Face of Mendacity.

Yes it has, and admittedly;

Come to pass unpredictably,

The blades of grass are far from green,

No matter how fast I rearrange things.

In a palsied flash I see everything,

I cry and I laugh at what it all means,

Hope gets smashed to smithereens,

a high-speed crash into humanity.

A skinned carcass hung out and withering,

A trophy the hunter left disintegrating,

A nothing that no one can recall clearly,

Something hung in the sun to spin limply .

Yes it does, and quite totally;

blows my mind dumbfoundedly,

spends my time confoundedly,

by stinging my eyes perpetually.

But the tears I produce don’t mean anything,

just another excuse to curse the deities,

my tongue’s gotten loose and lashed back at me,

for speaking the truth in the face of mendacity.

Daily Disillusions. One.

Some of my longtime readers may recall how, throughout the lifetime of my blog, I’ve described the very deep-seated issues surrounding my long tattered relationship with my mama; things that stemmed from early childhood and only snowballed throughout my life until I was an adult and became estranged from her on my own terms for a time. Some might recall the ways in which I was openly struggling with the actual severing of ties between her and me due to her direct and quite unhealthy ties to my own daughter in the months prior to her diagnosis. The cruelly finite death sentence of late stage lung cancer that was handed down to her early last December quickly changed my life’s direction, and before I knew it, I became her main (if not her only) confidant, caretaker, nurse and administrative assistant/scheduler.

I can’t believe she has survived so long…at least not when compared to the very short time that was originally laid out in her prognosis, not to mention the very close brush with sudden death she initially undertook on the trail of her first chemo via febrile pneumonia and neutropenia that landed her in the ICU for several weeks. At that point, she was recovering from the dip in her white blood cells that had left her open like a sitting duck for the infections that literally almost killed her in the beginning of her “treatment”, and wanted to spend Christmas at my Aunt and Uncle’s house with our family. Given the circumstances, I was certain that last year would be her final holiday season alive, so I killed myself emotionally and financially to make her holiday as close to perfect as possible.

It was also during that period of time that her husband of 40 years, my long-time father figure, abandoned my mama completely in the face of her illness and impending death. She never went back home again, as her husband repeatedly failed to clear out the presence of my daughter and her disgusting friends from the house.

Some of my readers might recall how I had been struggling for several years with my parents over their unwavering loyalty (to the point of sheer stupidity) to my absolutely sociopathic and parasitic offspring – and the undeniable affect that such loyalties would inevitably leave in their proverbial laps. It only got worse as time went by; and as soon as my mom was out of the house, it went to Hell in a hand-basket. They began getting notices from the landlord within weeks, my daughter having gotten a puppy that destroyed the carpets and some of the walls and woodwork. In the passage of time between then and now, my former step father also managed to lose his car, his savings, his healthcare coverage and anything else worth anything at all that he might have owned.

Two days ago, a 3 day notice to quit the premises was posted on the front door of the house that was once my mama’s home. For some reason, my former step father was surprised enough by this that he called my mom and told her, obviously upsetting her on many levels. She now also has been burdened.by the anxiety, disappointment, worry, and heartbreak attached to learning (being reminded of) of the reality that her entire estate of 50 years’ worth of the obsessively collected, pack-rat-esque, silverfish friendly belongings that she has bent over backward to hang onto throughout handfuls of relocations, burglarized storage units, rats and various destructive insect infestations, and 2 fires: is gone with a 3 day notice to quit the premises.  I know this breaks her heart because I know how she is and I have come to accept and endear the wacky things that she holds closest to her heart, as indecipherable as most may be.

That house is full of my own history also, mine and my daughter’s…and any of the things that I would’ve wanted to have from my mama will be gone as well. I have not been surprised by this unfolding of the Living Hell that has come to define every direction of what I would’ve once called “my family”; I was writing letters on my mom’s behalf to her landlord almost a year ago, so it’s not like my former step father and daughter (who will soon be homeless and without much but the things each can carry somehow) can say they didn’t see this coming.

The entire situation, which has gotten so far out of control that it’s beyond repair or interference from any outside party, is beyond my ability to intellectually grasp on any level. I am ashamed of my former step father for his absolute lack of action in even keeping himself afloat in the face of my daughter’s shenanigans. He has not only allowed and enabled this nightmare to play out like it is – but he also dares to call my dying mother (who is separated from him for the very same lack of action) and heap the load onto her already broken back. I am so sad and miserable over all of it, as I am in no position to offer anything in terms of any kind of aid or guidance to such an obviously lost cause as the situation at my mom’s old house, I want no part of that noise at all.

