Sunday, June 26, 2016

The Day

June 17, 2016

8AM, thereabouts. She is getting up after having little to sleep about. He is laying in the couch still undecided. They do not talk to each other, and as soon as she comes down to go to the bathroom he climbs up to go to the bed. She later leaves to go to work, and he stays home to think, write, brood. He does not get much finished or accomplished, but he learns more about how to prepare his stories to have the look he wants. The day is a blur for him; for her, it is anxious.

3PM. She has been home for thirty minutes and they are already fighting. He hugged her at first, but he could not shake the feelings that started this event. The bitterness awakens the Black Dragon, and the fight is now for her life. What happened? How could we go from hugging so closely, so tightly, to this?

She won't win. She can't win. He is driving her again to the edge, and he does not know why. The war inside of the voices against one another has finally found this moment. When she has had enough, she strikes out and away from him, and she ruins him with her own truths. He has no self-responsibility. He is lazy. She tried very hard to remain calm and open. She did not succeed. She is now sitting outside on the deck leading up to the kitchen door that leads out to the cars, crying, frustrated, alone. What is this? Why is this happening?

The anger inside has no place to go. He starts to hit himself, again, harder and harder, more and more. Hits his nose, makes it bleed. Hits his legs, his stomach, his jaw and cheeks. He gets up from the couch and takes off all his clothes. The blood drips onto the floor, into the sink, into the tub. The shower comes on. The water flows over his skin and the wailing starts. Please. Please stop. Please stop.

The water pools, becomes a tub filled, becomes hazy with blood and mucus and tears. And then he puts his head under the water, exhales all of his air, and sucks in water through nose and lungs.

Underneath the water, he's not there for long. It's enough time to make the decision to stop. But something does die there, and something does come up. He used to say about water baptisms that people who embrace Jesus in baptisms really should be held down under the water until they feel the terror and the fear of death and the lack of air overwhelm them. People might say that such a ritual is unsafe, but then religion is inherently unsafe. Or should be. Water gives life. Water gives death. Death is what he sought, life is what he has.

He stands up, coughing and spitting. Then the body just starts moving, and from then on, honesty prevails. One foot through the pants. The other now. Sock on one, sock on the other. No underwear. Grey T-shirt slipped over the head. One hand through the short sleeve. The other now. Walking out of the bathroom. Now at the bookshelf. Keys. Wallet. Sunglasses clipped onto glasses. Keep walking. Don't stop.

She is outside, and so is the landlady. The landlady, with MoMo the Wonder Dog!, is talking about something, but keep moving. Don't stop. Ignition on. Reverse out. Keep driving. Don't hesitate.

He makes it to the Laurelwood Intake with ten minutes before it closes regular business hours. It is now 4:52PM.

—Can I help you?

I need to see someone about committing myself?

—Okay, sir, just sign in here and someone will be with you shortly.

He signs in, sits down, and dries out. Not long, as someone is with him shortly.

She asks him questions, and he answers each one. She says he'll be going into crisis stabilization, and he's okay with that.

The police show up and escort him to the ER. They are pleasant enough, but have the cop's hesitations and the wet, bundled nerves. They are less like cats and more like dogs, when it comes to physical readiness. Blunt, but smiling.

The nurses in the ER come in and go out. They take care of him. He is talking but not babbling. He is answering but not giving. Undressed, now in paper scrubs, all items removed. They offer him a crossword puzzle to solve. He won't solve it for twelve hours, and even then, he'll still miss out on one letter. B or V?

He covered the reverse side with poems, drawings, sayings, musings. The mind cannot stop reaching out for other minds, any minds, no matter where they are, this side or that side or the other side.

Has someone called my fiancée? One of the counselors said she would.

—I don't know about that, but I'll look into it.

They do bring him a phone, give him the number they have for her, it checks out with his memory, he's dialing.


It's me. I'm in the hospital.

—I fucking knew it! Oh no!

I tried to kill myself. So I'm here now in the ER.

—Oh no. I'll be there in ten minutes.

She's driving. She's crying. She was washing clothes and wanting to feel some usefulness in her tired, weakened body. Now, what now? What now?

What now?

The whales in the distance have begun their CHANT. The veils between the worlds are thinning, and the moon is reaching its fullness during the solstice. I am scribbling madly, trying to keep up writing with what is happening, my heart breaking for him, her, them, and all of the world. I listen to the whales we share together, those who swim between the stars and the veils and the dreaming. I love him, and loving him teaches me how to love my own life. I am just a kid. What do I know?

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