Once

My battle with insomnia is getting worse.  I’m averaging maybe ten hours sleep a week, with at least two nights a week of no sleep at all, as last night was.  As soon as I begin drifting to sleep, I stop breathing. Yes, it does sound like sleep apnea, doctor is busy running tests because he says I also have some kind of heart issue.  Now I get to deal with nightly anxiety caused by not knowing if I’ll sleep, and life is a big bowl of cherries right now.

So – I find a piece of paper on my desk titled “My SP Plan.” Short for Suicide project.  It is a detailed list of things to do before checking out. I’d say the odds are against me following through, but it is a lucid itinerary for a final trip, jotted down as the items pop into my mind.

I keep picturing family members who have already passed, waiting for me…Mom, Dad, Uncles, Aunts, my little boy Hooks, all standing there with open arms, and it’s a comforting fantasy.  This life…it’s just getting old, you know? I can honestly say there really isn’t anything life has to offer that interests me anymore…essentially, I’m bored.  My cremation is paid for, my affairs are sufficiently ordered, I’ve managed to have no debt, save for the current months credit card bill. My method is loaded and waiting…all that I own is within the walls of my apartment.  And a pickup truck that’s paid for.  Beneficiaries are in place on four random accounts, all the money I have, and it goes to siblings. No will, no trust, no hassles, no exorbitant mess to clean up. I’m a simple, dull person. I don’t need much. It won’t be a lot of work to clean up my “stuff”.

Yet I am afraid, unable to process life without my beating heart in it.  I’m exhausted.

Tears are welling up right now, my mind and body are both severely fatigued and depressed. I’m standing next to myself, observing all this, and it’s exhilarating.  God I miss my boy. And yet, there’s no guarantee of any reunions with old familiar faces. None whatsoever. The transition from living to expired may be a final flick of a switch resulting in…  nothing. No awareness of time and space, no memories, no conscious thought at all. How does one take solace in the peace of death if conscious thought doesn’t accompany the change? Imagine? A lifetime of living, just plain off…disconnected, and then nothing…not even an awareness of a lack of awareness of thought.

That would be something.

God I need sleep, badly.

I went to the emergency room yesterday after a trip to urgent care. The past three weeks I haven’t been sleeping well, if at all. I’m guessing I’d slept maybe about twelve hours over that period, several nights no sleep at all. Having gotten no sleep at all Thursday and Friday nights, on Saturday morning I “set my affairs in order”, composed several notes for friends and family, bought a fresh box of ammo, test fired my g*n, (it works) then, for whatever reason, went to urgent care. (He doesn’t want to die, but he also doesn’t know how to live. -editor)

I’d been experiencing a sleep apnea thing. When I started to fall asleep, I’d stop breathing, waking up gasping for air. So I’d just get up and remain occupied, knowing that much later, my body would crash and I’d get maybe an hour of sleep, before it happened again, and at that point I’d just get on with the day, fatigued and running on caffeine.

This wasn’t a sustainable solution, and it only got worse, some nights I had only a ten or fifteen minute nap before I gave up and went on with the day. I now understand why sleep deprivation is a torture method. (We do not recommend anyone torture anyone else. -editor)

At the ER, a team of three initially engaged me, a doctor, nurse, and someone else. I’m in the reveals-your-ass hospital gown (he was wearing blue boxers, it was hilarious! -editor)and socks,lying on that hospital bed, with three strangers focused on me. The doctor asked what brought me in today. (She already knew, urgent care doctor briefed hospital staff prior to his arrival. -ed.) So, I reiterated my story, including the juicy details of my master plan. (Love how he fails to mention that as soon as he began speaking, the tears started flowing. A veritable Niagara Falls of emotion. Blubbering is more like it. -ed.) I didn’t want to become so emotional, thank you editor, but there was no stopping it. I lay there, in socks, boxers and ass gown, three strangers staring at me, bellowing. Just bawling. (Snot and tears falling. -ed.) All the gory details of the notes I’d composed following nights of sleepless insanity, (He failed to reveal the test firing of his g*n, smart move.  -ed.) everything just came out, and suddenly I pictured myself being led into a psych ward setting for a three day observation or something similar. What happened was very different.

