. I was only 6, but it was all gone. I knew it wasn’t right, cutting myself like that, but I couldn’t resist. I was only 6, and it wasn’t your fault at all, but part of me still wanted to blame anybody other than the monster I share a body with. I stole away the innocence you gave me. I’ve never been able to give you the type of hug you gave me every day. You deserved so much better. Mom, you deserved a child who could appreciate the life you gave them. You didn’t deserve to have me as your child. I’m so, so sorry Mom….

~I’m sorry Dad~

70 hour work weeks are no joke, yet they never seemed to wear you down. I assumed that was just because all adults lived this way. I took you for granted. You drove the night shift at work so you could be home in time to drive me to school. You’d skip sleep to take me to doctor appointments. You would arrive to my softball games in your full work uniform. Most of my games took place in the summer, so it was always hot, yet you never complained. You could only ever catch a few innings before you had to leave, so I would have understood if you just skipped them entirely. But you didn’t. You came and watched and cheered me on. I wasn’t any good at softball, but you never looked away. Now, as I look back, I start to wonder what else you gave up for me, when I couldn’t give you anything in return? How much sleep did you lose because of me? You couldn’t have gotten more than a few hours each day. And your paying for that now. I can see it in how you move, how much even the most basic task hurts you, but you still put everybody else before yourself. You gave up your health to watch this ungrateful brat suck at softball, and you did it all with a smile. You deserved better. Dad, you deserved a child who could appreciate the sacrifices you made for them. You didn’t deserve to have me as your child. I’m so, so sorry Dad….

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Life with you wasn’t perfect, but it was only with you that I found myself grateful that I was alive.”

I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain. I could get the same effect from something like running, or fucking. Yet here I am, all alone, exhausted from doing fuck all over the past million minutes. Actually, I’m probably being a bit harsh on myself, because I have done a few things over the past week. I managed to drag my ass into work, Monday through Friday, 8AM to 5PM. I didn’t get all of my work finished that I should have, but I can take my work laptop home, so I can play catch up at some point in between my wild and wacky weekend antics (which is, of course, just me, sitting alone in my pitch black bedroom, with nothing but a 2 liter of Mountain Dew as sustenance and my non-work laptop as a means of feeling connected to the world, even if only through binging early 2000’s Anime and re-watching old YouTube videos). I also did some shopping this week, so my pantry is full. It is true that 99% of that pantry space is occupied by Cup Noodle, but I did get a nice variety of flavors, because I care about having a diverse and well-rounded diet. So yeah, I’m chugging along at a nice, even clip. I deserve a reward for having such a productive week, right?

And that’s where all these scars and bruises come into the picture.

Everything else gives me nothing, no sense of accomplishment or purpose. I’m just an emotionally vacant hole, and I’m backhauling in all the bullshit I can find in a piss poor attempt to feel full. Of course, that’s not how anything works, so nothing gets better, and I’m still a husk of a human. Is it so strange that I would turn to self harm in this situation? To me it feels like the logical conclusion. I need anything to wake me up, even if only for a few moments. The edge of a knife against my wrist gives me the rush I need. It’s a sharp pain that quickly fades, but the ridges that decorate my skin will tingle for about an hour. I can extend that feeling beyond that initial hour with a little bit of pressure. A few quick punches right on top of the cuts really helps to wake up those nerve cells. If I can keep it going for a solid 5 minutes, all of the skin around the cut will become a marbled mess of black and blue, and the cut itself will widen up a few centimeters, so the blood will keep flowing and flowing and flowing. By the time the bleeding has stopped, and I’ve cleaned myself up in the shower, the sight of my fucked up body in the mirror is more than enough to draw from me some genuine, untethered laughter. I mean who wouldn’t just lose their shit if they looked like this?! Both arms, from the shoulders to my fingertips, are patchworks of bruises and bright red lines. One glance and it’s so fucking obvious how much I deserve to look like this, or even worse. And I latch onto that thought, because I could look worse, right? My hands still work, which seems sort of fucked up, considering what they just did to my arms. So I bury those smartass hands in my bedroom walls. But my legs are also working just fine, having walked me from my computer chair, into my kitchen, and back again. They are accomplices to this travesty! This crime cannot go unpunished! So I light up a few cigarettes, using my legs as ashtrays, putting out the final dot of heat on my ankles and thighs. And yet I still feel like I’m forgetting something; and that’s when it hits me! I still have lungs that keep pumping me full of life-giving oxygen, and a stomach that continues to try and break my belt with its constant need to expand! But worst of all, I still have this heart, beating away, pushing blood through my veins even as I try to force that blood down the drain! I still have this heart!!!…. This heart…. That feels like lead…. This heart that can’t seem to carry me anywhere, and so I find myself leaning on the shoulders and ideas of others to carry my things, things I should be able to carry with my own strength…. This heart that has nothing left beyond the basic, barbaric function of keeping me alive, even if the rest of me is begging for it to fucking stop….

