A Writer's Bane

He stared at the blank page on his laptop's screen, as he had hundreds of times before.

He stared into the sterile, florescent light for what seemed like hours.

He stared until he started to feel the beginnings of a bad headache.

He stared until he could stare no more...

But nothing happened.

In truth, he wasn't quite sure what he was waiting for... creativity can never be forced, and he was never one of those 9 to 5 writers who are able to force themselves to churn out page after page of often uninspired mediocrity just to pay the bills. He'd always felt that creation was not a conscious decision; it was more of a calling... an uncontrollable urge to express your innermost thoughts and feelings in any way possible.

To him, thoughts that he was not comfortable saying out-loud or communicating to anyone were always somehow much easier to express on paper. He could struggle for years to express a simple thought to a trusted loved one; yet he had no trouble spilling his innermost doubts and fears -the darkest of which he was still in denial about- on a public medium that complete strangers had access to. The absurdity of the contradiction made him smile.

What was it about a blank page that soothed his soul?

Perhaps it was a good way to compartmentalize; his brain was a constant whirlwind of conflicting emotions and half-formed thoughts, and it was often difficult for him to cope with this cacophony or derive any clarity from it. Being able to express some of it was like locking up his old childhood toys in a wooden chest in the attic; they were still there, but in an archive out of sight where they could not demand his immediate attention or cloud his better judgement... and he could have more room for the undeveloped thoughts still in their infancy.

He also enjoyed knowing that he could travel back in time whenever he wished. He always remembered the precise circumstances under which he wrote anything, and how he was feeling at the time... and whenever he felt nostalgic, it was as simple as reading through his old work and instantly gaining perspective with the benefit of hindsight. It made him spot patterns in his behavior, and helped him chart how his personality changed over the years; but more importantly, no emotion was out of reach. At a blink, he could feel happy; he could feel hopeful; he could even fall in love all over again... and lest he grew complacent, he could also feel nostalgic; lonely; melancholy or depressed... this drove home the point that life was made of highs and lows; that it was meant to sometimes be sad; and that that contrast was what made happiness all the more beautiful. It also humbled him to look at the grand scheme of things and how things ended up transpiring, regardless of how he'd felt at the time... because it's sometimes relaxing to realize how little control you actually have over your life; and how little the small grievances we tend to have matter on the long run.

Or was it his sense of relief? Writing gave him the same relief one would get after a confession at a Catholic church; that feeling of being scrubbed clean of sin and darkness. The burden of having to constantly relive the same dark, nonconstructive thoughts over and over could take its toll on any person... and he was not the type to complain to someone and add to their troubles or express any vulnerability. Feeling like he could share these thoughts with someone without having to face their judgement made him feel more relaxed and at ease.

Yes, he was definitely onto something; it was all about judgement. A blank page would never judge him. A blank page would never abandon him when he wasn't feeling well. A blank page would always be there for him as long as he had his wits and subject matter to write about -and God knew he had no shortage of that. A blank page allowed him to distance himself sufficiently to look at things from an outsider's perspective, but the simple fact that he was bonding with a reader -transcending time and distance- still made it feel intimate and fulfilling. A blank page knew how to listen, and give him space to allow him to be himself. A blank page made no demands; had no expectations; and held no prejudice.

In short, a blank page was as loyal a lifetime companion as he could hope for... and that was why he was presently staring at a blank page and feeling in complete turmoil for having a writer's block; he didn't write to gain admiration, it was never about the attention...

He wrote to honor a faithful friend who was always there for him, and whom he felt he was currently letting down.

He wrote to release pressure and tension.

He wrote to be heard and understood.

He wrote to survive.

My Best Friend

I have a friend who's always there,
Who never wavers in his loyalty...
I've known him for almost twelve years,
And he's never once left my side.

We met when I was young and pure,
With childish dreams of love and fame...
He helped me see how foolish I was
And shaped my character over the years.

Whenever I'd lapse to my previous state
Of childish wonder, even for a minute
He'd always be there to ground me
And remind me how dark life can be.

Sometimes he'd be mellow and timid,
Other times he'd be angry and fierce...
His moods affected me in so many ways,
And I never quite understood why.

Whenever we'd part, even for an hour
He'd wink at me as he walked away
A friendly wink you'd give to a friend
Whom you would never think to abandon.

And sure enough; he never did...
He'd always be back before I knew it.
And every time, I'd quickly realize;
My best friend had never truly left.

In rare happy times, I don't see him much,
But in rough times, he's always there...
Be it death; loss; failure or broken heart,
He'd be there with me through it all.

He was there when I was alone,
He was there when I was in love,
He was there when my heart was broken,
And he was there when I went numb.

I've asked myself a million times,
Why does he feel he owes me so much?
I like to think that I'm a good person,
But what have I done to deserve this frienship?

If I had one wish, I know it would be this:
For me to have more friends like him;
Unshakable friends who never leave,
In spite of the pain and hate in me.

Friends who see past the charming smile,
And know how ugly I am inside...
Friends who aren't afraid of darkness
Friends who accept me for who I am.

I have a friend who's always there,
Who never wavers in his loyalty...
Oh how I wish I had more friends,
Like you, Depression; my best friend.

The Worst Thing That Could Ever Happen To Anyone Ever

Don't blame me; blame writer's block. This ugly condition must be stopped. Organize fund raisers; talk about it on TV; run in marathons to raise awareness; shout it from the mountain tops; do whatever you have to do... let's end this thing once and for all.

*******************

Think of the worst thing that could ever happen to anyone ever.

I'm not joking... I mean it; seriously, honestly, actually take a minute and think of the worst situation it is humanly possible to find yourself in. I'm not just saying this; I really do want you to actively put some effort into this exercise. Trust me; the pay-off is great... Just bear with me.

Done? Good. Now what I want you to do is to double that. Can you do that for me? Take another minute, I'll wait. Again, don't ruin this for yourself by simply reading the next paragraph... please take a minute and think about it before you proceed.

