Wait

You suck out all the love in me- like a wasp to nectar, like a leech to flesh. A cruel monster, an adoring fool. How many roles does this play encompass? How many can it? How far can I run when the turmoil is just not the mind's worry, but the body's as well? I am in foreign lands, in all senses of the phrase. Do I have no choice but to stay yours? I am either a rational prisoner, or snugly wrapped around the diagnosis of Stockholm Syndrome. I have no intelligent escape. I will wait. What drinking does to you: you are not blind. But as all humans are, you are quick to play devil-may-care and abandon all bindings & promises in exchange for the ham-fisted conflux of burning scotch down your throat. Oh, your cursed nepenthe! Your wicked sorrow! Your silly, ridiculous, excuse of Purell for the scent of alcohol surrounding you. Yes, you are a genius. Your IQ proves it. You are smart enough to rationalize anything; it is by far your biggest downfall. It will be your fate. You could defend the nuclear bomb if given a second, much less yourself. In your government-paid-for apartment, where most people keep their metal pans and tarmac pasta bowls, you keep a museum of what you call your mistakes. I count the bottles: 1, 7, 18, 30? Sticky with whiskey and moisture: damp receipts from the LCBO and the shrine of your pitiful (or should I say magnificent in its power?) addiction. Of course, it isn't like you haven't tried to quit. You've had plenty of reasons, many never-drink-again moments of imaginary triumph. Truly, like lovers who speak of forever, your words were not truly farce: you meant them at the time. But it isn't without innocence, your addiction, I'll grant you that. It's not even one addiction, either, It's that damn incessant itch, of either something or nothing, of feeling or its absence. You'll have too much of whatever you can get your hands on. Your genetically unblessed inheritance, well, I'd be a fool to leave that out. Catholics call them demons. Psychiatrists, chemical imbalances. Which would you prefer, an exorcism or endorphin-killing pills and a professional babysitter? There are cures, there are rituals, there are games, and they are not helping one bit. By now, doctors and parents alike are either doubting their methods or your dedication. Most likely the latter. It's always better to have something wrong with you than them. But let us get back to your family, you did have to take care of them in the divorce. No childhood: now you're stuck in one. Your debilitating depression. Your utter loneliness. Your desperation. Plain and simple: unlike anything that goes through your mind. To you, 1 step equals 100. Then again, the brain will complicate anything that frightens its owner. It's a survival instinct, one that's kept you from living for so long. You, my dear, are what we call a target. You're in agony, but we can blame you! What brilliance. Why didn't you try to make friends? Why not go back to school? Why not make friends in reasonable ways? Attend a yoga class, join a book club, master the game of chess; try not to abuse your medication, buy a pet for the statistical chance of living longer than people who don't. Do what anyone else does. But you can't, because it's impossible. Because we all know depression, the most graceful of all parasites: it loves you. It absolutely, unequivocally adores you. It loves its host, its home. It wants you, loves you so much it wants everything you have. It cradles, it coats, it keeps you warm and alone and safesafesafe, where no one can ever hurt you touch you or even dare try to. It loves you like I loved you. And misery! Oh, of course. That self-preserving virus, almost Machiavellian in its serene focus and devoted self control. And apathy: the gift you can't appreciate. That bastard-bitch that makes hope the most exhausting joke. One would be better off with a pacifier. I know how wonderful isolation can be as a comfort. You don't want to infect anyone else. Besides, other people are a reminder of the possibilities of other worlds besides your own. Ones where people are "happy". Sometimes even "okay". That's too painful to comprehend, too sad to know. Unlike the things you do, those things you can always come home to. “2009-11-29. Oh, ex-fiances. Can you still taste the rage?” November 25th, 2010