Michael came in, he’s one of the mental health staff. He’s around my age. He sat on a stool, ten feet away, wearing some sort of helmet and visor thing. (Apparently there is a nasty bug in the air and we’re all at risk of catching it. ((WILL YOU SHUTUP AND LET ME SPEAK, EDITOR??)) ok, sorry. Jesus. -ed.)

He introduced himself, we chit chatted briefly, then he asked ” So, Once, ……..what’s going on?”

“What’s going on.”

Simple enough.

For the first time since it happened, I told a flesh and blood human “what’s been going on.” I told him that the love of my life, my cat, died May 1 2019. I told him that the second I gazed down at his dead body following his euthanasia, something inside of me died. I told him that the next day, I started abusing drugs again. Not using them, abusing them. I told him that my days began with drugs and ended with drugs. I told him that losing my job in April 2020 gave me the opportunity to spend my days in a drug induced coma, walking around the house in my boxers, high as a kite, watching tv, looking at porn, eating junk food, then going to bed and doing it again the next day, day after week after month. Thank you covid for making me eligible for these wonderful unemployment benefits. I mean that with a dark sincerity – I don’t approve of what I’m doing, I’m physically capable of working and could have found work immediately – several of my co-workers did, but it turns out I’m in much worse shape than I thought I was, and this is one gift horse whose mouth I’m not looking into. I’m fortunate to receive these benefits.

I poured my grief into Michaels lap. I told him that Hooks never had a chance, that by the time I realized he was sick, his liver had almost completely stopped working as the cancer ate him slowly. I told him that as insane as this sounds, Hooks was my son. I told him that I stood there, on May 1st 2019, and watched my furry son die while I held his paw, telling him “Its ok, daddy loves you, you’re my heart and soul, my life and my love, you’re my world” over and over. I told Michael that the second the vet pronounced his death, she and the nurse exited the room to leave me alone with Hooks.

For the first time since his birth, which I missed by about one hour, I gazed at his limp, lifeless body, and that was the moment the “something ” inside me died. Hooks lived 7 years, and he and I were together every single day of those years. I alone provided his every need. He was the best thing to ever happen to me.

Michael sat, and patiently listened, as I poured all this vile shit into his lap, all the while feeling so stupid for telling a stranger that I had a cat that I considered to be a son. When I finally stopped, and began wiping the tears and snot off my face, Michael says “Yeah, man, I get it.” He told me of the five cats he owned over the years, and how during a particularly dark time, Willow, his first cat, kept him from doing something to himself. He “got it.” He understands that some people can only bond with animals. He spoke on their unconditional love and lifetimes of loyalty. He removed his space helmet covid shield and wiped away a tear. I stopped doubting his sincerity when I saw that. He knows what it’s like. (Can I jump in with what a bizarre mental picture this makes, a grown man in an ass gown, socks and blue boxers and another one in a space helmet sitting in an ER exam room crying about their dead cats, or must I continue to shut the ((KA-BOOM. There. I told you my g*n works. Should’ve keep your mouth shut, editor.))

Michael left the room, and told me I’d be discharged soon. I had to convince him that I would not harm myself, he said the hospital has a legal responsibility to ensure my safety if they feel its needed. Before exiting, he explained how to turn on the TV if I wanted, said a nurse will be in to check on me in a bit. I lay there, drained. And I napped for a while. I fell asleep. Maybe only ten minutes, probably not even that long. And there was no waking up, gasping for air. It was an announcement over a the hospital public address system, “Level 3 trauma, room 27 is pronounced 2106.” At six minutes past nine, in ER room 27, someone who experienced level 3 trauma, died. I awoke to this message, and realized that I’d slept, and that someone just died.

Michael returned, with news that he’d set an appointment for me for some grief and suicidal ideation counseling.

Ok. I’ll go. I can’t say suicide will ever be off the table – at one point, Michael asked me when these suicidal thoughts began, and I had to pause to think before answering “1980, maybe?” Its not like I document my thoughts for quick reference. His eyebrows both shot up at my answer. He said “Oh. Hmmmm.”