I also feel very bitter toward my mama again for the shit she painted herself into this corner with; a notion not so foreign to my heart and mind…I just wish she would’ve listened to me in the first place about letting my daughter move into her home when she left the hospital with her tracheotomy a few years ago. Thinking back to that now in this very moment, my eyes are swollen with tears because I remember my mom’s staunch position on “seeing Boo through the removal of the trach and subsequent recovery”, no matter what I said about it. I was dumb-founded by her blind loyalty to someone who had burglarized her home and stolen her car. I have come to feel so embittered by and ashamed of Boo these days, I have no words for that element of things…besides bad ones.

In short, everything is as bad as ever…waiting for that other shoe to drop hard on my head and heart…working with an asshole who fucked with my emotions and made me hate him as a result – having to look at his weasel face every day, has been wearing on me…too distracted to touch myself, too disgusted to touch anyone else…working hard and earning shit…more disillusioned every day beginning with my commute to work at 7am.

Daunted By Joy.

I must have read it somewhere in each and every piece on terminal cancer that I have pored over since her diagnosis…references to:

“The people you least expect to offer any kind of support to you during this chaotic time will surprise you while those you were certain you could depend on will be nowhere to be found…”

Since my mom’s admission to the ER and subsequently, the ICU and so on, I have been trying to ignore the nagging buzz in my inner ear surrounding my mom’s overall situation at home. I have been trying super hard NOT to judge my dad for letting her sink so low, without even noticing she had such a bad fever and was deathly ill until it was literally just an inarguable fact that she was in some serious trouble; and needed serious help. Like I wrote before, this had been the VERY FIRST DAY I left her alone all day – and look where she ended up before 8pm. Needless to say, I have some serious concerns about her well-being; given the fact that she was quite apparently not being cared for properly BEFORE her chemo dance with death to the tune of septic pneumonia; how can I expect that she will be adequately looked after NOW, being released from the hospital following a closely related (to the lack of care she received that day) near-death experience? Mom will be coming home with me for at least the next few days (I am both overwhelmed with joy and thoroughly daunted at the same time by this reality), through Christmas at least. I can’t bear the thought of sending her to her home and dropping her off to be overlooked and not taken care of during such a crucial time for her ongoing survival.

My dad has been such a dick throughout this whole thing…he has been shining my mom everyday – not showing up at the hospital to see her or never bringing her the stuff she asked for. Not answering his phone or calling back. Not showing up at the job that I’m totally winging in order to cover my mom’s standing commitments to her former clients to let bring me supplies or to help me meet a deadline. It’s been a fucking insane week for everyone, and apparently he has slept through most of. I understand that we all deal with grief differently, and he is probably really heartbroken and distraught. But the fact that he has allowed Boo back in full-time in my mom’s absence has things really fucked up between my parents again at present. And the creature I gave birth to, Boo, can’t just do the right thing, can she?

So, basically, my mom feels as if my dad has “chosen Boo over her” again…and he is just oblivious with his fucking head further up his ass every day, it seems…

I refuse to have any contact with my daughter; while my parents have allowed her to remain a constant presence in their home, despite her many violations against them in the face of their kindness. And now, this leaves us in quite the predicament, because I can’t go home with my mom to her house and take care of her when Boo is smoking meth in the next room. It’s fucking absurd, how my dad won’t open his fucking eyes and just kick my drug-addict hooker daughter the fuck out so that MY MOM CAN RECOVER FROM FUCKING PNEUMONIA IN HER OWN HOME. I am at a loss as to what to do about any of it…I just know I can’t possibly send my mom into that environment as it is now, and won’t even consider it. Gods damn it, she pulled through this recent crisis, and she should have a good Christmas without the worries associated with her living situation…it’s most likely her last one…how does my dad not give a fuck about that?

Injustice and Anxiety.

Anxiety is a thin stream of fear trickling through the mind. If encouraged, it cuts a channel into which all other thoughts are drained.

— Arthur Somers Roche

Injustice alone can shake down the pillars of the skies, and restore the reign of Chaos and Night.

— Horace Mann

America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.

— Abraham Lincoln

My Own Anxiety.

