Clinical Depression and You!

Imagine -if you will- a river. 

The river follows a certain path, winding its way through the land as it flows downstream. It adapts to reality and reacts to the topography in predictable patterns, behaving almost like a living, feeling creature... constantly in motion; ever-changing. Even when dizzying heights lead down waterfalls to extreme lows, the river always flows forward; never hesitating; never surrendering... forever focused. 

The rewards for such an iron-clad commitment to the laws of gravity are little to none; the river will never gain elevation in blatant disregard to the laws of physics; yet even so, the river never questions its role in life or adopts a defeatist attitude. It almost appears to understand a fundamental rule of life; that nothing ever exists in a permanent high... or low. The river takes life's hits in its stride, shrugs them off and moves on. Only such determination and strength of character could bind the titans to its will; through sheer tenacity, it has thoroughly earned the privilege to erode mountains of solid rock and make its mark on the immense; the immovable; the eternal.

The river is a good metaphor for what a healthy person's attitude in life should ideally be like; a persistent, relentless, unyielding drive towards a fixed goal... with an unshakable will to defeat life's challenges and still manage to keep going -even after a few hard punches- and an understanding that nothing lasts; neither the good times, nor the bad. 

Now imagine a pond. It is nothing more than some water that happened to have collected in a natural basin by no one's designs. It has no goal; no driving force; no soul; no life. It is temporary; monotonous; bereft of any semblance of purpose. Not only is it immune to currents and waves and winds; but it is also decidedly uninterested in them. It exists in an eternal state of limbo; not quite alive and yet not truly dead. It has no taste but for bland nothingness; no sound but for a boring monotone; no smell but for the stench of stagnation; no feel but for lukewarm numbness. 

The pond has chosen to face adversity in the most passive of ways; by not even trying. It knows it is temporary; it knows its existence makes no difference; and that nothing is in its power to change that.... and while it is ironically calming to simply exist with no self-imposed goals or obligations, it is a sad existence; unworthy of acknowledgment or remembrance.

That, in a nutshell, is the life of the clinically depressed.

This brings us to a very important distinction that must be made before I go on; there is a type of depression that everyone exhibits at some point in their lives, resulting from severe emotional trauma... it is a part of the "normal" five stages of grief, and while no one can question the destructive nature of that particular stage, it is -however- temporary. It is a response to a specific event, and it will run its course eventually... be it after a week or a month or even a year. It is therefore not a mental illness per se, but rather a low point in one's life.

And then there's clinical depression. 

Clinical depression is not when you're upset or sad for a few days for a specific reason; clinical depression is infinitely more intangible and harder to quantify or diagnose... it is a constant, nagging feeling at the back of your mind that never quite goes away, and the minute you think it's gone, it rears its ugly head when your defenses are down. If you've been crying for a few days in reaction to something -while I'm very sorry for whatever put you in that state- you should be grateful that you are still able to feel something that intensely. 

You want to know what clinical depression is? In the simplest of words -and without going into the typical day-to-day routine of a clinically depressed person- it is what happens after you stop crying... in other words, it is what happens after you stop caring altogether. 

Clinical depression is like a flat-line on a heart monitor; constant, unchanging, and often irreversible. It is not so much a stage you go through and move on as it is a constant companion; an unwelcome guest that sometimes briefly allows you to enjoy what feel like irregular, eerie, undeserved bouts of happiness... but who always, always, comes back. Nothing makes you sad, but nothing gives you joy, either. Clinically depressed people can sometimes feel happy, of course, however their threshold is significantly higher than it is for the mentally healthy, and they're usually very fleeting, temporary blips of emotion that quickly give way to a baseline of melancholy and dull, reasonless pain... and you don't want to know what the frequent low points are like. Even the joys and thrills of a new relationship only last for a few weeks, fading away to nothing before you've had a chance to enjoy them... and it's all downhill from there; as you try to explain to your partner why you don't seem as passionate, attentive or interested in them anymore.

