October In The Chair

It's not very often that I am found at a loss for words. All weekend, since the wee hours of Saturday morning, I have been opening my mouth to say something, to make some kind of definitive statement other than one of only shock and pain, but it doesn't quite seem to be working. This is discomfiting and I don't like it one fucking bit.

It doesn't help that my brain is a complete maelstrom of emotions and the clinical side of me, the one that is learning all of these fancy new learnings, is constantly nattering on about disenfranchised grief and the stages of mourning.

I want to cry and break things that will smash with a satisfying glass shattering sound. I want to upend copious amounts of whiskey down my throat and I want to sleep for a thousand days. I want to scream and hug every single person I love. I want this constant prickle of tears that's set up camp behind my eyes to just go the fuck away. I want my friends to stop looking and sounding like pale ghosts of themselves. I want this hurt to go away. I want this guilt to go away. I want all of this to have never happened.

But, it did happen. It did. He's gone. And no matter how weird all of this seems, that's reality. He's gone and he went in one of the shittiest possible fashions ever.

Earlier this evening, I wrote this to Ella:

I severed my physical and social ties to J., but I never stopped caring about him. He pissed me off beyond all rational thought and it hurt far too much to be around him anymore, but it didn't change that I still considered him family, as I consider all of my friends to be my family.

Sometimes, especially now with what's happened, I wish I hadn't done it. There were times that I missed him so badly that I had my hand on the phone to call him and tell him that even though he was acting like a tremendous tool, that I still loved him and maybe when he pulled his head out of his ass (and I pulled mine out of my own, trust me, I don't 100% blame anyone for my actions), that maybe we could try to be friends again. But, I let my pain and selfishness color my brain and take over my feelings and I never did it.

And it fucking hurts like hell that I never did it.

That's my own cross to bear, however, and my own emotional mine field to be navigated. Changes like that blow hard and cold and I'm not anticipating the coming months with much eagerness.

All week, he had been on my mind. Things would come up in unrelated conversation that reminded me of him, like talking about the days of investigating Byberry or retelling the story of meeting an ersatz William Burroughs one drunken night in a 7-11. And my iPod was doing that thing that seems so creepy in retrospect, constantly playing music on shuffle that reminds me of a person. Ministry. The Revolting Cocks. Pigface. REM. Over and over again. It was still doing it on Saturday afternoon. I drove to work with Burning Inside cranked up to ear-shattering volumes and didn't even realize there were tears on my face until I glanced in the rearview mirror. Wemble had the same thing happen to her; she wanted to find a place that had good Vietnamese food and thought to herself, I should get a hold of Jim, I bet he'd know a place.

Was the universe trying to tell us something? Why wasn't I fucking listening?

I don't understand this. None of it seems right.

Blackjack, you jerk. If you were shooting for the gold medal in the Asshole Olympics, let me tell you, you really did a goddamn bang up job of it.

I'm sorry that you felt like this was the answer to whatever was seething inside of you. I'm sorry that we never reconciled. And I'm sorry that I didn't make it clear to you that even though I didn't have the emotional fortitude to be in the same room with you anymore, that if you had called me, I would have been there in a heartbeat. I probably would have put my boot in your ass first, but I would have been there for you.

I'm just so fucking sorry for all of it, everything.

newsflash from the Wee One:

Our mutual friend, let's call him Chester,
has decided to re-enlist in the military.
Because he really wants to go out and kill
some Arabs for truth, justice, and the
American Way (TM).

Chester, by the way, has been through the
Army before. But, never made it through boot
camp. His nick name was 'Buddyfucker'. And
according to HIM, he bitched so much and
at such length, his drill instructor finally
gave him walking papers.

I remember this. I remember it all.

Today, I had the Wee One's voice in my ear,
from a payphone, telling me that Chester is
talking about re-enlistment.

This is the sillest thing I've heard in
a long, long time.

He didn't make it through once. What makes him
think that he can do it this time? Temporary
fervor to get Middle Eastern blood on his hands
isn't exactly the thing that will keep you
bullet-free when you're infantry. Which he will
most definitely be. Because new en-listing
grunts don't especially get dropped into peachy
keen, sekrit gubmint missions.

It distresses me. Mostly because he is so
goddamn blind right now. Blind to everything
around him.

What the hell is he thinking?!

On another note: I am on crutches. I got
into a tangle with a wood chip and the wood
chip won. This has borne all sorts of new songs
in my beady little pinskull.

"I Shot the WoodChip."
"I Fought the WoodChip and the WoodChip won."
"Happiness is a Warm WoodChip."

Hey. It was a BIG one, damnit. And of course,
in my Scarecrow way, I stepped square on it.
And it rolled, causing me to twist and shout.

BAM!

Papaver on the ground, filling the air blue with
profanity. One of the village idiots (this was
at the Renn Faire, o heap upon me more humilation,
please. I do so love it.) ran over to assist.
Completely dropping from character, he held my
booted foot in the air and spoke words of
comfort. He was a cute little village idiot and
did soothe me. My ankle still hurt like a
bitch on fire, however.

Hospital trip (one of the shortest of my
emergency room tours), x-rays, wheel chair
race challenges to the Engineer, and a fifty
dollar co-pay later...I am informed that I have
a sprained ankle.

A gel cast (what Dark Age torture chief
came up with THIS brilliant device?) and a
set of gun metal gray crutches later, I am
looking like a three legged Corky crane
strung out on goofballs and cheap beer.

Bah, I say!

I hate being an invalid.
And I'm sick to death of explaining to the
Dilberts in the office what happened to me.
I've begun telling them that my mother pushed
me down a flight of stairs during a sinister
argument.

heh.

I'm funny.