Late Night / Early Morning Lamentations.

The cats are fed. The apartment has been aired. The crisp morning air feels good on my face. The tea is brewed. The headphones are on and the music is playing, at a high enough volume so as to drown out the teeth-grating ringing in my head that seems to buzz down my spine. The pain is bad. And it pushes me to remember.

it pushes me to remember what it was like being reborn. The night of soul crushing misery that led to me downing 2 handfulls of pills, along with excessive amounts of jack daniels till I could numb the pain all over my body, but more importantly the pain in my head and my heart. Falling to pieces like that. Feeling my mind going with grief. Wanting an end to it. To the pain. To the self-perpetuating cycle of pain that I inflicted on myself and on everyone around me with increasing devastation. And eventually making the decision to do what needed to be done. No second thoughts. No one to say good bye to. I had been subjected to drowning before. While people held me under. I knew how painful it was. I wanted the struggle. The fight. I wanted to feel the heat of it one last time as I went. As I slowly faded into the depths.

As we well know. And can logically surmise. Things did not go according to plan.

The events preceding that night. Years of decay slowly bringing me closer and closer to that inevitable outcome.

I have lost count how many times I have said this now. For how many different specific events.

I should not have survived that. By all rights. I drowned. I remember it. Vividly and intensely. I still see it in my sleep. The explosive need to breathe overwriting logic and forcing you to painfully gulp water. Liquid inhabiting space that is reserved for air. Inside. The body knows it isn’t supposed to be there. So it tries to eject it and replace it with air. But there is only water. Each desperate gulp more painful than the last. The intense pressure builds as the darkness at the edges of your perception start to close in. More and more. The pain keeps you conscious a little bit longer. Suspended in pain. The whole while clutching at liquid. Your body desperately trying to go against your will and find purchase to climb out of this. But there is no escape. There is only the black. Closing in. Until. Finally. Release. Sinking into the void. Enveloped by the soft caress of nothingness. Floating on an endless ocean of blind silence. Heaven. The feeling of finally having a piece of control. Of choice.

I remember being violently ripped from that as I awoke on the beach. Immediately turning over and regurgitating copious amounts of water. Too much water. Endless disgusting sounding yacks of water. Assaulted by noise. Intense light. Scents and sounds layered on op of each other in a cacophony of madness.

Here is where it gets tricky. I remember it like being rebooted. Feeling nothing. But there is a part of me that questions if I didn’t just push all of that ugliness down. Lock it up tightly into a steel crate. And forget about it. Completely dissociate. De-attach. And start fresh.

I spent the next two and a half years just throwing myself to the wind. I didn’t belong anywhere. I dropped off the face of the planet. Moved around constantly. Kept to myself unless it served to further the purpose of my furthering myself further away from whatever the hell it was I was running from. Myself? The site of where I once again tried to top myself? Playful euphemisms aside, it really speaks to one’s relationship with oneself when that aforementioned one has tried to kill himself on multiple occasions stretching as far back as childhood.

With the understanding of the self that I have today. That certainly feels like it is the case. It is an extremely painful memory. That night. That entire period. But especially that night. How it ended. That existential need for conscious deletion. I mean fuck. I have written about that particular night a number of times. 2 of my most prominent chapters from my 2 ongoing books are about that fucking night. It has stayed with and haunted me. But it has also comforted me in my worst moments.

I got a touch of the sublime that night. Since dying the first time. I have chased the intense sense of tranquility and peace that the void offers. Stealing as many tastes as I can. At every interjection hastening the inevitable but eventual. When I can finally, finally rest. And be free from the grinding noise in my head, in my chest, and around me.

I have never gotten over that need. I never consciously decided to keep going. But I did. Because I kept going. Weird that. Not always being in control of my own decisions. I mean. To other people, I most certainly am. For me it always depends on who has the reins. Who is at the wheel. I just happen to be at the wheel now. We never know what happens tomorrow. I might not be needed anymore. Cast aside as a more appropriate manifestation takes control.

As our understanding of self grows and changes we can never be sure where we will end up a year or two from now.

That is a worry for when we need to worry about it. In the moment. For now. I am here. In this moment. Worrying about tomorrow or any tomorrow is like worrying about a place before I get there. It is never quite what I expect.

So just wait and see. Enjoy the journey there. But to do that, you have to look where you are now. To appreciate where you are going.

It won’t all be sunshine and clear skies. It can’t be. Even the most violent thunderstorms are part of the process.




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Costas K.

Costas K.

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