My Current State of Being
This is disturbing to me because I can’t really locate my current state of being. Since I’m so cerebral and removed my therapist often encourages me to try to limit myself to thinking in terms of feelings (in “normal world” this is relatively definitive and can usually be correlated to specific incidences “I feel sad because . . .”). Unfortunately, even this general truth does not hold true for me.
In truth I feel sad. Why? I’m not necessarily sure. I spent a fine weekend in Philadelphia attending a wedding for two of BSJ’s friends from home. True this might be considered an awkward situation as I knew nobody and since we were spending most of our time with the wedding party--BSJ was one of the dashing groomsmen--who obviously all knew each other quite well. But everybody was kind to me and greeted me with open arms, going out of their way to make me feel as welcome as any friend might be. They were more generous then I could imagine myself being in such a situation--as I am shy and if I were presented with a new person while I was amongst my good friends, I’d probably just spend most of my time speaking to my friend and ignoring the stranger, or eyeing them suspiciously. But no, they were kind and included me fully. There were moments of awkwardness, as could be expected, like spending the night in the groom’s apartment with all the other groomsmen. Actually that only became awkward when BSJ left me upstairs (it was a two story apartment) with all the boys while he went downstairs without a word. We were stoned and I was sitting in a room full of boys that were jamming on acoustic guitars, keyboards and other percussions. This seemed natural to them, like they did it often, which they probably did. I could respect it for being cool and artsy, but could not get involved because I have no musical aptitude. Eventually though I rectified this awkwardness by just going down to find BSJ (there was a moment of stoned stupidity when BSJ had climbed out the window to smoke whilst I was peeing and when I came out I heard him yelling my name but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from so went all the way upstairs to see no BSJ in the room and then burst out into idiotic laughter when I tried to explained my stoney blunder).
Generally though, it was nice. Beautiful in fact. The wedding took place in an old Colonial house built in 1875. The autumn leaves were a fiery array of reds, oranges and yellows. The bride and groom and groomsmen were the coolest people--suburban indie kids whom, if I lived in Philly I would probably be friends with (the bridesmaids left a bit to be desired, but generally speaking I have difficulty relating to girls, getting giddy about boys, dresses and weddings, blah). And even though I didn’t know them well, I felt really happy that these two lovely people found each other. All seemed to have better values than my New York friends and I (one told me how if he could earn $30,000 a year making sandwiches, he would happily make sandwiches for the rest of his life and be the happiest sandwich maker in the world. I wanted to be like ‘yeah me to,’ but just as the words perched on my lips I knew I must retract them because for me that could never be true. And then I think, ‘what’s wrong with me that this can’t be true?) And yet through all of this I could not escape this feeling of hallow blackness. Not the beauty of nature, nor the happiness of the couple before me could shake the deep pit of verboten emptiness. It taunted me through out the weekend, as if to say ‘while you may exist amongst this, you will never be a part.’ I am always going to be me and me is something much darker and malevolent then all of this. Perhaps it was that I was reading James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” while on my weekend jaunt and feeling pangs of relation to all that he thought and felt in his rehabbing crack smoking mind. Perhaps I was trying to ingratiate myself in the narrative because I am dramatic and that’s what I tend to do when I read, really feel a part of the world. But then I’ve never sold my body for crack. I’ve never been gang banged by fifteen guys and then tossed into the gutter wearing only a black plastic trash bag. I couldn’t even look on an average ghetto street corner and pick out the heroin dealer from the crack dealer. I am nothing like the people in James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” and yet part of me felt like I was, in all my New York dirtiness. The coke, the pot, all the hallucinogens taken over the years. We say this is average, but really is it? Perhaps only in our fucked up urban decay to we accept this so readily.
So I came back to New York on Sunday and did coke. I did tons of coke. I did coke until I thought my head was going to explode and then I did more. I went home at 4 a.m. tossed and turned for a bit, then got up late for work the next morning. I felt wretched, like death. I was puking at my desk behind closed doors and then slipping the trash bag out of the office hoping no one would notice--they didn’t. I did nothing that required actual brain work, but moved through those mechanical task that I could do with little effort. I left work early, claiming (as I had that morning) that my uncle was back in the hospital and I had to go pick up their child from school (in the morning I had to see him off to school. No one questioned this because it’s just too horrible a lie to tell. A person that would tell such a lie is obviously hell bound. I’m hell bound. I am a terrible person. Evil things are meant will happen to me because I am a bad, soulless, person.