Good job. It must be working, because I can already smell the rank, cloying stench of your dark imagination. That's a good sign.

Now this next step is tricky, so please pay attention; I want you to take your metaphorical depraved, psycho brain-child and bathe it in blood, garbage juice, human excrement, horse semen and the contents of that one jar that's been at the back of your fridge for months and you're too scared to go near it so you just poke it with a broom handle every week or so to make sure it hasn't developed intelligent life yet...

Perfect.

By now, your metaphorical mental cauldron should be producing sulfur fumes and boiling of its own accord without being subjected to any heat whatsoever. Don't pop the viscous bubbles that are forming on the surface; they're flammable and highly toxic. Just add anything disgusting you can think of that I might have missed and slowly stir it for 10 minutes with that broom handle. Again, be careful not to pop the bubbles.

If your broom handle hasn't dissolved in the grey slag, then your mixture isn't strong enough. You'd have to add however much sweat you can squeeze out of an obese middle aged man's gym armpit towel, and however much children's tears to turn the mixture into a sickly shade of greenish yellow. If you can't procure one of those items, I'm afraid you'll have to dispose of your concoction somehow; perhaps in some kind of abandoned underground nuclear bunker or an active volcano or that area of your brain you've reserved for bad break-ups you never want to think about again.

Now the last step is to let it stew for 24 days and 24 nights... But don't think your work is over; this next part is arguably the most important. What you need to do for the next 24 nights is to focus all your negative energy on your cauldron. All your doubts, fears, worries, dark thoughts, negativity, pessimism, choice swear words and dead baby jokes. Anything terrible you can do or think of. Don't be afraid to improvise! Old gym socks? Toenails? Menstrual blood? Throw it all in there... The more personalized and unique it is, the better pay-off for you.

By the end of the 24th night, for those of you who were able to follow my simple instructions, congratulations! You will have successfully recreated one tenth of what he was feeling as he stood there in what was literally the worst situation it is humanly possible to find yourself in.

Can you imagine what a dark, messy situation that must be? I'm dead-serious, imagine it. This is the last time I'll ask you to do that, I promise; take a minute and really think about it. Think of the magnitude of what I must be getting at... and be sure to factor in how dark I naturally am. Think what must be so dark that even I would have to build it up so much to mentally prepare you.

It took you 24 nights to create the terrible concoction above, and you would need to cook up 9 other batches to match this particular situation. That's 216 days of constant brewing, assuming you don't mess up any of the batches. Can you imagine the level of commitment needed here? Do you have what it takes?

I think it's fair to say that things were definitely not looking peachy for him.

Now, I can hear you thinking "Oh my God, get to the point!", but did you really think it through? Are you sure you're ready? Do you really think you've climbed up to the top-most rung of the longest ladder you own; stood on your tiptoes and reached up as high as you can to touch the absolute height of your mental depravity?

You have? Awesome. 

Nothing I can write will ever beat your own imagination.

You have just created your own worst thing that could ever happen to anyone ever.

Enjoy.

Dark Chocolate For The Soul

Here's the deal; I've had a few dark short stories floating around in my brain for a while now, and since they're very depressing as you'll shortly see for yourself, I've decided to dump them all in one blog post because writing a separate blog post for each individual short story might actually make some people suicidal.

That said, if you believe yourself to be in a bad place, please don't read on.

Seriously.

***************************

It's difficult to pinpoint where it all went wrong.

Was it the moment he decided he'd actually get out of bed and try to be a productive member of society?

Was it the moment he tried to take a shower but slipped and almost broke his leg in the bathtub?

Was it the moment he got a nasty shock from his ancient microwave, which finally decided to blow a fuse and send his small, messy apartment back to the stone age as he stood there with his mouth half-full of cold, left-over pizza?

Or was it the moment he decided to ignore all these signs and get dressed for work anyway?

As he lay there; dazed, upside down and losing consciousness while his totaled car's cabin flooded with carbon monoxide, he had to wonder if it was all worth it.

His last memory was of her face; smiling and serene and angelic in the early morning sunlight.

***************************

How long had they been there? They had no idea.

They just sat there, staring longingly into each others' eyes for what seemed like hours; mesmerized, love-drunk and more than a little frisky, yes... but also sad.

Sad because of how the word "love" paled to insignificance next to what they were both experiencing.

Sad because there were only so many ways to show someone you loved them; and they'd already exhausted them all.

Sad because they knew it would all end, much sooner than they both wanted.

Sad because they'd never get to grow old together and hold their own grandchildren.

When the moment came, he pulled her close and kissed her long and hard, subtly turning her around to face away from the window...

but not before she caught a glimpse of the dazzling flash and the distant, rising mushroom cloud.

She closed her eyes and kissed him back, fighting back her tears and bracing herself as the sirens started wailing.

***************************

He'd always been dark and brooding.

As a child, whenever he felt unappreciated, he would find himself imagining scenarios where he died heroically and all his friends and family realized what a beautiful person they'd lost.

The irony is that he didn't even believe it himself.

He'd spend months working on himself; trying to get to a better place where he could start to be proud of who he was... but the smallest thing would happen, and it would completely demolish the fragile house of cards that was his sense of self-worth.

It cost him so much energy just to pretend to be normal, that he was left too drained to actually function. He would wake up in the morning, put on his smile and reluctantly face the world; all the while hiding the plethora of conflicting emotions battling for control of his mood that day. 

Depression, anxiety and self-hate won, most days.

On one such particularly bad day, they found him lying on the floor of his room.

The note only said "I've had enough."

The nozzle of the gun in his limp right hand was still fuming.

***************************

Her days were all the same.

Wake up, put on a brave face, receive people all day and thank them for visiting.

Every single day, the fun never stopped.

Some people would try to joke around with her to lighten the mood; others would speak stoically and offer her promises that her family would be taken care of; and some would even offer to get her booked in clinical trials that would at best give her a few more years of pain and misery.