Tomorrow at 10 am, I’ll sit with another human who is paid and trained to listen to strangers pour out their hearts. I despise humanity most days. We’re self centered destructive toxic parasites with a penchant for art, music, humor, love and hate, and I firmly believe that if pigs had opposable thumbs, they’d make better stewards of our floating rock.

I left the ER and went to McDonald’s for two McDoubles. (Do two McDoubles comprise one McQuadruple? -editor, as I lay wounded, thank you very much for that, really appreciate being shot. (( YOU HAD IT COMING!))

I went home, fed the cats, took the sleeping pill they gave me, and slept fourteen hours straight.

I can’t say counseling will change anything. I’ve been counseled before with less than stellar results, but I’ll rest my sad head on a professional shoulder for a bit and see what happens. Maybe it will help. Maybe it will only delay the inevitable.

There’s a sign on interstate 5 announcing the presence of Taco Bell, Subway, and the Pilot truck stop at an upcoming exit. The sign is where I briefly parked to test fire my g*n at 3 a.m. Friday morning, and yeah, it’ll do the job if I ever need it to. Boy howdy will it ever, as the softball sized hole in in that sign will attest.

You will ALWAYS be my life and my love, my heart and my soul, my WORLD, little boy. I love you so much.

A little over twenty four hours ago, a woman I used to work with was killed in an automobile accident. She was a professional driver, and was driving a small bus, airport shuttle size, with three passengers aboard when a pickup truck headed in the opposite direction crossed into her lane.  The highway she was on has a high speed limit, 55 mph. She was killed instantly, as was the driver of the truck. A passenger in the truck was critically injured, and is in a coma. The passengers aboard the bus all were briefly  hospitalized with minor injuries.  “They” say when two vehicles collide head on, the force of the impact is equivalent to twice the speed of one of the vehicles, which is to say both vehicles experienced forces equivalent to slamming into a solid object at roughly 100 mph. Yikes.  The front of her bus looked like a bomb went off in it. It’s almost unrecognizable…

I’m not sad, mostly…I’m angry…while the investigation is young, it is suspected the driver of the pickup was distracted by her  phone.  No surprise.

Rachel and I were far from close. She trained me on the particulars of certain aspects of our job, and I got to know her as a friendly, humorous woman searching for love and fulfillment, as are we all. I learned the term “Dutch oven” from her, and almost drove off the road laughing the day she explained it to me. (I was driving a new bus route with her sitting near me as she explained the route to me.)  She had six cats, no children, and at some point in the last two years, got married.  She smoked, and hated it. She tried hypnosis therapy twice to quit and was succesful for long periods, but ultimately started smoking again.  She went so far out of her way to help me learn the details of a new job assignment in 2017 after our manager threw me to the wolves and told me, verbatim, “You’ll just have to do the best you can”, offering no help to me whatsoever. Rachel adjusted HER work schedule that day to help me, something that I know was an inconvenience to her.

Yeah. Ok, maybe I’m a bit sad, but have yet to shed a tear…because I’m happy for her.  I mean, in the space of probably less than two seconds, she…well. Think about it…maybe she noticed a truck heading for her, maybe she was able to put her foot on the brake pedal while her brain screamed for the release of adrenaline, maybe her last sensation was of a force so unspeakably powerful as steel and glass exploded around her, and then…what?

Release, man, pure and simple. “One thousand one, one thousand two…” Whoa. God almighty. How quickly life happens, how quickly life can end. Release.  She’s turned in her membership card, she’s completed her tour of duty on our floating sewer. She did her time.