So in an effort to “feel better” this week, I’ve done no work, have yet to start a new book, spent almost every evening surrounded by people (distractions) getting fucked up in some manner or another. I don’t know when I will feel better. I hope it will be soon. But right now I am suffering from pangs of guilt about my horribleness as a human being.
In truth I feel sad. Why? I’m not necessarily sure. I spent a fine weekend in Philadelphia attending a wedding for two of BSJ’s friends from home. True this might be considered an awkward situation as I knew nobody and since we were spending most of our time with the wedding party--BSJ was one of the dashing groomsmen--who obviously all knew each other quite well. But everybody was kind to me and greeted me with open arms, going out of their way to make me feel as welcome as any friend might be. They were more generous then I could imagine myself being in such a situation--as I am shy and if I were presented with a new person while I was amongst my good friends, I’d probably just spend most of my time speaking to my friend and ignoring the stranger, or eyeing them suspiciously. But no, they were kind and included me fully. There were moments of awkwardness, as could be expected, like spending the night in the groom’s apartment with all the other groomsmen. Actually that only became awkward when BSJ left me upstairs (it was a two story apartment) with all the boys while he went downstairs without a word. We were stoned and I was sitting in a room full of boys that were jamming on acoustic guitars, keyboards and other percussions. This seemed natural to them, like they did it often, which they probably did. I could respect it for being cool and artsy, but could not get involved because I have no musical aptitude. Eventually though I rectified this awkwardness by just going down to find BSJ (there was a moment of stoned stupidity when BSJ had climbed out the window to smoke whilst I was peeing and when I came out I heard him yelling my name but couldn’t figure out where it was coming from so went all the way upstairs to see no BSJ in the room and then burst out into idiotic laughter when I tried to explained my stoney blunder).
Generally though, it was nice. Beautiful in fact. The wedding took place in an old Colonial house built in 1875. The autumn leaves were a fiery array of reds, oranges and yellows. The bride and groom and groomsmen were the coolest people--suburban indie kids whom, if I lived in Philly I would probably be friends with (the bridesmaids left a bit to be desired, but generally speaking I have difficulty relating to girls, getting giddy about boys, dresses and weddings, blah). And even though I didn’t know them well, I felt really happy that these two lovely people found each other. All seemed to have better values than my New York friends and I (one told me how if he could earn $30,000 a year making sandwiches, he would happily make sandwiches for the rest of his life and be the happiest sandwich maker in the world. I wanted to be like ‘yeah me to,’ but just as the words perched on my lips I knew I must retract them because for me that could never be true. And then I think, ‘what’s wrong with me that this can’t be true?) And yet through all of this I could not escape this feeling of hallow blackness. Not the beauty of nature, nor the happiness of the couple before me could shake the deep pit of verboten emptiness. It taunted me through out the weekend, as if to say ‘while you may exist amongst this, you will never be a part.’ I am always going to be me and me is something much darker and malevolent then all of this. Perhaps it was that I was reading James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” while on my weekend jaunt and feeling pangs of relation to all that he thought and felt in his rehabbing crack smoking mind. Perhaps I was trying to ingratiate myself in the narrative because I am dramatic and that’s what I tend to do when I read, really feel a part of the world. But then I’ve never sold my body for crack. I’ve never been gang banged by fifteen guys and then tossed into the gutter wearing only a black plastic trash bag. I couldn’t even look on an average ghetto street corner and pick out the heroin dealer from the crack dealer. I am nothing like the people in James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces” and yet part of me felt like I was, in all my New York dirtiness. The coke, the pot, all the hallucinogens taken over the years. We say this is average, but really is it? Perhaps only in our fucked up urban decay to we accept this so readily.
So I came back to New York on Sunday and did coke. I did tons of coke. I did coke until I thought my head was going to explode and then I did more. I went home at 4 a.m. tossed and turned for a bit, then got up late for work the next morning. I felt wretched, like death. I was puking at my desk behind closed doors and then slipping the trash bag out of the office hoping no one would notice--they didn’t. I did nothing that required actual brain work, but moved through those mechanical task that I could do with little effort. I left work early, claiming (as I had that morning) that my uncle was back in the hospital and I had to go pick up their child from school (in the morning I had to see him off to school. No one questioned this because it’s just too horrible a lie to tell. A person that would tell such a lie is obviously hell bound. I’m hell bound. I am a terrible person. Evil things are meant will happen to me because I am a bad, soulless, person.
So in an effort to “feel better” this week, I’ve done no work, have yet to start a new book, spent almost every evening surrounded by people (distractions) getting fucked up in some manner or another. I don’t know when I will feel better. I hope it will be soon. But right now I am suffering from pangs of guilt about my horribleness as a human being.