It had been a few weeks since she'd officially run out of money to pay for her chemotherapy... not that it would have helped much, in any case... stage 3 metastatic pancreatic cancer was about as survivable as a tactical carpet bombing.

Every day, a few of her "friends" -to use the word liberally- would visit her... now that the news had got out; everyone she'd ever met wanted to make their peace and gain some of that sweet, sweet good karma by visiting a poor, dying cancer patient and offering their sympathy and nothing else.

Every day, she would put up with visits from tens of people whose names she could barely recall.

The days and weeks went by in a blur, and eventually she became old news and they stopped visiting.

When she finally felt it coming; in bed, alone and shivering uncontrollably under the weight of five heavy blankets, she reached for her phone and sent a final text message to the one person who never visited.

The one person who mattered.

When her clumsily typed "i love you" reached him, he glanced at his phone for one second...

Then he deleted the message and smiled at his date apologetically.

"Sorry about that... you were saying?"

***************************

He came to; not really understanding how it was even possible.

Dizzy and confused, he tried to sit up but his harnesses kept him in place.

He glanced to the left and saw his mother sleeping in her chair. His girlfriend was sprawled on the couch next to her, also asleep.

He tried to piece together what had happened; but his cognitive abilities weren't yet fully functional... he knew he'd definitely been in a car crash, and that it was serious enough that the deployed airbag knocked him out on impact. He also knew that it must have been a few days ago, since the itchy stubble covering half his face must have had some time to grow.

He remembered his last thought being "Yep. I'm going to die now".

How was he awake, then? He was in seven different types of pain and pumped so full of pain killers that his head was swimming and he wasn't thinking very clearly; but he was still very much alive. It just didn't make sense.

He suddenly became aware of a dull ache in his chest. A quick inspection revealed a vertical incision at least 7 inches-long. Something definitely wasn't right.

He glanced at the bed-side table on his right and saw a letter. With a sinking feeling, he reached out and grabbed it.

It was addressed: "To my only son; from a terrible father".

His hands shaking, he tore up the envelope and unfolded the letter.

"I tried to do one thing right... I'm sorry for everything I put you through. 

Remember me fondly, son... and take good care of my old ticker"

His estranged abusive father had died to save his life, and he never even had a chance to say goodbye to him... 

but the worst part was that he still couldn't forgive him.

***************************

Retirement suited her well.

Her days were as similar as they were stereotypical; she would sit on the front porch with her husband of 50 years, knitting as he read the morning paper... then at noon, they would visit one of their friends for lunch and card games, and in the evening they would watch TV in the living room... and every night they would go to bed at 9, like clock-work.

It was perfectly normal for a couple that had been together for as long as they had to fall into a rut, she reasoned... especially as they both aged and had less and less energy to fight or try to spice things up... but deep down, she knew that was nonsense.

After all these years, she could still see him from the corner of her eye as they watched TV, looking at her with that bright twinkle in his eyes and the hint of a satisfied, loving smile on his lips. She could still tell that he loved her as much as he had 50 years ago when she agreed to marry him. In his mind, she knew there was no doubt whatsoever; she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Would that she felt the same about him.

For 50 years, she tried to love him, and for 50 years she failed... and every night, she would still go to sleep thinking about her real love; the one she still wondered about after all these years... the one she would have given everything she owned to see again, even once... the one she still cried over, sometimes.

But what her husband didn't know couldn't hurt him. She couldn't give him her love, but she would make sure he died thinking she loved him.

She owed him that, at least.

***************************

I think that's enough for now. Now please google some cat videos for your own sanity.

First Date

She glanced at her tiny wristwatch, sighed and took a delicate sip of diet Coke.

The date was already not going well. First date etiquette clearly dictates that the man should be there at least 10 minutes early; but it was already 8:05 and he wasn't there yet. In his defense, he lived on the other side of town and had to take a very long commute to get there, and he had offered to pick her up, but still... there were formalities to be observed. The delicate art of seduction needs finesse, and first impressions count for a lot; it only takes a little tardiness to kill a woman's interest, and a man of quality would know that... besides; a man's word is his bond, as the saying goes, and his inability to keep a promise as simple as showing up on time didn't speak very well for him.

Or did it?

Could it be some sort of power play? Was he implying that his time was more valuable than hers... or was she overthinking it? She had no idea. In fact, she didn't know anything about him; all she knew was that he was attractive, charming, and a smooth enough talker to talk a nun into a threesome. Within 15 minutes of them meeting he'd already secured her phone number, and she couldn't for the life of her remember how he'd done it.

As she stared into the bubbling, black depths of her half-full glass (or half-empty, depending on your disposition), mentally trying to banish all thoughts of fornicating nuns, she had to admire his directness. A lesser man would have waited for the customary 3 days before calling her to ask her out, but he didn't even wait for one hour. One minute they were flirting; the next he was saving her number on his phone, and before she even knew what was happening, he'd already set up their first date at the classiest restaurant in town... the one you generally either needed to have serious connections with the mafia, the Illuminati or the government to get reservations in. She wasn't sure she wanted to know which.

The sound of confident, purposeful footsteps accompanied by jingling car keys pulled her out of her reverie. She discretely pulled her phone out of her purse and pretended to have been texting until the footsteps were close enough that she couldn't ignore them, and she looked up.

He was immaculately dressed; well-ironed white shirt, grey blazer, plain jeans and gleamingly well-polished black dress shoes with a watch and belt to match. Compared to what everyone else was wearing he was arguably under-dressed... however, not only did he pull it off well, but he also seemed to steal the spotlight. His confident stride spoke of a man who knew what he wanted and went for it; and the way he dressed -elegant yet simple, like he wasn't trying very hard- coupled with his playful half-smile and the way he was holding her gaze while politely ignoring the stares he was getting from most of the women at the other tables (and the thinly-guarded hostility with which their men regarded him) gave him the air of a man who was no stranger to women's attention. She did her best to ignore the sullen, jealous glances she was getting from some of the aforementioned women, and reached out her hand to shake his as he approached the table. He had a dry, firm handshake, and it left her right hand smelling faintly of the particularly masculine brand of bottled testosterone which he was wearing for perfume.