Well, I can take some pills to turn my stomach into knots that will surely come back up my throat and all over my toilet. And those same pills will grip my muscles, drying out my mouth and making it harder to take any sort of breath, so my lungs will be screaming at me shortly. But my heart? What can I do about my heart? It’s the one responsible for this mess, more so than anything else. But what can I do? It’s getting late, and I can feel the rest of my body shutting down. At this point I can only hope this isn’t going to be me simply falling asleep. I have to hold out hope that I finally did enough, that my heart got the message loud and clear. I have to believe…I’ve finally paid enough…to earn a little bit of peace…

But this was just another normal week for me. I’ve done this for 6 years now. And yeah, I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain.

But I can’t stop.

I could never stop.

Until my heart can catch up to the rest of me, I’ll ever be able to stop.

So I’m just waiting for that moment.

When I can finally, finally stop…

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Tomorrow is where I placed all of my hopes, but I should have saved something, anything, to get me through today…”

It’s never as bad as I think it is, until I take another look in the mirror. My stomach transforms into a pretzel as the realization “I can always get worse” really begins to sink in. The old scars are so faint now that if I avoid bright lights nobody could even see them. I still make an effort to wear long sleeves at family gatherings, but if I slip up it wouldn’t result in the immediate recognition of my bullshit habits. But those are only the old scars. Those date back 15 years. They have a long history, but I don’t remember any of it. See, I have the scars, even if they are barely visible, I still have them. Yet I don’t have any of the feelings that allowed me to kick and scratch my way into a lifetime of swimming with my shirt on. I can’t recall a single moment, just a general sense of wanting a way out. And I think that might be what I hate the most. Of all the memorabilia I have accumulated over the years, it’s my scars that remain. I won baseball tournaments, performed in spelling bees, got some of my first poems published when I was 10. I bowled a game over 200, managed to get an Eagle in the District Golf Tournament, and even found the courage to say “I love you” to my highschool girlfriend, and I meant it… I had all of that happen…or at least I think I did… After all this time I have nothing left from those memories but the memories themselves, and when they play in my head, I feel like I’m watching somebody else’s life. I can see it all, in fantastic detail, but I can’t relate to anything I’m seeing. I can’t connect that person I see to the person I am. The only thing I can connect from the past with today are the scars. I can draw a line from each one in order, using how faded they appear to judge how old they are. That map is extensive, traveling the distance from my left ankle up through my right shoulder, ending in a faint crescent on the front of my neck. And I am still adding more lines, treating my skin like a highway, finding the spots where the lines have worn thin and taking the time to add a fresh layer of paint. But this road can’t go on forever. At some point repainting the lines won’t be enough, and the road will be slated for construction. Everything will have to be stripped away, so fresh pavement can be laid, to provide a better path for the future. And I’m certain it’s my time. My road is at its end, and I need to stop redrawing lines and just rip the whole fucking thing to shreds.  

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“God made me tenderly, with love in every stitch, and how did I repay that care? I forced God to watch me as I ripped open every last seam.”

No matter how deep I go, I can’t cut it out. I was fighting against the red, but as it slowly faded into black, I caught a glimpse of the truth.

I’ve spent so many years living on a razors edge that I stopped fearing sharp objects altogether. No, maybe I was never afraid in the first place. A cut is just a cut.

It only hurts for a moment.

It only bleeds for a moment.

It will sting in the shower for a day or two.

It will form a scab overnight.

And, in a months time, only a faded red line will remain.

By the end of the year, that line will have started to turn pink. Another year, another shade lighter. 20 years later and you’d need a decently bright light to find those first few lines.

20 years, huh? I’ve been doing this for 20 years? Is that a long time? I have no idea if that’s a long time. That’s a crazy amount of time though, right? If I stop to think about it, it really is pure insanity.

I’ve never gone from one birthday to the next without making a new cut.

I’ve never opened presents under the Christmas tree without seeing the scars I carved into my body by choice.

I graduated from high school and college during the month of June, and on both occasions I was worried my robes wouldn’t be long enough to cover my arms past the elbow, so I wore a long-sleeved shirt to be safe.

I can’t remember anybody embracing my body before I ruined it… I know I was hugged before these scars though… pictures all over my parents home show a round, smiling kid being held and hugged and kissed by so many different people… and I can’t remember any of it…

I feel like I stole something from all those people. I did, didn’t I? I stole that child from them…

I wish I could give it all back to them. I wish I could reverse time and stop myself from making that first cut.