People often mistake particularly long spells of unhappiness for clinical depression, but they are not comparable; for one is a mental illness and the other is a temporary feeling. The media has unfortunately not been the most informative of tutors, and clinical depression has sadly been mostly neglected and almost criminally misrepresented in popular culture. I've heard the words "clinical depression" being thrown around often recently, and personally I'm very firmly against that because it risks desensitizing the community to a very serious mental illness; in which case, people who actually need help are marginalized, overlooked or written off as drama queens. It is a term that should definitely not be uttered without serious prior thought.

To sum up; for a clinically depressed person, everything tastes bland and boring and they simply have no reason or will to live, even if they should appear -on the surface- to have everything in life. They have nothing to look forward to; nothing to get them out of bed; nothing to motivate them to put on their masks and face the world and no energy to perform even the simplest tasks. As a matter of fact, people who commit suicide due to depression are not often trying to escape momentary pain, but rather to break the endless cycle of nothingness... to finally stop feeling numb and outrun their demons and the voices in their heads.

The cherry on top is definitely the "advice" clinically depressed people often receive from uninformed loved ones, which -while very well-intentioned- can often kick the depression into even higher gear. "Get over it" or "you need God" or "you need to go out more" or "stop moping all the time and smile" are not what a depressed person needs to hear, because it makes them feel completely alienated, unheard and misunderstood... and odds are they've already tried all of these tips before. How they feel is not within their control; they cannot be blamed for their defective brain chemistry. What they need is someone who listens; who understands; who will patiently be there for them -for as long as it takes- and who provides emotional support, even if they do not particularly understand what it is they're going through. If one of your loved ones is depressed, don't stress them out and add to their worries by demanding their attention, as this is nothing short of emotional abuse. 

Long story short; keep an eye out for the signs and be supportive to others who suffer from depression, clinical or otherwise... and most importantly -while I don't personally believe in the effectiveness of therapy or anti-depressants- please do not hesitate to seek help if you felt that this article struck home, or if you find yourself pondering death more and more frequently. Although clinical depression is a chronic illness which might not be curable, it is ultimately a state of mind... and it is at least manageable as long as you know what signs to look for, and you put in constant effort to actively fight it every day.

I sincerely hope none of you could relate to any of this, but if you did and you need to feel heard, please don't hesitate to contact me. I've been there, I am there, and will likely always be there... so I know what you're going through, and I'm here to help.

I leave you with a link to another blog post I wrote in October 2017, with the hope that someone, somewhere will read it and realize that they're not alone:

http://insert-bondok-sarcasm-here.blogspot.com/2017/10/my-best-friend.html

Keep up the good fight... you're stronger than you know.

The Incredible Greg

At first there was nothing... then there was the big bang; trillions upon trillions of particles of matter began expanding at the speed of light; the heat and the energy resulting from the big bang propelling them further and further in all directions.

Billions of years passed, and the basic forces of the universe began to take shape; the gravitational pull of objects pulled other objects into their orbits to form the most primitive galaxies; disorderly clouds of chaotic entropy that would come together to form the first stars and solar systems, orbiting the infant galaxies' cores.

Yet the universe was not done, for millions of years later, the dust clouds orbiting the stars would begin to form more compact and uniform spherical shapes; namely planets. One such story is that of our very own solar system; a small grouping of planets orbiting a medium star on the fringes of a galaxy playfully named "The Milky Way".

Of all the planets in the known universe, the conditions to sustain intelligent life has only existed on one planet that we know of- an unassuming blue orb of water and dirt, suitably named "Earth". Through a 4.5 billion year journey of trial and error, Earth has sustained the birth, evolution and eventual extinction of countless numbers of species, each more fantastic and unbelievable than the last, from the most primitive single-cell organisms to huge, lumbering giants such as the Brachiosaurus.

Then the statistically improbable happened... for amongst all of these species, one race of glorified apes with opposable thumbs rose to the top of the food chain not through the traditional way of the tooth and claw, but through the size of their cerebral cortices...