Whatever Rachel has become, she is no longer here. She wasn’t forced to end her own life, although it crossed her mind at times. She told me this during our time together on the job, feeling comfortable enough with me to reveal parts of her soul. She was abused as a child and by an ex-lover, and had her share of trials and tribulations,  and chose to share these details with me.  I met passengers who knew her and disliked her because she demanded order and civility aboard any bus she drove. She didn’t tolerate bad behavior on her buses, and because she wanted to create a comfortable environment for all the passengers on any given bus ride, the drama queens that tend to make riding public transportation a pain for those who want nothing more than an uneventful ride despised her.  If someone was bothering you aboard one of Rachel’s buses and you complained to her, she took care of it, and that was that. She didn’t dally. She came to your assistance. Those passengers who disliked her are assholes to begin with. She served as a fleet dispatcher for a while, anchoring the two way radio desk and dealing with a fleet of never less than fifty drivers calling in with various issues – an incredibly stressful job, and I’ll never forget the day she fought back tears of pain over the radio as she dealt with excruciating back pain brought on by disc problems. It was amazing she even made it into work that day.

So yeah. Rachel is gone.

My point with all this is something along the lines of this…if there’s a “next thing” after we die, Rachel is experiencing it.  Streets paved with gold under cloudless skies in a world of pure love, horned demons chasing her through canyons dripping with molten lava under dark smoke filled skies in a world of flames and anguish, maybe she’s zipping through wormholes and celestial cyclones as she learns the secrets we crave to learn, or maybe there’s nothing…no awareness of memories of earth’s difficulties, no satisfaction in having done her time here, now freed from these trying terrestrial ties.  My heart goes out to her husband, her family, her friends, her cats.  Undoubtedly she was loved. She was a professional and a decent woman.

And my envy of her is of a specific color. Ohhhhhh man oh man oh boy oh man oh boy. I’m green with it. I want this. I want this for me.

Rest, Rachel, and don’t take any of God’s crap. Throw the little ***** off your bus.

It can be quite a shock to see yourself. Not a casual glance in a mirror, more extensive. I just took a video of myself, rambling imcoherently.  It’s very early and I should be sleeping, but I’m not because my cat smells funny and it’s making me anxious. So I figured I’d make a video of some random thoughts that noone will ever see, although my intention was that this video, as well as others I will make, might serve as a diary of a bad time, of sorts. I watched the video, and it’s so depressing.  What have I become? Where did I go? Who is that angry sad old man? What the fuck? I hurt, and I read these posts and see we all do. I suppose we’re supposed to hurt. I suppose I can beat my head against the wall trying to figure it all out and at best come up with a halfwit idea that satisfies me for a few minutes or years, but the reality of it is simple.  Noone escapes pain. Noone. Pain is manageable, at best. We hurt because we’re supposed to.

I’m not a “fan” of jazz. I like the stereotypes of late nights and early mornings in the big city, a lonely night owl drinking coffee in an all night diner on the corner with the hookers…soft jazz playing, a long drawn out note on a sax…all that.

I’m lying in bed, a low wattage lamp on the nightstand is on, soft jazz playing on the radio, a christmas tune…have yourself a merry little christmas, it encourages me. Jesus fuck. Just jesus fuck, man, screw christmas. The world outside is slowly waking to clouds and wet streets.  I’m warm, comfortable in bed.  I’m entertaining very dark thoughts lately, while struggling to find positivity.  What fools we are.  What dreams we chase. What shadows of ghosts of dreams we fight for.

What if I die today? All those dreams, all those plans, all the activity of my life…all the activity…all the wasted time. What will any of it matter?

Why does tomorrow matter to a person with no real plans? I don’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I think this world needs me. It doesnt. I want it to need me. My silly little ego, listen to it in there, screaming for attention with this drivel.

No. I’m a bag of fluid and flesh, dreaming of importance and attention.  That’s about how I see it.

“You Matter” signs are common recently, in people’s yards, on their fences. I’d like to start a sign campaign too.

“Get over yourself. You only WANT to matter.”

It’s as though my feelings of despair and hopelessness exist in a secret vault that isn’t accessible at all. All around that vault are littler, less secure vaults that I’ve learned to open so I can wrangle with their contents, bending and twisting them into submission, if only for a while.  But THIS vault, where despair resides with its dark friend hopelessness, is locked.  I have no key.

Yesterday, I read a story of an ICU nurse who was shot to death as she was driving to work on a freeway. 26 years old, a career based on giving, and her life ended at what may turn out to be random violence.

