My happiness is an empty inkwell and a dream. As of late, my inkwell is overflowing with nightmares. New horrors reproduce with old ones, and every evening becomes an argument with Prester Bane.
Basically, the argument goes the same way every night. I describe the day's events as I remember them. I find fault with the events and myself. I hate myself. I hate my life. I complain about how unfair my life seems, how everyone who's wronged me succeeds, and I continue to plummet into this recursive cycle of insanity. Prester Bane's response is always the same: It could be worse. He tells me all the sadder stories than mine: the women I've known who've been raped, schizophrenics with no family, no money, and living on the streets, and the rest. Any counter-arguments he dismisses with one final example; Prester Bane says in the immortal words of my favorite college professor Sam Blate, "what about that guy?," as he points to the sign of the cross that seems to always be near in these arguments. Job is pious and tough in front of his friends, but curses God in private. I can't even look good for those near me. By the middle of the proceedings with Prester Bane, I'm convinced again that my life could be worse and I should count my blessings. In shame, I capitulate. However, it doesn't end there.
I don't feel like I have a legitimate right to hate my life, but I do. My disease is doing nothing but getting worse, and the nightly talks with Prester Bane put me in my place before I can sleep. The result of this is a quality of life that in earlier years would have been unacceptable. If I knew in 1997 how my life would turn out in 2005, I would have no hesitation. Bang.
Perhaps that's why I'm still alive. It pains me to think that I need my psychosis to stay alive, since it is the tormentor that makes me want to end it all. That condition is familliar to me; my father beat me as a child, especially in prepubescence. Now the only thing that provides the medication I desperately need if I'm to stay alive, is the medical insurance paid for by his twenty-year Army retirement benefits. Euripides would laugh.
In contrast to this cycle, the months I spent with Jaime seemed happier. I was smiling more, and living life a little more, even as my psychosis spun out of control. I loved my time with her, and I wouldn't trade it for any other time in my life since the onset of my disease. I thought I'd finally found someone who could appreciate the good things in me, and accepted me anyway. I was wrong. Pretty much everything I thought was true was a delusion. I let her all the way into my psychosis, and I thought she didn't mind. It turns out that the disease is just as draining on everyone close to me as it is on my own psyche. I thought she was happy with the way that I am; she wasn't. I thought she enjoyed the parts of my life I shared with her and no other; she didn't. I thought she wanted to be with me; by the end she described my company as being like a death sentence. In short, I thought she loved me despite her awareness of the monstrous bits of me; I was very deluded about the nature of myself and my relations to other people. People might have occasional fun with the loudmouthed, cursing, and flamboyant image of myself that most take as my calling card. However, the inner monster that writes my poetry and this blog is destined to be alone. When he talks, it's like talking to a brick wall in iambic pentameter. Right now, as a melancholy poem is brewing in my head, Prester Bane tells me to look at the cross.
Sometimes when I look to that guy for advice, I can't even see myself in Job's place. I can only see the fifth chapter of Mark. I am Legion for we are many. Jacob had his dreams, his struggles, and saw his ladder; he also got everything he never deserved out of life, and then some. I find only pain, solitude, and a brick wall to talk at. I sit, constantly weighing my crow feather of discontent against the cluster of grapes everyone else seems content to share quite nicely. No matter how many grapes they pull, my crow feather stays lighter than the remainder. After all, what would you rather do? Eat grapes and make wine with the rest of you, or read this latest missive from my crow quill pen? Be honest.
Like the old poem says: "I'm as serious as you wish, as pathetic as you desire." I wonder if I'll feel shamed enough to wake up tomorrow?