impetus

 it had been bad for awhile. i knew it deep down. i had for months. 

so much of my life has been spent fighting for some semblance of control. carving out a space that's mine. my clothes. my media. my time. my time, my time, my time. decades of none of those - all orchestrated instead by those who occupied bodies outside of mine, minds who thought they knew better.

years of fighting has let me make a bit. i still feel the pull of obligations; socially, familial, work and school based. go above and beyond or fail. 

on my fourth counselor now. and it's finally one of my own impetus. i made the choice to go on meds, and what meds to go on. i chose the counselor, when and where and how often. never before had these options been granted to me. the hospital was dangled over my head like a threat. the doctors and counselors were all chosen by authority. referrals or recommendations from powers that be. my psychiatrist was eventually picked up by my mom, seemingly so she could try to find one more way to watch over me, devour my sense of self.

i haven't really had a bad counselor before, and i bare much of the blame for being so resistant a client. but i never really had a counselor before. they were all counselors who ostensibly were for me - they spoke to me, met with me, worked with me - but were for my parents. their fears. their comfort. their idea of how i should be. i wasn't angry enough, happy enough, good enough, enough. 

now i do. i have a conselor for me. and in that, i've found myself more open than ever, willing to challenge myself and be vulnerable. in 4 sessions i've gotten more out of this than 4 years of any previous counselor. i feel safe. i know nothing i say will escape, will somehow be found out. my parents are unaware of this existence, this part of my life, the kind of lack of awareness i've only ever wanted.

it had been bad for awhile, my depression. it had been bad for most of my life, the lack of having myself, my own impetus. but for an hour a week i carve out some time for me, by me. then i go home and hug my wife, who only ever wants to make time for me, make me feel like me, feel like i can take up space. 

linger

other than relationships - like, you know, partners, - you haven't had a one-to-one friend meeting since your trip to Asia, and even that had such a massive context with it (in SE Asia) that it never felt "on the spot." you haven't shot the shit with a friend, just one friend, over coffee for such a long time you struggle to remember when you last did. you haven't gone over to someone's house just to "hang." like many social skills, you wonder if the atrophy has rendered it forever flawed. 

he invites you and another for cigars and whiskey but the 'another' can't make it. just you and him. cigars and whiskey. socially distanced in a garage with the door open. he's kind of an intense dude, you don't agree on everything. you'd find a way out of it if it wasn't for the fact that you need to get out of the house a bit, your wife will be at work anyways, and you can't lie in bed catatonic with sadness if you're smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey.

it's only 80 minutes or so, certainly not a long commitment, but it flies by. conversation is natural. you think for a second how much you've missed this. you think for many seconds how remarkable it is you've done this. it took the kind of support and love only she could offer. she talks you down from thinking you can't do anything, that you'll make a fool of yourself. you feel happy after the chat, look forward to it again. it's cliche and unremarkable but you remember that as flawed as your last counselor was, just literally talking and using human language often lifted your spirits a bit. but then there's a different voice that starts to talk in your head about how you got lucky, you'll run out of stuff to talk about next time, you'll bore him like you'll eventually bore your wife like like like. who knows? that voice will always linger. much like the taste of cigar in your mouth the next day. but in the cold with a sip of whiskey? it all actually felt right.

making up for makeup

there's makeup around your eyes, she said it was ethereal. it is. it's bright and airy and with your big blue glasses on looks like something you used to think about when watching youtube makeup videos. in your leggings and longer hair you could almost not be a man. you remember when you first grew out a beard and hated it but then liked how it filled out your face when you had just a little bit of it, when it was shaggy but no beard, like 5-7 days into no shaving. but now it's gone and you like that too. you hate it as well though. hate seeing the pimples now, but hate the hair itching when it's there. maybe there is nothing to like, nothing to define. your looks and clothes are a moving target. there's always something to hate. you think about buying new jeans but they're expensive. you think your red pants are still too long and straight. you don't know what phases fashion is going through, you're not dating so you're not plugged into that anymore. the makeup is almost gone now, and you're in your normal work clothes carrying a briefcase, looking like some adult working a boring corporate job. now there's a look you will never, ever like.