And yet my stupid ass still exists.  Waking up to one’s own reality is tiring.  Waking up to the same process of reciting the same mantras: “Let’s get through today. Just today.”  Gee, that’s empowering. How full of hope for a brighter future that useless mantra fills me.  “I’m blessed beyond my ability to understand why.”  Really? Why? WHY? A blessing would be in the form of my accidental death, since I don’t have the balls necessary to do it my fucking self. “Who would take care of my cats?” LOVE that line of stupidity. Might as well follow it up with “Who would wear my underwear?” It makes as much sense. Do your cats a favor. Do the world a favor. Just fucking die, you stupid idiot. It is so unbelievably beyond time to leave. Every stupid ass plan I’ve embarked upon to defeat depression has failed. It isn’t a curable disease, and anyone who says it is full of it. This condition is manageable, which isn’t to imply it’s “sometimes ok.” Its never “sometimes ok.” Its either attacking at full strength or biding it’s time…depression is manageable like sitting in a burning house is manageable – at some point you’re going to run out of breathable air, and flames or asphyxia will kill you. Or the ceiling will crush you. It’s not a question of “if.” Depression is an incurable, “manageable” question of MOTHER FUCKING “WHEN.” It will kill you, if not by bullet, bag, or noose, then by slicing up your soul with crushed dream after obliterated aspiration. It will beat you like a ***** and stand over you, laughing as you cry. It is not a fixable condition, it comes with an expiration date and chips away at you, day after futile, useless day, watching as your strength ebbs. It takes notes. It knows what works.

This is “living?” This waking to panic and self loathing?  Waking to a mindset of trudging through an hour, or maybe only half of one, breathing deeply and focusing on the positives. This is living? This curtain of lies I am obligated to pull before my eyes so I can tolerate the next hour followed by more lies to get me through the next one? And the hours after that one, all my bases covered as I continue feeding myself all the bullshit the experts say I need to say to overcome this nasty yet oddly inviting desire to pick up my g*n and aim for the brainstem…insert, angle slightly up, pull…face an asshole of a god, middle finger raised.

I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. My whole body is shaking with rage, desire…desire to just freaking die.

The rewards of this useless life no longer outweigh the disadvantages. The fairytale of a caring god is the ultimate act of cruelty. “Pray, child, and he will come to you…in a still, small voice….pray, child, that you will discern this voice, and god will help you…”

WRONG. I say “Simply exist, and the fairytale of a loving god will accompany you into your own personal pit where it will sit with you as you suffer.”  All our pathetic stories of a caring deity…what children we are, always needing the universe to spin around us.

Depression will take me. One day. And I’ll happily wipe the shit damn stink of this sewer off my sandals and march into the dark unknown. It has to be better than this crap pile, and to the god that may greet me I raise a middle finger and say “FUCK YOURSELF.”

This morning is a close the drapes morning. Keep out the sunshine, shun any hint of a shitless world.  Today I’m reveling in my eternal indefatigable sense of self hate. The world can go on…I can’t stop it, so since I’m at least tall enough to reach the bottom of the sign, I’m gonna ride the ride of self pity today. Strap me in, ring the bell, flip the switch. “Remember to keep your arms and legs inside the ride so as to avoid having them torn off by shit…”

My prayer for today is that a random bullet ends my uselessness. An ICU nurse…the ones who assist us as we toe the line between “he certainly dodged a bullet” and “doctors say its only a matter of time”, randomly executed in her car, on her way to work…f*ck humanity. We’re a piss stain on a beautiful planet. We are a stain.

It will be my prayer from now on, but looks like it’s time to toss back the covers and be “sad”, in all of its connotations. Tomorrow will be another useless day of meaningless distractions, futile attempts to add meaning to the passing of time as my biological clock ticks,  one, and now two seconds closer to expiration. Tomorrow I’ll summon the energy of the mindlessly distracted and fumble through a day of nothing, conning myself into believing that my efforts mean something, that they “effect change.” For today, my friend Jack Herer is coming to my rescue, and today can just jump off a cliff.

