Communion
I suppose this was him playing with me, but this game was no fun. I was staring at the ceiling. As I stared, I screamed. I got lost in those screams. Lost in my thoughts. I was trying to figure out what to feel. I knew it was intended to be pleasurable, and for him I suppose it was, but for me, it felt painful and disgusting. Thoughts of the first time I cut myself flooded my memory. I remembered how cold the blade felt against my skin. It was like snow in Hell, strange yet pleasant. The blood dripped from my arm and stained the memory of my thighs. Perhaps if had instead cut those thighs his fingernails could reopen those wounds so I could forget he was there. So I could forget he was inside of me. So I could forget. This was all the same. The same awkward feeling of something being inside of me. The only difference was that I was being penetrated by something warm and the blood originated between those thighs. They were my thighs. I felt empty like there was nothing inside of me. Not even me. I should not have felt empty, there were at least three bowls of Raisin Bran in my stomach accompanied by an entire bottle of Amsterdam. There were intestines and other vital organs. Hell, there were even two sets of sex organs in my body, but I was still empty. I am still empty. It is not enough to say that I am full of life, or sex organs of individuals whose names do not fill my mouth, or food, or liquor. I am still empty.
I suppose it is only possible to feel the emptiness when I am sober, so that’s the answer. Numb is the answer. I never stay sober long enough to experience the pain and the depression for more than five minutes. Each drink, each pill, each bowl, each strip, each cut has a sense of validity to me. It keeps me sane. Sane in the sense of operational. Yes, these vices keep me operational. They keep me normal or at least give me the ability to appear normal. Everything has its purpose. These vices are my writings on Sunday mornings. After a prayer to a god that I am not sure exists I self-medicate. Each bottle, once emptied will give birth to a new stanza, and each ounce once consumed will give birth to a new title, and each pill, once digested will give birth to new insight, and each cut, once engraved will give birth to the emotion behind it all. I continue through my typical lack of sobriety because each drunken night, each smoke session, each pill breaks the chains the bind me in the cage of my own mind. It is all worth it for the glimpse of freedom even if I will be thrown back in that cage at first dawn.
I find myself wishing I’ll find something to fill the empty space. I find myself hoping for happiness. I pray that I can stop the destructive behavior. It seems however that one does not associate anything other than destruction with euphoria and thus my addictions continue to define my days. My mind does what any normal mind does on a number of narcotics mine is typically on and it wanders. With each place, my mind flutters, not with beauty or the essence of merit, but it shudders like the cold lifeless ripple of the water in a lake. My lips have kissed goodbye to the sense of humanity that once took its form in the soul that lived beneath my eyes. Those same lips also are too often found pressed to the edge of a glass. It is the same cycle. The drink devours my sanity. With each sip, I can feel it slither away from my body only to vanish into the air. I stumble into the air with my sanity, separating myself from the body I spent my days captured in. Tears pour out of those same eyes as the world fades into darkness. I then promise myself that I will not drown in the tears that I have too often let fall to my cheek. I promise myself that I will not choke on the words that I am too weak to say. It is the same cycle. It was my release until I realized that there is no release from the chains of your own addictions. This slavery is self-imposed and very much legal. That is the beautiful thing about the 13th Amendment to the Constitution and its addendum. If slavery is only legal as a punishment for a crime, what am I guilty of? My crime is only that I would not participate in the expected conformity. I am a slave to my addictions which means my father lied to me. Daddy told me that, “We all submit to something or someone. That doesn’t make you a bitch. It makes you human.” The very nature of humanity is submission and maybe Daddy is too close to his own addictions to realize that he has already become their bitch.
Maybe it’s genetic, the insanity. After all, I am the product of a depressed, suicidal male that is trapped in his own adolescence. A self-proclaimed schizophrenic that cannot truly be called “Daddy.” The drug dealer army brat that abandoned me for his own botanical ventures. Not to mention the drug-addict whore who has not earned the title of mother. An ex-psychiatric patient that has more vices than I do. The pastor’s daughter who gave up on her intelligence to shake her ass and dance around a pole. I was raised by my grandmother who is a woman that is more concerned with her reputation than my mental health. Maybe the insanity is genetic. So, excuse me if I seem a little bit off my rocker. Blame the drugs I chose to take. Blame the drugs I didn’t choose to take. Blame the god that abandoned me. Blame the drugs. Blame religion. Blame society. Blame whoever the fuck you want to. I’ll blame the corrupted genetics that forced itself into my jeans. Every rape victim is fundamentally crazy anyways. Damn PTSD.
Perhaps if I had spent more time in church groing up I would be able to live my life on the sustance of the blood of Christ instead of constantly having to spill my own and find wine as a substitue to fill myself. Maybe if I had more friends there would be someone to pass the bread to next time. Even if I am alone, there is still piece of my sanity that searches for communion.