severed crossed climax

it's the same playlist it's been for a few years now. the songs were chosen to be melancholic and kind of sorrowful but not slow, still punchy and party like. sort of. you remember listening to the list the first time and this time won't be the last. it's a familiar habit to go back on when the sadness of another year passed sets in. the list has survived more than one partner and more than one drug and more than one prescription and more than one bottle of alcohol. "severed crossed fingers there" st vincent crows. you drank more than you had in awhile after pregaming with enough water to make sure you could. half a 12% beer and a shot or two of whiskey later and a glass of champange here you are. it's 2am and she's gone upstairs to sleep while you put on the end of flcl as you put away the last few dishes. it's the same show it's been for years now. the show is melancholic and kind of sorrowful but not slow, still punchy and party like. it's a familiar habit to go back to when the sadness of another year passed sets in. you used to do this at 3am on saturday night at your parent's place and then yours. you have a few resolutions, just like mamimi, who wanted to be a photographer. "i don't know what happened to her after that" naota says. i'll see you next year. i think that's a resolution enough in and of itself.

she is always there

she is always there. she is there when you leave work at 5, parked next to your slowly breaking down 2003 camry, getting out of her car to hand you some lemon bars and chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, because she misses you. she is there outside your condo with tomato plants earlier in the summer. she is there on the phone asking you for a christmas list, so she can get you gifts that remind you that she is always there. 

she is in your first grade classroom, pulling all the work you were turning in to your teacher out of the dropbox to look over it and make sure it was good enough. she is in 5th grade going through the homework you're going to turn in the next day to make sure it's perfect. she is there in your high school, roaming the halls in front of your classmates, going to each teacher to talk about your grades, your friends deriving an incredible source of humiliating language aimed at you from it. 

the first day of your first job out of college she is always there, sitting next to your desk for two weeks straight. after the work day was over, she'd be there at home to eat dinner with, to say goodnight to. she is there the first day of your first job ever, ordering a bacon egg and cheese biscuit. some days she is there three times, your eight hour shift broken up by three stops through the drive thru as she orders something different each time. 

she is always there except for the very few times she is not. at age 3 you are left at home for an hour or two (it was only supposed to be 15 minutes), just lying on the floor reading dr seuss. she doesn't get home until 5 at the earliest, sometimes 6, sometimes 7, and the later it is the more you can actually watch the few tv shows you want to watch. she is gone sometimes on sundays to show houses and you can actually bust your toys out and let your imagination run wild, as long as it's all put away by the time she is there. she isn't there when you finally, for the first time, open up that you are being bullied. neither parent is there. they don't need to be there for that. there are more important things to attend to.

she is there when she is "supposed" to be. she's there at every sporting event, band performance, graduation ceremony. she only forgets you at school once, and is only late 100 times. she is there in the basement to make sure you are working out in 7th grade so that you can get better at sports. she is there when she measures the circumference of your biceps to see if you are making progress.

she is there in your counseling sessions she works to sign you up for in high school because your grades are dropping and clearly that means she needs to be there even more. she sits there and you clam up, unable to open up to the counselor. she's there again with your counselor in adulthood, your dad and her taking you there in the blizzard of a saturday after you dropped out of school again, her sitting in the room animated while your father sits there silently. she is there driving you to your counselor every week for the first couple years until she seems content that you are actually going to your session. 

you go to australia when you are 17 and she is only there once, on the phone, in a 24 day period. you have the time of your life. she makes sure the next time you travel she tells you she has to be there once a day, time zones be damned, as if the time of your life has to be contorted and manipulated and reduced to something she can hold, until it's not even the time of your life, but of hers. you tear up writing this paragraph at the realization.

she is there even when she is not. when you're driving around town, in every vehicle that looks remotely similar to hers, your heart skipping as you know she'd be watching every move you make on the road, judging your competency. in high school she is calling your friend's houses at random times when you go over to remind you she could be there, and you should be.

she doesn't need to squeeze you tight to make it feel like you are being choked. her presence leaves you with constant claustrophobia, and when she is gone it doesn't relent. she has trained you to know she is behind your shoulder, in the car in the next lane over, on the phone, outside your classroom. she is always watching. you didn't have time for church growing up, but you got your dose of omnipotence. you would lie awake at night in fear wondering where she would be next. your computer? your nightstand? your backpack? your private writing? she is always there. and so you dream of getting so far away she couldn't possibly be. so many thousands of miles that there is no way she could be anywhere near you. and then you think about how'd you'd have to come home for days and days and days at a time for holidays, because she is always there.