"Look at me, keeping a beautiful woman waiting... my mother would be ashamed of the gentleman she didn't raise" He smiled apologetically. "There is no excuse for that; I'm truly sorry".

A compliment, followed by the implication of an affectionate relationship with his mother and a sincere apology. She was already naming their three children.

She took a quick glance at her watch to imply that she hadn't really noticed as she answered brightly:

"Oh, don't worry about it... I had to reply to some e-mails anyway!"An obvious lie, but he was graceful enough not to push it. "Was the traffic OK?" She asked, then inwardly cursed herself for the cliche, generic nature of her question.

"Is it ever?" He chortled. "But you know, my bigger problem recently has been Google maps. It's been all about dead ends and longest routes lately"

"Oh, you don't drive here much?"

"I do, but I have the sense of direction God gave a carrot." He said laughingly. "But I often feel like if you want it enough, you'll eventually get there... and I did want it enough." He looked her in the eyes as he said that, hesitated for exactly two heartbeats and then added: "You look stunning, by the way."

Oh, masterfully done, she thought to herself. She was shrewd enough to recognize what he was doing, but he did it so well that she couldn't help blushing a little in response and shyly murmuring a thank you as she busied herself with the menu the waiter had just placed in front of her. 

Nervously leafing through the pages, she pretended to read but was really just peering at him from over the top of her menu. He expertly opened the menu, flipped to a specific page, took a quick glance and then closed it just in time to catch her staring at him. He met her gaze, and flashed her a disarmingly dazzling smile... the sort of smile you kept for family and lovers and soul mates and very close friends. The sort of smile that said "you matter to me and I want you to know it". The sort of smile that can get you hooked, like a drug.

In her case, however, she felt eerily uncomfortable; it seemed oddly obscene for him to be giving away these smiles to complete strangers, even if she happened to be the stranger in question. He was radiating so much warmth and sincerity that it made her feel like she was intruding on someone else's intimate affair; it somehow made her feel simultaneously vulnerable, insecure, dirty, and honored to be on the receiving end of it... not to mention some unexpected stirring in the pit of her stomach and nether regions. She looked quickly back at her menu, her heart racing. 

She deduced three things; firstly, he appeared to be a creature of habit, as it only took him a second to decide what to order; he frequented that restaurant fairly regularly, since he seemed familiar with the menu... and last but not least, he wasn't toying with her; you couldn't fake a smile like that... no one was that good an actor. Right?

"So, do you come here often?" She asked, barely able to contain her curiosity any longer.

"I've been here a few times, yes" was his vague response. He was obviously going to make her work for it. Very well then, she thought... she could play mind games too; and she had yet to meet a man who did not enjoy a bit of ego-stroking.

"I have to say, I'm impressed... Not everyone can get reservations here at such short notice." She watched him closely for the telltale, self-important glint of pride she'd come to associate with men with a satisfied ego and the beginnings of an erection... 

But he didn't take the bait.

"Oh it's nothing, I just come here a lot" He replied cheerfully, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Who'd throw away such a perfect opportunity to boast of their social class and connections? His modesty intrigued her... and the fact that his charm came to him so naturally. Why wasn't he overthinking every word she said, like she was? And just how many girls had he taken to that restaurant before her?

She was struggling with another way to probe him further when he spoke again; almost like he could read her thoughts.

"Hey, uh... Excuse my bluntness, but let's not do mind games today. They wear me out and a lot of sincerity gets lost in the process... so, if something's on my mind, I'll say it, and please feel free to do the same... I promise I'll answer honestly. There's less miscommunication that way"

That definitely took her off-guard. The waiter took the 5 seconds of stunned silence to mean that they'd decided what to order, and he walked over to their table with a smile on his face and stood by expectantly.

"Could you give us a few more minutes, please?" Her date asked the waiter politely.

The waiter gave an actual, honest-to-God bow, and retreated... it was like being in the 1950s.

As he looked back at her questioningly, she pondered his request... although she was disappointed that the aura of mystery had been removed, she was also exhilarated at the prospect of having a real, heart-felt conversation with him... So she decided to give it a go.

"Alright, fine" she replied, at length. "What's your name? It was kind of weird that I had to save you as "Mysterious Bar Dude" on my phone"

He chuckled. "Mysterious Bar Dude? Was God's Gift To Women already taken?" He flashed her another smile, his perfect teeth glinting in the candlelight.

She replied with a giggle, but gave no further response save for cocking her head; he wasn't getting out of it so easily. Appearing to get the hint, he dropped his head and appeared to consider her request for a few seconds... then raised it with a sigh.

"Sorry, that's the one thing I can't tell you... But we've talked about this, haven't we?" He pursed his lips playfully at her, like she was violating some sort of sacred rule.

"Yes, I remember the terms of our agreement" she replied, sarcastically emphasizing the last word with the hand gesture for parentheses as she recalled their conversation on the day he'd asked her out. "But since we're doing the whole honesty thing, don't you think our names are slightly relevant?!" She exclaimed exasperatedly.

"I disagree... look, I'm not doing this to be mysterious or to hide something from you... I'm doing this for one simple reason; we live in 2017. All either one of us would need is a first and last name, and we could find out all there is to know about each other through social media... And I don't believe that is the best way to get to know someone. The best way is through good, old-fashioned talking." 

"And you're an old-fashioned man, aren't you?" She asked, locking eyes with him.

"As old-fashioned as they come" He replied, leaning back in his chair... There! That glint of fierce pride she'd been waiting for... albeit wildly out of place, and mixed with another emotion she couldn't quite place... was it self-importance, or something else?

They must have stared at each other for several minutes, because the waiter appeared suddenly as if out of nowhere.