I’m going to eat hot dogs today. I ordered one years ago in Boston, at a Red Sox game. It cost one dollar, and it came in a piece of bread…not a bun. On a flat piece of bread, gently wrapped around the dog…I was shocked. It was fan-flippin’-tastic, and today, I will eat at least six, similarly served, with mustard and sliced jalapenos. Perhaps one will slide down my gullet and get stuck on my shmullet, closing my frullet and making me snuff it. Wouldn’t that just be grand?  Dessert, because who in their right mind skips dessert after eating tubes of abattoir floor scrapings, (everyone knows hot dogs are made of lips ‘n assholes) will be as many lemon creme sandwich cookies as I want.  My cat is asleep in my lap. Outside, a maniac won’t concede, a virus rages, a species rails against global warming while subconsciously reveling in its perceived power to destroy a planet that will live for millenia once we destroy ourselves, and the sun is crawling towards sunset this day…but I’m inside. I close my drapes and pet my cat, and “nothing else matters”, as Mr. Hetfield screams.

Don’t bogart that joint, my friend…

“They” say to write things down.

My limits are being tested.  I don’t appreciate change, in fact, even though I know it’s beneficial and unavoidable, it just completely sucks.  This year…this last year, since May 2019, this is officially one of the worst.  I suppose that right about now many of us are saying that.

And yet where is the logic in waiting?  In staying?  What does tomorrow hold that will be meaningful and relevant, and that is worth staying around for?  This …. life.  This series of twenty four hour cycles during which I breathe and accomplish.  Accomplish what?  Enough so that my little chunk of cheese provides for me for one more week?  Then, we do it all over again.  Why?

I want so much to pour out all the minute details of the past month on this page….some of these details are identical for most of us – lockdown and isolation and too much damn time on our hands.  But “they” also say “When it rains, it pours.”  I’m soaking wet right now, and can’t find my way out of the rain.  Sure, I suppose it’ll stop at some point.  The sun will come out, the ground will dry, and life will be roses again.  Times like this make me hate roses.

Everything is you, little buddy.  Everything is a flash of your face, your life.  Except, you’re not here, mixed in with me and all the “everything”, buddy, you’re where I want to be…you’re “over there…”

I read in the news of the death of Dr. Lorna Breen, an emergency room physician in New York.  No history of mental illness, according to family, and yet this Sunday, she ended her life.  Her father, also a doctor, said that she spoke of situations in the hospital during this pandemic that were extremely stressful.  He said that “she was doing her job, and it killed her.”  I am basking in this story, and while that may sound rude or inappropriate, you see….I see this woman in a light that many wont.  She is “over there.”  She has done what I spend most of my waking hours dreaming, fantasizing about doing.  She had the courage to make a decision and follow through on a plan that would result in her death, and she did it.  She did it.  She, in whatever form she now takes, if any, “knows.”   She knows what happens at and after the moment of physical death.  She is either existing in another realm, plane, dimension, whatever you want to call it, or she is not.  As are that man in Ecuador who, just forty eight seconds ago, passed away from  corona virus complications, that woman in Cookeville, Tennessee who just succumbed to cancer two hours and seventeen minutes ago, Kobe Bryant and Mother Teresa.   I do not rejoice in the death of Dr. Breen.  I envy her.  I want what she has.  Right now, I want the courage and the determination to do what she did.  I am tired of the pointless today’s and tomorrows.  I am tired of the systems and the processes and the stupidity that turn on my lights and provide me all I can consume.  “Civilization” has taken our civility and smashed it on the ground like a billion glass balls.

Someone, somewhere, in all this media coverage of this pandemic, said “Why would we all possibly want a return to normal?”  It made me stop and think….what we have come to accept as normal.  We will twist and contort and mangle ourselves to achieve some ethereal, misty ideal, even though the damage we are doing to our spirits and souls is irreparable.  But achieving that ideal…living that lie, propagating that stereotype, bullying your way to dominion all others be damned…that is our “normal?”   That is the ideal, the goal, I am supposed to strive for for the rest of my days?  To continue lining the pockets of …

Best to not finish that sentence.  Pointless ramblings of a pointless person.