But I also can’t remember that first cut… so I guess I never could have escaped this fate, right? Am I right?

Can’t somebody, please… just tell me I’m right…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I’m awkward, but only when it comes to the things that matter most, like not hurting myself, or laughing at the new scars I don’t remember making.”

I love the sound of a car door opening, and the taste of orange juice after I brush my teeth. I’m a big fan of Indie YouTube musicians, and I can sing along with any Disney movie. I chug entire cans of Coke because I enjoy the tingling sensation it creates in the back of my throat. I can’t help but smile whenever I look at a clock at the exact moment when one minute ends and the next begins. Holding my baby nephew makes me nervous, but when he reaches out for me to pick him up, I’m overcome with happiness that this perfect little butterball wants me to hold him (even if it’s only so he can be close enough to my head to pull on my hair). I always laugh when my Mom and I go see a movie, and she packs all this candy into her purse, and amongst those candies are pickles in ziploc bags and her own salt grinder for the popcorn.

 

I love some strange things.

I like some weird things.

I laugh at some odd things.

I smile at most cute things.

 

When you left you slammed my car door so hard it broke part of the frame, leaving tiny plastic pieces that will be pricking at my skin for the rest of eternity. I started eating away my health while ignoring basic hygiene, instead filling my mornings with multiple energy drinks and a tin of wintergreen altoids. I sip away at my Coke through a straw, and every swallow helps wash down another pill or 2. My apartment lost power about 2 months ago, and my alarm clock is still blinking 8’s, and since we just passed the summer solstice, the clock hanging in my bathroom is now an hour to slow. My sister sent me a video of my nephew finally taking his first steps without any help, and she captioned the video saying “Now he can walk over to you and grab your hair without enlisting any aid!”. Seeing that picture and reading that caption made me cry, because I realized nobody in my family knows how short I cut my hair, and that was at the beginning of the summer, and it’s closer to Thanksgiving than the 4th of July. My Mom texted me the other day, asking when we would go see the new Marvel movie, because that’s been our thing for the past few years. Well, the past few years before these past few years. I’ve used the last few years to really hone my hermit skills, so brushing off her question is done out of reflex, before I even entertain the idea of doing something as normal as seeing a movie with my mom.

 

I’ve broken some expensive things.

I’ve ignored some important things.

I’ve cried over some tiny things.

And I’ve let down myself and everybody around me…because failure is my thing.   

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

He loves me; he loves me not.

“He loves me.”

He shared with me his secrets,

Hidden between kisses.

I stockpiled every last one,

Treating them like stained glass;

I avoided touching them,

But I loved watching the world

Through his colorful view.

 

~He loves me not.~

He only ever looked at me

Through a rainbow lens,

And it leaves me to wonder

If he saw me for who I am

Or for the person he wants to see?

Because through his kaleidoscope

Even a gray sky

Can be mistaken for

A perfect, cloudless blue.

 

“He loves me.”

He knew my body,

Ran his fingers over the war

I had scratched across

My wrists, shoulders and stomach.

His hands never shook,

And his warm touch

Felt like it was melting away

Every mistake I had made.

 

~He loves me not.~

But those scars weren’t mistakes;

They were choices.

Regardless of regret,

If I just let them disappear

Without confronting the reasons

I made them in the first place,

I’m not learning a damn thing.

In the end, his hands

Weren’t trying to heal,

But instead hide the truth.

He couldn’t love the scars

So how could he love me?

 

He loves me, he loves me not.

He loves my potential; he loves the thought

Of what I could be, the perfect future he sees.

He loves what might come, but he doesn’t love me…

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Something is only considered trash because someone comes along and labels it as trash. So when I say I’m trash, it’s not that I’m inherently nothing, but after 20 some years of experiences, I can’t define myself as anything but trash.”

There was nothing I could have done..

~Do you really believe that? That there was nothing you could have done, nothing at all?~

I just wanted to be loved, to feel what love was supposed to be, that forever and always type of love that grows stronger each day, bringing smiles and family and so much warmth…I just wanted a love like that..

~You had it, all of it, and you know you never deserved it, but you got it anyway, you lucky bastard. And now you are blaming fate, destiny, God, for the outcome? You had all the help in the world, and even still, you lost! You lost EVERYTHING!. That’s not destiny, that was YOU! ALL YOU! THAT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT, JUST.. just you..~

So I never could have held onto it, because that’s who I am, huh? I can’t feel comfortable. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin, seeing the world through my own eyes… So no matter how much the world gave me, I could never, ever, hold on… I couldn’t, I never could have…

~We’re just a pile of excuses; walking, talking human debris. No, we’re even less. We’re less than garbage, less than dirt.. The lowest of the low…We’re truly the definition of a scummy, wasted, worthless existence..~