That such fragile beings would dominate and survive where immensely powerful creatures such as the Megalodon have failed is the ultimate underdog success story; eternal proof that David will always beat Goliath; and that human beings are the most ruthless killing machines in this planet's history, who have somehow managed to tame Earth while simultaneously making T-Rex's closest living relative into bargain bucket meals at KFC; the closest evolutionary equivalent to tea-bagging.

Alan pondered the wisdom of mother nature, however, as he considered the most convincing anti-evolution argument yet, in the form of Greg the bouncer -or as he fondly nicknamed himself, "Crusher"; he was to a normal human being what an 18-wheeler is to a Mini Cooper, but his mental prowess was on par with an intelligent German Shepherd; and his heart-warming frown concentrated his facial features into a yogurt-lid-sized area in the center of his face. His forehead was a solid slab of bone, compacted to a near-diamond hardness -through years of daily headbutting contests with his radiator, Alan imagined- and his shaved dome shone dully with the light reflected from the cheap neon light bulb that hung aimlessly mere centimeters above his towering frame.

"I SAID, I SAID, ARE YOU ON THE VIP LIST?" Greg bellowed.

Greg always bellowed... though chronic tinnitus from the club's booming speakers was likely just as much to blame for that particular quirk as Greg's limited cranial capacity.

Alan mentally considered his long list of Greg-defying options, born of years of defying Greg; theirs was a small town, and he'd been lucky enough to have gone to school with him and had the chance to watch the daisy-crushing, cat-strangling, groin-kicking, adult-male-sized toddler grow into the fully-grown behemoth standing in front of him. He decided to go for a timeless classic; Alan had long since learned that anything short of a tactical nuclear strike on Greg's face wouldn't even register with him... so picking his pocket was embarrassingly easy, especially since he always put his wallet in the same unzipped leather jacket pocket.

With arrogance born of years of practice picking Greg's pocket to get back his stolen lunch money, Alan's hand deftly darted towards the same pocket, intending to use Greg's own ID card to get into the club. Yes, he'd tried it at least five times before, and yes; it always worked.

This time it didn't- Greg's jacket pocket was zipped... and what's worse, Greg's eyes had followed Alan's arm movement, and his facial features were beginning to scatter away from their traditional yogurt-lid formation in what Alan assumed was a triumphant look of sheer joy at finally having outsmarted an adult human being. As was usually the case with Greg, however, his body tended to respond faster than his brain, likely due to impatient frustration. Any minute now, the single solitary light bulb in Greg's brain would blink on. Alan waited patiently; only a monster would interrupt such a rare occurrence... but he started counting; usually it happened around the six second mark. It must have been a particularly clever deduction by Greg's standards, however, because the first signs of anger started showing somewhere around the 14th second... but it was difficult to be sure, as Alan's mind wandered for quite a while somewhere in the middle.

"I KNEW IT! YOU LITTLE RUNT WHO STEAL GREG WALLET!" Greg's grammar and sentence structure had never been his strong points.

Alan considered his options; physical confrontation was out of the question, he might as well take on a fully grown bull African elephant in mating season with his bare hands. Reasoning with him was not an option either; Greg took "shoot first, ask questions later" quite literally, and shooting people was one of the few things he both thoroughly enjoyed and was really good at... and if he really had to ask questions, he much preferred a dead audience. The dead almost never outsmarted him.

Almost.

Distraction was therefore his only alternative. He would have to escape, regroup, and come back a few days later... Greg's long-term memory at any given point in time stretched only as far as the previous weekend... you do what you can with the limited storage capacity you have.

Only a man such as Greg would still be fooled at age 28 by the "what's that behind you!" school of diversion, but there was no time -or reason- for Alan to come up with anything more creative.

He was just about to utter the words when something happened.

Something unusual.

The "Hardest" Town To Live In

"Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock"; went the clock he hung above his bed.

"Drip... Drip... Drip... Drip"; went the steady trickle of water droplets from the leaky faucet in his bathroom.