I can see it as sure as the days are long:

nobody notices how high I am strung;

nobody’s around to sew my mouth shut,

there’s no one here to tell me I’m wrong…

  •  

it becomes clear that this pain is my own,

it is futile to try and lighten the load,

every moment leaves a burden burned into my soul,

unbearable, unthinkable – to any person that I know…

  •  

People like to tell me about this thing “anxiety”,

how it is a mental state that is controlled by me,

the very people that never went without a single thing,

like to tell me how my feelings can be fixed through therapy…

  •  

sure, it helps to talk and write about what’s come to pass,

but nothing alters what I see inside the looking glass,

nothing erases history, or takes a damn thing back,

there is no leaving my breed of grief somewhere in the past.

“For No Reason”.

Recently, I have been experiencing the old feelings and fears again “for no reason”, according to “Dr. Quackenfuck”…my blood pressure has risen to the terrifyingly high level again; my chest feels as if it’s been cinched inside of a medieval vice or something; even when I’m sitting on my ass and doing nothing – I can’t catch my breath to save my Life.
I am fully aware of the need for those in any medical profession (especially psychology or the like) to resort to the use of the term “for no reason” when they are unable to conclude any other reasonable cause for a given symptom – they have been doing that to me all along because they refuse to accept the REALITY that maybe I’m just simply beyond “fixing”. What the fuck are you supposed to do when your shrink has more faith in your mental state than you do, even deep down when nobody’s looking?
Life, for me, has come once again to a crossroads apparently…one in which I’m facing a decision between sanity and none – between survival and death – between will and abandon. I harbor this strange and indescribable notion lately that I have completed certain things that were necessary to complete prior to any absence of my future presence. I know that sounds drastic and it’s not meant to; I am NOT reaching out for help during a suicidal spiral through this post, I swear. I am stating what’s what – for me as much as it can be for the entertainment of anyone reading this…
I am confused and kinda angry lately; been spitting at the Gods often and cursing their’ being…I feel very resentful and even bitter towards everything that is (or isn’t) taking place in my life. I am not whining about things not happening to my own liking, please trust me…I am NOT the type of person who goes through Life with high expectations of happiness, fulfillment or, even the simplest of comforts, for that matter; I have learned that Life can be a nasty bitch without a second thought towards my own comfort or concerns. I have learned that the only way I am going get through Life will be via the state of complacency with specific truths; and I long-ago gave up on any ideas or daydreams of someday painting my own white picket fences or chasing rainbows into the future. I am real. I am grown. I am titanium against emotional strife; it’s a familiar element of being alive that I have come to master from one day to the next. Not all of these ways are “healthy” i.e. I am a total pothead (and despite regular poetry about alcohol, don’t partake in the LEGAL vice of liquor), I am driven to be highly physically active to the point physical exhaustion as a means of juggling my anxiety-ridden thoughts and keeping them from overtaking my ENTIRE lifestyle, and of course: there’s always my unhealthy adoration for firearms of any kind (but for stress relief shooting, I do prefer a long barrel rifle).
Anyway, I detach emotionally – I withdraw socially – I become paranoid and fearful, jumpy and sketchy…I become enveloped by feelings of distrust towards everyone I know and care about – young and old. I am a fucking train wreck and my shrink refuses to believe it, somehow…he says I have “no reason” to have the wobbles again at this stage of the game…whatever the fuck that means: “this stage of the game”.
Last time I checked, this was no fucking game by any stretch of the imagination…and if he doesn’t start taking me more seriously when I tell him things so extremely difficult to share with another human being that breathes, takes notes, and can repeat words – – – I will not go see him anymore. I will find someone new to traumatize every week, instead.

World’s Worst Things.

I’ve always meant to tell you,

that your irreplaceable feet,

always stood for the good,

against so very, many bad things,

like a cursed angel born to me,

my last-stood chance to be;

…the failing of my tattered wings…

It somehow always slips my mind,

so few words – from so far away,

so unable to remain very stable,

life is one, long, catastrophic earthquake,

oh, that I could reign you in and regain,

your love – your trust – and your admiration;

 –

…the weaving of my worst dreams…

 –

I see your ghost on the schoolyard,

that I watched you grow up on,

very vague; and you flicker and fade,

blinking static – ‘til you’re totally gone,

I watch one last time as your digits slip,

clutching at my out-stretched fingertips;

 –

…the repeating of the world’s worst things…

A Fast Quake is a Bad Quake Around Here.

So…I was just sitting here being a good, little tax lady and working hard when we had a super heavily jolting earthquake.