"Are we perhaps ready?" He asked, almost impatiently.

"Yes", she thought as she peered deeply into her date's sad eyes and vowed to know all there is to know about the mysterious man... "Yes, I'm definitely ready."

Outwardly, however, she just said: "I'm sorry, could you please give us five more minutes?"

I Miss You

Where do I start? 

We live in a world that idolizes happy endings, but gives absolutely no thought for the sad ones.

We live in a world that idolizes happy endings, but focuses on the fake smiles and posed pictures and pays no attention to the pain and strife that happen backstage.

We live in a world that idolizes happy endings, but a society which throws so many obstacles in your way that you might as well just give up.

Well, I'm here to speak for the stories that didn't end so well... for all the times you thought it might actually work, but found yourself bitterly remembering these thoughts months or years later and cursing yourself for letting your guard down and letting someone in.

Sometimes there are clear-cut happy endings and sad endings; happy endings where boy meets girl, they fall in love and they live happily ever after -with some complications which are easy to overcome because both parties want to make it work- and these are the endings that get all the hype and the cheesy romcoms; and then there are explosively bad endings, where both sides hate and wish serious harm upon each other... and these cases are tragic, yes, but it's easy for both parties to sit in their ivory towers and victimize themselves. At least in each of their minds, there is a clear good guy and bad guy... and this knowledge sets them free; when you believe that the other person has made all the mistakes, then it's easy to cast them as the villain and condemn them to the darkest, dankest dungeons of your brain.

But what happens when a couple realizes that they are simply incompatible? When they are madly in love but come to realize that they would have to change so much for each other that they wouldn't recognize themselves anymore?

That is the saddest ending of them all.

You can't be mad at each other because you understand where you're both coming from; you can only wish each other good things because while you know that there were bad times, you also fondly remember the good times with a smile and a warm glow in your heart; and while seeing them with someone else would probably affect you, a part of you would be glad that they've managed to find happiness. You can never bring yourself to bad-mouth each other, and would get offended if someone did in front of you... because even though you're no longer together, a part of you -no matter how small- still loves them and always will... and when you're hurting, you can't help sympathizing with them because you realize that they're probably hurting too.

In this case, there is never any real closure. The best you can do is get on with your life and try to push them out of your mind... and when you do remember them, you try to think of all the times they made you laugh or smile or feel special; because that is the only way to honor your dead relationship and all that came with it.

We've both said and done some hurtful things to each other, but we parted on good terms, and I'd be lying if I claimed I wasn't struggling... So, you know what? Even though I'm as over you as I'll ever be, I am not afraid to admit this to myself, or to you;

Sometimes I sit on my front porch at night and stare at the moon, wondering if you're staring at it too and thinking about me.

Sometimes I see ghosts of you in all the places we've been, and it makes me nostalgic and melancholic.

Sometimes one of our songs would play on shuffle and I'd be overwhelmed with emotion for a few seconds.

Sometimes I dream of you and then I can't get you out of my mind all day and all I can do is hope that I'll wake up tomorrow feeling better.

Sometimes I hope I'll see you again, but it scares me that I have no idea how either one of us would react and whether or not you'll be with someone.

Sometimes I wonder if you stalk my social media or my blog, or if you've stopped caring.

I still have all of your pictures, gifts and cute love notes... out of sight, but safe.

And sometimes I still want you so badly that it makes me physically hurt.

But most of all, even though I realize that we're over and that we're not getting back together, sometimes I simply miss you... like I miss my bed after a long day at work, or like I miss home after a few weeks abroad. I miss how you were my comfort zone; my emotional support and my number one fan, and I miss your mischievous smile, your lame jokes, your funny laugh, the way your cheeks would balloon outwards when you're drinking water, your disgusting views on mixing condiments, your disastrous taste in music and all the other little things that made you you... which I still remember, clear as day.

I haven't shared this post on Facebook, so you probably won't ever read it because no one will tell you I wrote it... or maybe you'll read it years from now when one or both of us are in happy relationships... but if you do, I hope I made you smile and I hope you're happy. I really do wish you the best of luck... but I have to hope that it wasn't all in vain.

I have to hope that even though our love story is over, part of it still lives on your heart, as it does in mine... even if you won't admit it to yourself.

*******

Update from a lonely hotel room in Jordan on April 21st 2018, one day after your birthday:

I hate you.

They say that hate and love are not opposites; for the opposite of love is indifference. I'm inclined to agree, but that complicates things; because I'm not sure what implications this carries... and I know I hate you, for so many reasons.

I hate you for hurting me.

I hate you for giving up on me.

I hate you for abandoning me.

I hate you for giving me even more issues than I thought I was capable of having.

I hate you for turning my life upside down when my defenses were down.

I hate you for giving me a hundred reasons to never let them down again.

I hate you for being real.

I hate you for giving me a glimpse of what I was beginning to think does not exist, and then snatching it away when I needed it the most. 

I hate you for not being there anymore...

But most of all, I hate you even more for having been there in the first place... for showing me what I was missing, and for leaving a you-shaped void no amount of distractions or other girls is filling.

You don't deserve my hatred, but my attempts at indifference towards you have not been successful... so I guess that's all I can offer at this point. Maybe one day I can grow to forgive you... or maybe I never will. All I can say is that one of my biggest disappointments in life is that we will never sit down and chat about this; I will never know how our breakup affected you, or how you feel about me now... because I would rather die curious but with my pride intact. 

I hate you because I realize I might never be completely over you, but I wish you well... and I still hope you're happy.

I guess I hate you because I can’t seem to actually hate you.

Purgatory

"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Moody?"

Here we go; thought Dean. Couldn't they have just thrown him in jail?

"Court order" He replied curtly, not bothering to look up.

And why would he look up? He was there against his will, and he was determined to be as petty as possible. They could only force him to physically be there, but they'd never be able force his mind to cooperate. Mentally, he was humming the guitar solo from Lynyrd Skynyrd's Free Bird... and having such a great time doing it that he found it difficult not to bob his head or air guitar it.