"Howl... howl, howl, hoooowwwwwwwwwwllllll!" went the neighbor's dog.

"BzzzzzZZZZzzzzzzZZZZZZZ"; went the mosquito as it flew tantalizingly close to his ear, then away, then back again just when he thought it would leave him be.

"Meeeoowwwwwwwwwwwwww <screech> FCHHHHHHHH"; went the cats, right on cue.

"Squeak... squeak... squeak squeak squeak squeak SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK"; went his upstairs neighbors' bed... accompanied by faint moaning, which somehow simultaneously aroused and repulsed him.

"Beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep"; went the cars on the nearby main street, whose easy accessibility had been the main reason he'd chosen that God forsaken apartment in the first place.

"SNOOOOORRREEEEEEE"; went his roommate, impressively managing to make himself heard through two closed doors and the white noise coming from his broken TV set -which his roommate insisted he couldn't sleep without turning on at full volume.

And that was not all; for the entropy of the cacophony was echoed -if you'll pardon the pun- in the arrhythmic flashing of the faulty street lamp right outside his third floor window, and artfully imbued with the red hue of tens of tail lights which his ancient, tattered shutters couldn't quite block.

The potent mix of unwanted stimuli was enough to drive any sane person completely mad... and his relationship with sanity was already severely strained, at best; if sanity incarnate had been one of his neighbors, they would have been slipping passive aggressive notes under each others' doors and stealing each others' newspapers.

For the thirty seventh time in so many days, he cursed his inaction and vowed to do something about his nighttime pet peeves... and for the thirty seventh time in so many days, he mentally rolled his eyes at the notion that he would actually be proactive and do anything about them.

Some of them were perfectly within his control; he could take down the clock and smash it to tiny little pieces with the hammer he bought when he'd moved in; his mind still alight with noble ambitions of independence and DIY manly handiwork... but which hadn't been removed from his toolbox since he put it there, for fear of his unpredictability and anger management issues... and for good reason, now that he thought about it.

He could ask his landlady to replace the rubber seal on his faucet or change the whole faucet... or he could even fix it himself and be done with it, but both options would entail speaking to his sexually starved cougar of a landlady if he didn't want to lose his security deposit... and he didn't particularly relish that conversation, especially considering how she reveled in shamelessly and inappropriately flirting with him and watching him squirm under her piercing gaze as he attempted to formulate the least offensive "no thank you"s he could so she wouldn't kick him out of the apartment. Besides, spending his own meager earnings on repairs to an apartment he didn't own rubbed him up the wrong way... it was like changing the engine oil on a rented car.

His other problems required even more refined diplomacy, however. He'd never been the most sociable of people, but his limited earnings restricted his housing options severely; it was a choice between legally sharing a suspiciously affordable, spacious and conveniently located apartment with one annoying roommate; and illegally sharing a remote, tiny studio apartment with a very nice Bengali family but which also would have forced him into a daily three hour-long commute to work as well as frequent unavoidable awkwardness and averted eyes as Mr. and Mrs. Shah attempted to raise the family count from four to five.

He turned over in bed and lay on his back, lost in thought; come to think of it, most of his issues had to do with his hatred of dealing with other people; okay, so maybe he couldn't do much about the mosquitoes, the lonely dog, the street lights and noise, the horny cats or the horny landlady (well, technically he could do something about the latter, but of course she was as attractive to him as a week-old tuna sandwich left in the sun), but he could at least have a word with his roommate and the upstairs neighbor.

"So why doesn't he?" You're probably asking. Why would a grown man be so passive about everything wrong with his life when he could make a stand and end his problems?

Because after living there for more than a year, the fight was completely sapped out of him and he'd long since learned that there was no use. It was like trying to kill a hydra; fix one problem, and three others would immediately sprout in its place, some of them orders of magnitude worse than the original problem he'd been trying to fix. It took him a few furious weeks and several anger management courses to accept that maybe it was best not to disturb the karmic balance of dickery and just learn to live with his problems... it was much easier than having to face an entirely new set every week.