It was fast and strong, which makes me think it was likely the Loma Prieta vein of the fault line San Andreas (my local fault line – and the infamous slip-shift display section of the fault line). In the event that it was a jolt from this section, I am scared; that would translate into what we call a “precursor-shock” (as opposed to an “after shock”) because it’s a slight slip of the fault line’s enormous energy – a baby-spoon taste of the pressure built up in the slip-shift fault line, and now that much closer to letting loose. When our Loma Prieta builds up too long (a period of time which went well passed, like ten years ago), the release of the fucking massive amounts of energy, in combination with the type of fault line we sport, is catastrophic on varying levels, depending on the neighborhood and its position against the fault line.

Eeeesh, that rattled my cage….

Big One-Eight.

lock_2_by_prophetharm-d7u8tmt

The day that lands on May thirteenth,

will be a very memorable one, indeed:

after all these years of waiting separately,

my little girl finally turns the ‘big eighteen’;

The anticipation that grinds behind her release,

is stuff that’s enough for the death of Yours Truly,

my heart pumps to keep up with the thumping beat,

but it’s barely enough to keep my blood flowing freely;

Her entire life, we’ve talked about its eventuality:

silly things she and I would do on this day, specifically:

create the biggest ruckus seen in recent local history,

roll around with the windows down in a rented limousine;

We’ve joked about obnoxious face paint we’d be wearing,

the gaudy jewelry that I brought to her from New Orleans,

spend hours doing nothing but her very favorite things,

truth is: I won’t even get to see her – and that’s our reality;

She will take her newly granted wish of finally being free,

and run with it as far and quickly in a direction away from me,

it might be years until I see her face again, if I’m so lucky,

her lack of any self-esteem or worth keeps her far, historically;

My little girl exists within a place that she can only be,

the pages of the Missing Persons reports, filed repeatedly,

the hours between the sunset and the next day’s dawning:

she’s in there somewhere trying to find any kind of meaning;

This day has long been a source of a most primal fear in me,

the burdens carried so long will either hold or break clean,

from the chains that have rusted around them quite solidly,

the very last of my chances to find the daughter that I seek.

Woke Up Wrong.

My Saturday has gotten off to quite the shitty start so far:

1) Before I even had my coffee, my dumbass roommate decided to pop out and scare the fuck out of me – rendering me startled and angry before I even had my wits about me for the day. (The affected throat chop that he received has left heavy tension lingering in the cool morning air, as a result).
2) The remaining female Society Finches (Chewy, Fet, The Crown and Bobo) are still screaming non-stop (going on like ten consecutive days now) and my head is about to explode from the noise.
3) I have people calling my phone before it even hits 9am.
4) I am scheduled to see my mother in about an hour from now.
5) I will be forced to hole up in my room for the remainder of the weekend that I spend at home because my fucking dense roommate has pissed me off – – – AGAIN.
6) The sense of laziness that permeates here during the weekends drives me up the walls: granted, yes you worked all week too…but for fuck’s sake Dude – get off your fat ass and do SOMETHING besides sit on the couch, for once.
7) If I hear the opening theme to Bones, or that stupid ass sample from the 70’s that my roommate seems to think is the best sound ever made, even one more time – KABOOM.

The High Speed Wobbles.

Anybody who suffers from an “anxiety disorder” will know the wobbles well, most likely.

It happens to the very best of the best of us; no matter how far into ‘recovery’ and/or treatment we may be – it never completely leaves us for good, it always returns to remind us again…we have no control. It happens on a good day, a bad day, a day you never even make it out of bed at all.

For me, the wobbles tend to come out of nowhere, typically blindsiding me into submission to an emotional tsunami of anxiety, malcontent and paranoid fear. This seems to truly wash over everything – the thoughts in my head and heart, the feelings I harbor in general, my level of energy, my attention span, any motivational element in my life at a given time; I become consumed very quickly and completely by the anxiousness when this occurs. I become paranoid of my surroundings and the people in them; I lose any sense of reason. In turn, what usually happens, is that I trigger my own reflexive fight or flight response through the sudden increase of adrenaline and serotonin coursing through my body – and I react as if I were being attacked in a corner.

I know, it’s fucking disturbing…but true.

I have a roommate, I’ve written about him and his lack of understanding surrounding the details of the things that I struggle with from day to day, in regard to constant fear and perpetual edginess; he likes to scare me. He finds it amusing, which in all honesty, makes him NO DIFFERENT from 9 out 10 dudes that I know, unfortunately.He likes to hide in the shrub near the front door and wait for me to walk passed in the dark after work…he likes to pop out of random closets and spaces that I’d never be expecting him to pop out of. It’s unfortunate.

