I’m pretty sure I have an ulcer. The pain that has me doubled over radiates deep in my abdomen and leaves me nearly breathless at times. Nauseous almost constantly. I hate it. But usually I can will it away. Not so much will it away, really, as ignore it until whatever I’m doing at the moment distracts me enough to trick my brain into believing there’s nothing going on. That works most of the time. A fistful of Tums doesn’t hurt either. Not so long ago that would have been a fistful of Xanax and the pain that may be a physical reality would have been replaced by the warm and fuzzies that take over as those pills slid down my throat and worked their magic. Follow that with a vodka chaser and I was good for days. Too much to lose if I succumb to that remedy tonight. I know that. Still, the pain this night is as real as ever and I need to purge all these thoughts that are choking me tonight.
I hardly know where to start. It’s been overwhelming. I guess from A to Z. Beginning to end. Only not really. Easiest to most difficult. No. That doesn’t work either. How about I just start then?
I experienced my great crisis in my early twenties. Well, I guess it started earlier, but surely it culminated and became defining then. At that moment in my life I had reached the edge of madness; from that point on my life became an unending desert…a Faustian nightmare…and I began to see the world as a jungle, one in which I was perpetually unable to protect myself. The repercussions of that year, of that very night, have reached far and keep me bound still in their unyielding stranglehold. It is all drawn out so woefully. And there remains only the great solitude in the shadow of memory.
I survived that night to be sure. But I am vulnerable to the continual relapse that has me on the verge of terror or in fear of madness. I retreat then to the safety of the blank page before me. It is my valley of death which I traverse, the dark interval during which I lose my relation with the cosmos. It is the time of the Assassins. I no longer “vibrate with exultation,” as young Rimbaud said. I writhe and squirm with fear ad uncertainty. And it has brought me to this very place. This place where I now find myself laying bare my soul to the anonymous Reader, opening the wound and letting the blood flow. The blood. The virulent blood running, wreaking havoc though my veins. I find myself relaying to no one the truth of who I was then, the end of my life as it was, and the beginning of this journey that has haunted me for so many years.
It’s taken all my energy. I don’t have the strength, physically or otherwise, to fight it off. It has robbed me of sleep again and again and has finally landed me here. Too afraid to close my eyes, too tired to keep them open. A crossroads. The stuff is so vague. In case. And did you know that. There is. And. Wait. Not. No. Sure. But maybe. And endless stream of consciousness. Or incessant babble. I’m tired. And weary.
This post hasn’t gone where I expected it to go. It hasn’t gone anywhere actually. Still, I’m loath to scrap it altogether. It’s what came out. It is what it is. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the happenings of the last few weeks. The last few months, really. I’m trying to establish a timeline of the insanity, but I’ve killed several million brain cells via my indulgence in this substance or that recently, and it’s only coming back in dribs and drabs.
I’ll try to make sense of it all later. Right now I need tea. It’s going to be a long night.