You see, nobody had warned him when he'd moved to that town that everyone -and everything- were dicks. At any given point in time, there was a 100% chance that someone, or something, was being a dick to someone -or something. You would be perfectly justified in letting out an incredulous snort at this point, o reader... for the odds that an entire town would only be populated by dicks are infinitesimally, almost anomalously low. You'd probably even be prepared to wager some of your own hard-earned savings to back that up... but by Aragorn's chin cleft, you'd lose all of it.

It wasn't named "Dickville Town" for nothing.

I Died Today

I died today,
With so much still to do...
I'd thought myself immortal,
But death has no master.

I died today,
But I hadn't seen it coming;
It's not like anyone ever thinks:
"OK, it's my time to die now".

I died today,
But there was no hurt or pain...
The suddenness of my death,
Left no time for such sentiments.

I died today,
Extremely anticlimactically...
There was no heroic struggle;
And no emotional last words.

I died today,
With so much left unsaid;
More I'm-sorries than I could count...
And infinitely more I-love-you's.

I died today,
With so much love in my heart...
But in those final seconds,
I only cared about me.

I died today,
And closure was snatched away,
From all who ever loved me...
And everyone I still loved.

I died today,
With no one to hold my hand,
But that matters little,
For everyone dies alone.

I died today,
And as I took my last few breaths,
I mourned the death of hope...
For even hope cannot escape the abyss.

I died today,
Not knowing who I was...
When had I become
Such a cynical nihilist ?

I died today,
Hating every fiber of my being...
But there was nothing to be done;
It was too late to change.

I died today,
And I finally acknowledged the fact
That in the grand scheme of things,
My life had no purpose.

I died today,
But the universe shed no tears.
Time would go on, unfazed...
For life stops for no one.

I died today,
Yet I felt sweet relief...
As I savored the peace,
I'd never known in life.

I died today,
And I felt no fear...
Concerned though I was,
For those I left behind.

I died today,
Yet I was curiously calm...
As my soul ascended,
Into the great unknown.

I died today,
But it wasn't so bad...
It was the highlight of my life,
For my life did not matter.

The Cockroach That Changed My Life

Word of warning: this blog post has several jarring shifts in tone, as I’ve made almost no attempts at hiding my bipolarity this time. Enjoy the Bondok roller-coaster experience (which I go through dozens of times a day) 😊

This is a deeply personal blog post, which is why I did not share it on Facebook like I usually do. I only published it here for my own use.

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

I’ve always wondered why we hate cockroaches… if, hypothetically, cockroaches were the size of cats, and they had the same playful attitude and level of intelligence as the average dog, would we have still been disgusted by them, or would they have been considered cute and some people would have kept them as pets? It has never quite made sense to me how a fully grown adult human, destroyer of worlds, conqueror of countless species and top of the food chain would be so thoroughly unnerved by a tiny creature that mostly keeps to itself, hides in the shadows and is virtually powerless to cause any harm to a towering giant, several hundred times its own size.

I’ve heard it said that human revulsion to cockroaches and insects in general is an evolutionary survival tactic, seeing as such insects are usually carriers of parasites and diseases; through millennia of human natural selection, the individuals who were most disgusted by these creatures -and therefore most likely to avoid them- were less likely to come into contact with the dangerous diseases they carried and hence more successful in reaching sexual maturity and passing on their hatred of creepy crawlies to their offspring.

That would make sense from a biological point of view… but what if the issue is more psychological? What if we hate them because we don’t understand them? Bear with me on this one; animals usually exhibit a certain degree of intelligence and our interactions with them are governed by a minimum level of mutual understanding; for example, we can usually tell when our cats or dogs are hungry or sick or sleepy or lazy or horny -first of all because we get the same impulses as they do; and second of all, because they are usually successful in conveying their needs to us. In other words, if we couldn’t relate to our pets or communicate with them in a meaningful way, they would be as foreign to us as the cockroach… an organism operating purely on instinct, incapable of intelligent thought, and therefore completely unpredictable to us.