AS, IT’S DOES NOT AMUSE ME.

When I am startled by someone, in the moment, I do not see. I do not recognize you in the slightest, in spite of being only inches from your face and looking dead at you, I do not see you. I am not there. Somebody else must be; because it is during this slice of time after being startled by someone that my subconscious should recognize but doesn’t communicate such to my conscious mind, that my body honestly seems to just take over and do what it thinks I need to be doing in the moment that I get startled. As my roommate is learning  slowly, but ever-more surely – my typical reaction to being startled isn’t to run, after all…shocker! I’m a fighter! And apparently, I go for the eyeballs and face…we are mapping a pattern.

He doesn’t (and by all rights really couldn’t, anyway) get angry with me for physically assaulting him when this happens, he didn’t even hold a grudge four times back – when I pepper sprayed him, reflexively…

He cannot say that I haven’t warned him, and he cannot say that at this stage of things either – that he doesn’t have a good idea of what he’s looking to get into every time he shimmies himself between the shrub and the drainpipe when he hears my car alarm beep beep…so, I no longer feel in the least bad when I have to eat across the table from him when he bears a smeared nose or scratch marks into the corners of either eye. He asked for it.

TwiLight Zoned.

This weekend has been rather odd, to say the least…
My Twilight Zone Weekender technically began on Thursday – when the Opportunist sent me a super out-of-the-blue succession of “apologetic” (narcissistic and self-serving attempts at control) text messages; and it only got more strange and fucking out there as the weekend rolled on.
Friday, my doctors told me that my heart is technically failing; “but it’s a lot more scary sounding than it actually is…” my thing regarding the failure of my heart is simple: my father, a Nam Vet – a tough, tough guy – a survivor in his own right – was dropped dead by Congestive Heart Failure when I was thirteen years old, he was 42…I’m now 35 ½ years old. Dun dun dun!!! Anyway, despite the fact that I have lived through the most extreme of the extreme in terms of medical procedures and what not, the heart thing terrifies me. And so the journey through mindphuq – bodyfuq began.
Saturday morning, my heart woke me up again; hurting…hammering…stealing my breaths from my lungs and forcing my body temperature to freeze, inappropriately. I was sick several times during the early morning hours; but then the nausea subsided, and my right shoulder/chest began to throb and stab at its own insides, instead. I gave up the uncomfortable tosses and turns around 7:00am, and rolled out of bed to the unwelcome change-in-routine of ‘no coffee’. I was queasy, so ‘no coffee’ wasn’t so bad after all.
I was stupid enough to open a letter I’d received the night before from Boo; a feat in itself, seeing as how I normally create a huge issue over (my own bullshit psychological road-blocks) before pretty much forcing myself to begrudgingly rip open the envelope covered in her teenaged girl bubble letters, hearts, and arrows. I don’t know why I didn’t experience this inner-boxing match with this letter, but either way – I opened yesterday’s letter without a second thought for the most part…it’s been so long since I had any interaction with Boo at all; I guess I was just hungry for her words – no matter venomous or otherwise. Her letter was likely one of the most hollowing I’ve received from her since her return to the facility where she is caged out of state; she is so detached and dissociated – going through the motions – writing the letter she thinks she is supposed to write…she’s so sad and depressed and says several times that she misses me; she talks about how she’s been on lock down for over a week because of the illegal actions of other girls who reside there.
Getting mail from Boo is always a chop to my windpipe; I admit that I have so much anxiety surrounding her upcoming 18th birthday in May that I sometimes feel like I literally might spontaneously combust.
I can say that I have a very deep understanding and respect for the saying: “Being eaten alive by guilt.”
This is why dissociation has become part of my day to day survival, and possibly that of other specific individuals involved in Boo’s tragic experience under the “care” of the Juvenile Courts and the Department of Family & Children’s Services; without “psychological escapism” – I would not be able to survive. That is an unquestionable truth in my Life, as sad and lacking of stability as it may be.
When I think too long about shit regarding Boo, when I get slapped in the face and am reminded so vividly of her pain and suffering – suffering that goes coldly overlooked and disregarded by anyone close enough to reach out and hug her or even just sit with her, even not say fucked up shit to her that makes her questions of herself spin out of control – when I think too long about any of it, my chest feels like it’s caving in, like it’s been sprayed with liquid nitrogen, or my lungs have been sprinkled with solvent – the tissue is dissolving slowly with a chemical burn sting. I was struggling to get my breath; my draws would not allow me to inhale completely without shooting a bolt of lightning through my chest cavity. My shoulder continued to pinch and stab throughout the entirety of the day; I fell asleep with my arm slung up over a body pillow wrapped back over my head, looking and feeling very much like a pretzel. I slept like shit; but woke up with considerably less chest/shoulder pain, and the ability to breathe much easier.