Halfway through the solo -which must have been around the 40 second mark- the doctor spoke.

"Fair enough. I know you're here against your will, but there's nothing either of us can do about it, since this is indeed a court order... so what do you say we actually have a conversation?"

Dr. Snow was a stereotype; tweed jacket, beard, glasses, clipboard and pen, certificates on the wall, calm and composed demeanor, minty breath, the whole nine yards... but what Dean found the most intriguing was the striking resemblance he bore to Dr. James Wilson from House M.D, a TV series he used to watch in his youth. He made a mental note to save the jab for when the doctor got too invasive.

"What can I say, doc? It's just something about handcuffs that makes me less talkative... but it does make me frisky as hell, you kinky beast" He replied with a sly wink.

Dr. Snow showed no signs of annoyance at his comment. Instead, he responded by opening a folder on his side table.

"I find your background very interesting, Dean. May I call you Dean?" He asked, pausing to keenly watch his response.

"Baby, I think we're way past “Dean”... but I don’t care how "interesting" you think my "background" is; I'm not into assplay " Dean replied, holding his gaze.

Dr. Snow continued as if he'd replied with a simple "yes".

"You've had a lot of run-ins with the law, Dean... almost too many for a man in his mid-twenties. Arson; burglary; blackmail; vandalism" He listed absently, vaguely gesturing towards the folder. "And now armed robbery... you've done it all".

"Yeah? Does that turn you on? I could tell you were into bad boys the minute I walked in"

Surprisingly, Dr. Snow smiled. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?" He asked pointedly.

"I'm hard to get; if you want this sweet ass, you're going to have to work for it" Dean replied inconsequentially.

"Homoerotic undertones aside, what interest me the most aren't your crimes... see, I've met a lot of scumbags in my line of work, Dean... but you don't strike me as one" He said, leafing through the pages of his folder.

"Careful, doc... all this sweet talk is making me wet" Replied Dean, moaning and rubbing his groin with his cuffed hands as a girl would rub her clitoris. He was rewarded with a quick flash of anger he would have missed if he'd blinked.

"Yeah, you're not a scumbag... I have your SAT scores here; you could have got into pre-med if you'd wanted... you were a grade A student up until high school; all your teachers agree"

"I was a nerdy kid, so what?" Dean asked defensively.

"Not only were you academically successful, but I can see here that you've done a lot of volunteer work, and none of it was court-ordered... moreover, I've looked into your record, and all of your crimes were either due to poor anger management, or petty theft in order to support your family in times of trouble. Is that correct?" The doctor asked.

Dean averted his gaze and took an interest in a bird nesting on a branch outside the window.

"I thought so. And that's why instead of standing idly by and watching your partner shoot that old woman, you took a bullet for her and landed yourself in a coma for weeks... I ask you, are these the actions of a deranged lunatic and a threat to society?"

Anger flashed in Dean's eyes.

"Robbie should never have tried to shoot that old lady. That wasn't part of the plan. It was supposed to be a clean operation, in and out; no blood and no fuss... but he panicked and shot at her, and I couldn't let her die" Dean wasn't sure how he'd survived getting shot in the chest at such a close range, and he still cursed Robbie for being such an amateur.

"Exactly my point. Even your hobbies; all I had to do was open your Facebook page... you're into poetry, music, weight-lifting, skiing-"

"Long, romantic walks on the beach with your mom" Interjected Dean.

For the second time, Dean saw a flicker of anger on Dr. Snow's calm face. He was getting somewhere.

"I have yet to meet a single person who has more than 2 solitary hobbies who isn't trying to hide from something or run away from his demons. You obviously aren't the hardened criminal you would have me believe... so what happened to you? Why are you acting out?"

"Oh I'm definitely "hardened"... touch it if you don't believe me" Dean replied with another hostile wink.

"I know there's a good person inside you somewhere, Dean... and that's why when the DA sent your partner to jail, he didn't send you too... you're a good person on some level; you have to see that!" Snow gestured wildly. Dean was finally getting on his nerves.

"I can assure you there's no one inside me, doc, but who knows... if you play your cards right, maybe there will be inside you"

"What was your childhood like?" Asked Dr. Snow. Dean could almost swear his voice was shaking now. "Did your mother hug you much?"

"Yours did a lot more than that" Replied Dean with a ruthless laugh.

... and in the blink of an eye; before Dean could even process it, he was pinned against the wall.
In one fluid motion, the doctor who was seconds ago calmly trying to find a weak spot in his armor was suddenly red in the face, panting with rage, with a blade in his hand fixed under Dean's neck. Dean felt the first pangs of doubt and fear... what was going on?

"Oh baby, you know I like it rough" Oh well... as last words go, that wasn't so bad.

Dr. Snow just stood there, pinning him to the wall and angrily staring him down with all the hostility in the world radiating from his eyes.

"What, you want to call out to your parole officer? Trust me, he doesn't get paid enough to care... and even if he does, the door's locked. Are you a betting man, Dean? Because I bet you I could tear out your throat before he gets to you... and trust me, I know where to cut" for emphasis, Dr. Snow pressed his knife up against Dean's neck, drawing blood.

Dean couldn't figure out why Dr. Snow had suddenly turned into a blood-thirsty psycho... and what's more, he had no idea what his endgame might be... but the anger he saw in his eyes was real, and it was personal; it was the kind of anger you had for someone very close to you who disappointed you in a significant way. Something was very very wrong.

"What is this; good shrink, bad shrink? What do you want from me?" Asked Dean, his mind racing.

"I want you to talk." Dr. Snow spat. "I want you to drop the whole smart-ass, macho act and just talk. If I'm satisfied with what you say, I'll let you live. Does that sound good?" He stared at him imploringly.

"Why are you doing this?" Dean asked, curious in spite of himself.

