On Being Brave

i casually stroll into the boy scouts national Smash jamboree and fill the tournament venue with a thick, black fog of mustard gas. scouts begin to emerge; eyes red, screaming. "not so brave after all, are you boys?", i mutter to myself as i proudly don my mustard gas badge.

i clap and clap, completely engrossed. i wish i could clap harder, but i have bandages around my arms to stop the bleeding. did i really just do that? or am i watching a tv show? it's hard to know. the show is over now. i look at the time, and realize that 7 hours has passed. i've lost track of time again. i close my eyes and see god. he takes a piece of sand and rubs it against his giant genitals until it becomes a pulsing ball of energy. he says "let there be light." i say  "god, no pressure or anything, but can you make the light like, a tiny bit brighter because this light kind of sucks." he says "i made the light as bright as 1,000 suns, fucker." i say "look dude, i'm not going to tell you how to do your job, but that light just isn't bright enough. i mean, it's bright enough to see that you look like a bitch, but other than that i can't see shit." he throws sand in my eyes and says "shut the fuck up, you're just a bully, and my mom warned me about people like you." at this point i realize that i'm talking to god and i quickly shut the fuck up. the next thing i know, i'm looking out the window and all my friends are dead and i'm being blamed. oh boy, i've really goofed things up now.

i am suddenly made painfully aware of the location of all my limbs and the sensations flowing through them. my tongue is a ribbon of flesh that glides up and down my throat, lacerating my insides. i am bleeding from my mouth but can't help but enjoy the taste. the blood is bitter and thick, like corn syrup. i am both the predator and prey. i am all things. i am a giant sack of meat wrapped with flesh and controlled by maggots. i wish i had a friend and i wish that my friend could say something comforting. i am the angel of gore and feel too much. and i feel it all in real time. 

i put a mirror in front of my eyes, i can see "other me" reflected back, watching me with a look of hatred on his face. i will myself to wink, but i can't. why won't he acknowledge my presence?

i am a jack-o-lantern, carved with the hatred and hope of a million lost souls. i want to breathe, but i have no mouth. i am dead and afraid. i am The Singular, but cannot help be trapped within the walls of my own skull. i try to scream out, but when i do, no sound echoes. i feel the beautiful crimson liquid choking me, searing my esophagus. i love the blood. the gasp of surprise as it spurts from the body, then the feeling of utter power, knowing that blood is free and everyone has some to share. i want more, i never want it to stop. i wonder what would happen if i covered the entire room in blood? what would other people say? i wish i could cry.

i realize that i'm holding a knife, a huge knife that cuts through time and space. i don't know where i got it, but it is covered in blood and shit and i can't stop plunging it deep into my gut. i am grabbing chunks of my flesh and stuffing it into my mouth but i am never full. i am a world of pus and crust and shards of bone. i long for more, i long for the tiny crack in my arm to transform into a canyon of scars. doctors say this is not okay. 

i can see the future and it's all too much for me. i see mass graves, i see oceans of blood, i see humanity locked in hospitals, trapped in a prison of methadone. i see the slow, uneventful death of all our dreams. and a small boy that goes by my name will say "when will we wake up from this nightmare, dad?" but dad won't respond because he's not there. 

i am riding in a car, windows down, no shirt, no shoes in the middle of winter.  i open the door of my moving car and can see the the shadows of my former self following me. i cannot escape them. should i even try? i realize that i've been gone for a long, long time and i'm not sure i can come back. please help me. somebody.

i am falling forward now. i begin to fear the end, i close my eyes and see my entire life flash before my eyes. i don't want to die. i am afraid to die. the world is spinning around me, clouds, grass, dirt, trees, water, cars, people, houses, buildings. i close my eyes again and land in the grass in a field somewhere. i look around and no one is there. i groan "where am i?" the field begins to waver, it's harder to see. the grass starts to shrink and i can feel an intense heat emanating from it. i look down and my skin is melting into the field, i feel the heat get closer and closer to me. i say "please just let me die. i don't want this." i hear the voice again "hey man, are you okay?" "please just let me die." it's hard to breathe. "hey man are you on drugs? are you okay?" "please just let me die."

my therapist takes my hands in hers and they feel heavy. i am a block of concrete submerged in water. i feel heavy and awkward, and i'm not used to handing them to someone else. they don't feel like my hands. i feel like i should be asking her how she's feeling rather than the other way around.

my therapist says "you have nothing to prove to me. treatment isn't a competition, it's not a race. there is no finish line." but i'm a narcissist, i think to myself. if there is no winning, then what's the point? 

"you've been playing games as an escape for so long...", my therapist continues, "that i think you've forgotten that nobody is keeping score."

i feel nervous and exposed in this chair. if i'm here, in therapy, aren't i admitting that i've already lost? aren't i admitting that i can't do this on my own? aren't i admitting i don't know what to do?

my therapist says "it's okay not to know. the boring, basic fact about reality is that most of us don't know, and nearly all of us are pretending that we do. just being here, with me, is enough."

but what am I supposed to do now? 

my therapist says "in a few sessions i'm going to give you an assignment; we're going to make a list of things that you think will make you happy. and i want you to look at that list and tell me if it's the time that you have to spend with yourself that you can't stand."

i begin to cry because i already know the truth. i can't stand to be alone with my thoughts.  i've been busy keeping busy my whole life, and it's catching up to me.

my therapist tells me "i'm going to ask you to do a few things to heal your body and your spirit. i want you to exercise more. i want you to practice kindness. i want you to meditate, because you can't live in your head and listen to me at the same time." 

i suddenly feel relaxed. i can do that. how hard can it be? 

"i want you to walk around your neighborhood and ask people about themselves. i want you to go into stores and ask the people who work there about their day, and i want you to really listen to them. nobody is saying this will be easy. some days will feel effortless. other days will feel impossible. but every step forward brings you closer to who you want to be."

a timer rings and our session is over.

i say, "thank you. i really appreciate this."

she puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "real wisdom is learning when to ask for help."

she notices the mustard gas badge on my scout's jersey.  she smiles, "my son's a scout, you know?"

"oh yeah?", i reply.

"yes, sir!" she replies proudly.  "and i've got a good feeling he's going to win the national Smash jamboree today. he's been practicing all week."