And…today went on to be also oddly out-of-the-ordinary…
I spent the day today with The Opportunist (kind of). The quick run-down behind this circumstance is as follows:

1. It’s Sunday (male chauvinist football day in the U.S.)
2. I live in what would otherwise be a Bachelor Pad, given my absence in the household.
3. The Opportunist and one of my roommates (“The Good Bunkie”) go all the way back to childhood together.

I’m sure you can do the math there.

Apparently, his failed attempts at contacting and connecting with me the other day didn’t fix his monkey; because here he came today, tortilla chips and salsa dips under one arm – and I shit you not – an array of MY very favorite things under the other, ranging from flowering cacti, to flavored rolling papers, to Granddaddy Kush. Wow…I accepted his offerings with a smile and a nod before disappearing into the safety of my hallway that leads me away from the “man cave”, with a stiff “thank you” in passing.
Of course, me being the NON drama queen that I am (and yes, I am bragging…this is one of my favorite things about myself, in comparison to others I know), I never the bombardment of (pretty pathetic) text messages that The Opportunist sent the other day to the Good Bunkie because, well, why would I? He would only feel the need to be defensive for his lifelong friend, and it wouldn’t be a comfortable position for him to be in…so I don’t say shit to him about his lying, opportunistic, shit-talking, two-faced friend. Not my place to do so. Coming from a woman who grew up in a household full of men, boys and – me, you better trust and believe that I know what time it is when it comes to the old “Bros before Hoes” scenario. I don’t stir that pot.
Anyway, my day actually consisted of spending no time with The Opportunist, unless being in the same square footage vicinity counts. He WAS INDEED sitting on my couch all day, watching football…just like old times…but the only way I knew he was here was because once in a while his cry-baby whining voice would drift down the hall into my domain. Otherwise, I spent the day either doing yard work or in my own quarters. But still…a very weird day…a very tiresome weekend.
Tomorrow’s another day, ya’ll.

Burn.

Fallen.

Fallen.

The one thing that I ask for this year,
Would be to just myself, completely disappear –
Somewhere quiet and cold, without a single memory to fear.

Wishes don’t come true, Blind One.

No trace of the paces I’ve left behind,
No bet to reset the mouse wheel inside my mind –
No way to lose or find myself – solitude of the most intrusive kind.

Truths aren’t acceptable, Lone One.

I’ll show myself the things I used to love,
I’ll sport my old jeans that still fit like a glove –
Maybe I’ll drink ‘til the bottle is all I can think of…

Acceptance can’t be lit on fire, Drunken One.

Maybe I’ll run for the tree line,
Sprinting and screaming like I’ve lost my mind –
Cry until my tears don’t sting – make the horizon mine.

Fire won’t burn the ice off your heart, Broken One.

Nighttime. ..

Makes me so lonely I just wanna die…

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Grab My Hand!

Hollow Eve

_______________________________________________________________

I don’t know what triggered you last night; I don’t know what it was that finally broke you…or actually, made you feel broken, finally…whatever it was lied to you. The lies that you bought into last night made you feel insecure and worthless; the things those lies forced you to revisit in your mind only solidified your insecurities – you were weakened by the forces of your own psychological exceptionalism last night. You were in a bad place, I know…I visit it often too, it’s comfortable there somehow for people like you and I, that’s okay.

What ISN’T okay is that you were especially suggestible last night for whatever reasons…you shouldn’t have been alone, my friend…you shouldn’t have been alone. It wasn’t okay that you wound up that way – alone – and in the grips of such hateful self-resentment and such meaningful death wishes –

It isn’t okay that I am too far in distance to have REALLY been your friend when you needed me last night, it wasn’t because I don’t care…my heart feels as if it’s literally struggling to pump blood as a result of my being the “captive audience” to your deeply entrenched misery.

Today, do I have another friend who has gone away; who has left this painful existence and been snuffed out by its poisonous content? I am your friend; I’ve always meant it when I told you that…genuinely. I know you meant it, too. You are special and rare; you are an exception to so many “rules” in the world…have you forgotten that? If you’re gone, it will never be okay no matter how much I respect your ability to decide things for yourself. My heart is running out of room for new hollow spots.