"I'll tell you everything in good time, but you have to let me help you first... please." He eased his grip on Dean, but the knife stayed where it was.

Dean was just about to tell him to blow it out his ass, but the way the doctor was looking at him gave him pause... this was definitely personal for him, and he had to find out why. Besides, he could see anger in his eyes, but no hate. His gut feeling was that the doctor meant him well... or at least thought he did.

"Fine... you win, you bastard. Let me go and I'll tell you what you want to know" Replied Dean, defeated.

Dr. Snow let him go... and in the blink of an eye he was back in his chair, looking as sharp and calm as ever, as if nothing had happened. Dean dragged himself back to the stereotypical psychiatrist's couch, and lay on his back. Dr. Snow wrote something on his clipboard, which Dean imagined was a check mark next to "Break patient" on his to-do list, and he returned to his line of questioning.

"Tell me about your childhood"

"I was a nerd. I was bullied a lot... and no matter how good my grades were, my parents always expected better... so I eventually gave up, and I decided to live my life in highschool... but that's when my grandma got sick and I started trying to make money to pay for her chemo because my parents didn't earn enough... and it wasn't always legal. There, is that good enough for you?" He asked bitterly.

"You attempted suicide at age 17?"

"Yes... that's when the cancer finally killed her... and while I was struggling with her death, I met a girl who made everything better. She was there for me when no one else was, and she's the biggest reason why I got through it... but then she left me. She left me, broken and in pain, and that's when I realized that I was alone... so very alone. Everyone left; grandma died and my girlfriend left me, so I decided to kill myself."

"Except you didn't do a very good job of it, did you?" Dr. Snow replied scornfully.

"No, I didn't; my dad saved me, right on time... but anyway, that was way back then; I was a kid. I'm never going to kill myself; that's the easy way out. I have people who look up to me and depend on me... taking my life would be a slap to their faces."

"I must say, I agree. Suicide is never the answer." commented Dr. Snow. "Did you get involved in any other romantic relationships since then?"

"I did... but they all ended the same way. They never stay; it's like I'm cursed or something... but I've learned to be alone a long time ago; it's the only thing I know now" Realizing he'd said too much, Dean's voice trailed off and he stopped talking.

Dr. Snow allowed him a few seconds of silence, then piped up again.

"You mentioned people who look up to you; care to elaborate?"

"Yes; my little sister... she idolizes me. I'm her role model; her protection and her support. She needs someone to look up to; and someone to be there for her whenever she gets herself into trouble as she always does. There's nothing I wouldn't do for that kid; I'd die for her. Worse; I'd live for her."

"I see."

Dr. Snow arranged his folder and made some more marks on his clipboard.

"Let's talk about your mom" Said Dr. Snow, again watching his reaction closely.

"What about her?" Dean asked, starting to get angry again.

"Just tell me about her, please" Said Dr. Snow patiently.

"She's an amazing woman. A very simple woman... with her, what you see is what you get . You don't have to think about subtext... and she's always supported me and been there for me... never expected any more than I could give. She understands me; the real me. I don't have to justify my actions or change who I am for her to love me or to be proud of me"

"As opposed to your dad?" Dr. Snow asked shrewdly.

"Don't you say one word about my dad, you son of a bitch. My dad is a great man... he is always there for us; even when things got rough, he never left... his whole life, he fought tooth and nail to provide for us; give us a better life than his parents gave him... and we've always leaned on him; put more pressure on him than anyone can bear, and he's always taken it without complaint... even at the age when he should start going soft. No matter how bad things got, even when his mother was dying slowly of cancer, he never showed any signs of weakness or pain. He's unshakable; a solid rock... I will never be half the man he is"

"And how do you think he feels about you?"

"Alright, that's it. I'm not going to answer any more questions" Dean said, fighting to control his anger. "I don't see how any of this is relevant to my crime. Just let me go already; we're way past one hour anyways... where's my officer?" It made no sense that the session was allowed to go on for so long.

"Why did you save that woman, Dean? If you aren't suicidal, why did you do it?" His eyes beseeched him; begged him for an answer.

"I just did, OK? Let me out of here" The look in Dr. Snow's eyes was starting to worry him.

"I asked you a question" Dr. Snow said firmly.

"I gave you an answer" Replied Dean, holding his ground.

"WHY DO YOU WANT TO GIVE YOUR LIFE AWAY?" Yelled Dr. Snow.

Dean was at his breaking point. It all came out in a burst.

"BECAUSE I DON'T CARE WHETHER I LIVE OR DIE, ALRIGHT? BECAUSE I'M WORTHLESS AND MY LIFE HAS NO VALUE! WHY'S THAT SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND? I'M CONSTANTLY TRAPPED INSIDE MY OWN HEAD, MAN! THE DOUBTS, THE FEARS, THE SADNESS, THE ANGST, THE SELF-PITY, THE SELF-HATE, THE VOICES, THE FUCKING VOICES, ALWAYS TELLING ME THAT I'M NOT GOOD ENOUGH; THAT I'M NEVER GOOD ENOUGH AND THAT I'LL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH... THAT I ALWAYS LET DOWN THOSE I CARE ABOUT AND THAT I'LL NEVER MAKE THEM PROUD... THAT I DESERVE EVERYTHING BAD THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME... THAT I DON'T DESERVE LOVE... THAT I'LL LIVE ALONE AND THAT I'LL DIE ALONE... EVERY DAY IS A STRUGGLE; EVERY SINGLE DAY I HAVE TO CONVINCE MYSELF THAT IT'S ALL WORTH IT AND THAT I SHOULDN'T JUST BLOW MY BRAINS OUT...