My little buddy, I’ll be writing again soon.  “They” say I need to write to you, and ask you for help grieving.  “They” say our reunion will be whatever I want it to be, “they” say that it is a proven scientific fact that energy cannot be eliminated, it can only change form.  “They” are implying we might see, experience, one another again.  “They” are well intentioned, and “they” are either right, or wrong.  You were my all.  You were my world.  You were my soul.  I swear….haven’t I dried up and died in the past six months?  Who am I anymore?  I don’t recognize myself.  I’m a total asshole.  People and their problems….who cares?  I died with you, buddy.  The only real difference is my body doesn’t have the sense to stop.  I miss you.

This is Raisin. She’s somewhere around three or four months old, and was abandoned at a park.

She’s helping me heal.  She’s a goofball.

The frustration and anger was building inside him. I could see it by his facial expressions and actions, yet he was holding back and not retaliating. Not yet, anyways.  He was biding his time, determined to exact his revenge, and he was not the only one, there were more. Still, I continued to antagonize them with childish insults and ridiculous behavior, knowing deep down that I was digging my own grave. Still, deep down, the anger and sadness drove me on, looking for a victim, looking for an outlet.

I didn’t know him, but didn’t like the way he looked. So I treated him like garbage, and instead of walking away, I continued my idiotic behavior, making them angrier and angrier with my insults and laughter.

And inside me the fear continued to build, the knowledge that I was getting myself into a situation that I wouldn’t be able to handle. But what the hell does it matter? I deserve to push back, docile passive aggressive ***** that I am, door-mat to the world that I am. I wanted to be the a**hole, the one pushing their buttons. I deserve my turn at the top, giving orders and making demands, having things go MY way, everyone else be damned.

Still, I’d have to answer to these very angry people, and soon.

That’s when I woke from the dream, an hour before my alarm would sound.

I’m a coward. I fear the world, I fear it’s inhabitants, their thoughts and their actions, their criticisms and opinions, their questions and their remarks. I fear much. I live a passive existence of taking what is given to me and pretending it’s all just fine.

Whatever.

Just a bad dream I had, one that startled me awake.

I will never stop missing you, buddy. Your loss has changed me. It has changed me, and in these three months, I have grown . . . angry. I rage at things that I once laughed off. I am becoming despondent, some would say. I am searching for another “you”, and maybe I shouldn’t be. You have become another voice in my repertoire of imaginary characters, now existing alongside Creature, Entity, Schrindleman, Miss Gwendolyn, Neck, Darnell and Chang, Viktor and Raja. Now there’s you, and we converse throughout the day, in an effort to quell this god forsaken loneliness. Imaginary friends. These are what I have to share my time with, and now you are one.

The dream that was you is over, and what’s left is all around – a bland, ugly world in which all I am doing is breathing, existing, and wondering what to do now.

I love you baby boy. I always will, that will NEVER change. I miss you with everything that I am. You were, and always will be, my heart and my soul, my life and my love, my world. I hope to see you again, Hooks.

Why do we assume that the limitations of our human brain will follow us into an afterlife? Why do we assume we will continue suffering as we are now, when we are dead?

Today is two weeks.

What is this thing, life? Just breathing, nothing more. It’s just weather, without you my little love, nothing more. I miss you.

March 2, 2012 – May 1, 2019

My little boy. Seven years was all we got together. I hoped and dreamed for more, but no, that can’t happen.

I will miss you eternally, Taco. Handsome-Perfect. Boogie. Bug. Hooks.

You changed my life, little boy. You taught me how to love, when noone else could.  You showed me what love feels like, when others failed. You are love. You are my eternal friend, my little kitty.

I’ll miss you from today until a time when whatever I am can no longer exist in any form, and then far, far beyond that.  I love you so much.

You’re my heart and my soul, my love and my life. You’re my world.

I have to give you back now.

Rest, little boy. I miss you. I love you. I love you.

Why?

My love. My heart. My soul. You’ve taken them all, and there is no answer why.

Why?