GEE, I WONDER WHY I'D WANT TO GET AWAY FROM THAT? THERE ARE DAYS WHEN IT'S ALL I CAN DO TO STAY IN BED AND NOT SLIT MY OWN WRISTS... DAYS WHERE I ACTUALLY HAVE TO DUCK INTO A BATHROOM TO HIDE THE TEARS WHEN THEY FINALLY COME... DAYS WHERE I'M SO FUCKED UP THAT I LOCK MYSELF UP IN MY ROOM BECAUSE NO ONE CAN SEE ME LIKE THIS...
AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE USELESS FUCKING ADVICE; ON ALL THE PEOPLE WHO TELL ME TO "SNAP OUT OF IT" OR TO "BE POSITIVE" OR TO "STOP BEING MELODRAMATIC"... I'M SO FUCKING TIRED OF IT ALL, MAN... I JUST WANT IT TO BE OVER!"

Dr. Snow seemed nonplussed. He obviously hadn't expected this outburst.

Dean took a few moments to compose himself and sneakily wipe his face on his jacket, then he continued:

"Look, I promised myself a long time ago that I'd never kill myself... but if there's a way for me to save someone; to die for a person or a cause, and put myself out of my misery... then everybody wins. Is that so bad?" Dean asked.

Dr. Snow took off his glasses. Dean sensed that his part of the conversation was over, and he braced himself for some grade A meaningless psycho-babble .

"Dean... I recognize several personality disorders -anxiety, depression and bipolar disorders, for starters- and all of them are perfectly treatable... but more importantly, they're all rooted in your sense of self-worth. As a child, you've learned to use jokes to mask your true feelings, and you've never grown out of that phase... and as you grew up and watched your dad present a stoic, tough exterior to the world, it became your definition of manliness and the model you've been trying to emulate, your whole life... you cling so hard to outdated macho ideals to mimic your dad and be the man you think he'd be proud of, never allowing yourself to show weakness to anyone.

You cloak your feelings in denial and bury them in distractions, but that's only a painkiller, not a cure... and your inability to open up pushes people you care about away. I'm willing to bet that you've personally sabotaged every meaningful relationship you've ever been in, not to mention pushed away countless friends, as if you're always trying to see how much you can get away with.

That's unsustainable. Your low opinion of yourself and refusal to open up will eventually cost you every person you hold dear, and they are the reasons for your abandonment issues... but let's be fair; how can they love you when even you don't love you? Your obvious desire to sacrifice yourself to give your life meaning points to that... you hate yourself because you feel you aren't good enough to earn your father's pride, and that is the single most repressed feeling you're trying to run away from.

Listen to me carefully, and believe what I say; you're locked in a cage. You keep looking for ways to break out; drinking; hobbies; distractions, but nothing works... and believe me, no amount of therapy or drugs can help if you don't want to be helped... only you have the keys to the cage. Your misery doesn't define you; stop feeling sorry for yourself and being miserable out of some misguided, romanticized notion that that's your lot in life. You can find peace, and you can find happiness... if you only forgive yourself, and stop holding yourself to such impossible standards. You're your own harshest critic and your own worst enemy."

Outwardly, Dean gave no indication he'd even heard anything... but every word resonated within him.

Dr. Snow was right.

They sat in silence for what seemed like hours, until Dr. Snow decided to break it.

"You've asked me what's going on, and I promised I'd tell you in good time... well, it's time for the plot twist... and I've got to say, only a subconscious as fucked up as yours would add a plot twist... you have the soul of a writer" Dr. Snow said mysteriously, with an outlandish glint in his eyes.

That didn't sound right to Dean at all.

"Excuse me?" He inquired.

"Come on, Dean... you know what this is. There's a reason why I look like Dr. Wilson from House, one of the TV characters you can relate to the most; same reason why my name is Snow; and why I'm speaking in Morgan Freeman's voice; and why this room is so full of cliches, since you're a melodramatic drama queen... we could have been anywhere... This could have been the Playboy mansion and I could have been Hugh Hefner, but you chose a shrink's office..." Dr. Snow sighed exasperatedly, then he continued:

"Anyway, I'm your alter ego. A figment of your imagination. You never woke up from that coma. You've been unconscious for hours, days, weeks, years... I have no idea. But what I do know is that you have a choice now... I just had to make you face your demons so you can make an... ahhhh, informed decision." Dr. Snow -or whoever/whatever the hell he was- spoke matter-of-factly, as if explaining to a toddler for the hundredth time that 2 plus 2 makes 4.

"Yeah? And what choice is that?" Dean asked, struggling to process this new information.

"Well, to borrow heavily from such popular series as Harry Potter, The Matrix, Supernatural and even House M.D. in that one episode; you can either choose to slit your wrists with the knife I introduced you to earlier, and I don't think I need to explain what that would do; you could walk out that door, wake up and carry on with your life... or you could go back to sleep, and take your chances with the coma.

I know your head is a dark place to be... but you have to promise me that you'll try to help yourself, if you do decide to go out that door... Ultimately, your friends, your ex's and even your family's opinions are irrelevant. You don't owe them anything; you don't need their validation, and your self-worth is definitely not conditional on their approval. The only opinion that matters is yours... but you won't see it; you're too proud to change or to seek help... and we'll both find ourselves back here very soon."

Dr. Snow stood up and headed towards the door... but a sad, knowing smile on his face as he said that last sentence caught Dean's eye. He had to ask.

"Doc?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"Have we been here before?" 

Dr. Snow smiled.

"More times than you'll ever know, kid."

He left his knife on the side table, opened the door, and left the room.

Dean sat there for what felt like days, thinking about his impossible choice. He finally had what he wanted... all he had to do was kill himself, and he'd be free from his demons forever. It was all finally so easily within reach... he only had to reach out for that knife... but what kind of person would he be if he abandoned his family to fend for themselves?

His choice was clear.

Dean walked to the door, inwardly cursed himself, opened it and walked out.

And just like that; he woke up gasping for breath in a hospital bed with no recollection of what happened... once again trapped inside the cage in his head, screaming himself hoarse where no one can hear him.

**************************************

In the memory of Chester Bennington, a man who got me through a lot of tough times in my life, and whose death shook me to my very core.