Or maybe we just hate them because they're really ugly.

These thoughts raced through my mind one day while I was working out at my home gym. Don’t be alarmed; I’m not usually thinking about cockroaches by default, but on that particular day I was especially pleased with my pumped-up shoulder muscles… and it was while I was pridefully checking out my bulging deltoids in my full-size mirror in a gesture of vanity that would not be out of place on a 19 year-old, fist-bumping frat boy -but definitely was out of place on a 26 year-old adult- that I noticed an unusual chill in the room.

The lights flickered.

I shivered.

Something was very wrong.

And sure enough, I quickly noticed the reflection of a scurrying shadow at the bottom left corner of the mirror… and when I turned around, my suspicions were confirmed as I beheld what was undoubtedly the biggest cockroach I had ever seen in my life… in human terms, comparing its size to the size of a normal cockroach would be like comparing The Rock to Tom Cruise. It was large enough to have its own area code. It was the first double-decker cockroach I had ever seen; usually they’re quite flat, but this one was actually fat and tall. In a moment of hysteria, I briefly chuckled at the thought that that cockroach was probably the jock who had lots of sex at cockroach high school.

It was big, is what I’m trying to say.

What followed was that a startled, high-pitched scream escaped my lips as primal fear gripped me and I was temporarily frozen in place, my eyes darting to the only escape route out of the room. It took a few seconds of logical reasoning and mental pep talks to convince myself to calmly walk up the stairs to grab the bug spray from the utility closet and walk back to the room to spray the ever-loving shit out of the cockroach… which I did, but even watching it squirming on its back, flailing and clawing at the sky as it choked to death could not bring back my self-respect.

There I was, pumping iron several times a week in order to get stronger and more intimidating, and yet all it took was a cockroach -an admittedly massive cockroach, but still just a cockroach- to expose my hypocrisy and reveal my true mettle. The irony that the bearded, snarling, masculine, muscle-bound beast aggressively flexing his muscles a few minutes ago was reduced to a screaming little girl by a small insect was almost too much to bear… and it was during that moment of honest self-reflection that I realized I was overdue for a dose of humbling self-flagellation.

I am not a muscle-bound beast.

I am not a stoic hero.

I am not some ultra-masculine daredevil.

And it’s obviously not just about the cockroach.

  

I am also not a real writer.

I am not a real musician.

I am not an oscar wildian witty romantic.

I am not some mysterious, dark poet.

I am not a tortured lover.

I am not God's gift to women.

I am not a knight in shining armor.

I am not a genius.

I am not even nice.

 I am not what society, my parents or even I want to be.

What I am is thoroughly disappointing;

 I am a poser

I am selfish

I am proud

I am angry

I am anti-social

I am boring

I am a corporate slave with a job that doesn't even have the courtesy to be a 9 to 5.

I am very privileged and yet my inability to stop feeling sorry for myself is an insult to people with real problems.

I am not the victim, no matter how frequently I play the part or how good I've gotten at it.

 I am not some honorable noble soul... I am a self-centered narcissist with paradoxically no sense of self-worth, and no amount of manipulation will change that.

 I am a deeply flawed individual who fights his demons and loses most days.

I am… human. A human who grows more and more into a cynical loner as the days go by.

Let the records show that no matter how many people I've managed to mislead, the one person I ultimately couldn't trick was me.

A few months ago, I made a vow to learn to love myself, but I must admit defeat.

I am only human, after all. 

An ugly human I cannot for the life of me grow to accept, because he is not worthy of love or acceptance.

Come to think of it, perhaps what I hate most about cockroaches is none of the above… maybe I just see too much of my own ugliness reflected in them.

Darker Chocolate For The Soul

You know the drill, guys; I've had some dark thoughts in my mind for a while, and I felt like the best way to deal with them would be an emotional dump in the form of a series of short stories like I did last time.

Here's the link for part 1 if you haven't read it:
http://insert-bondok-sarcasm-here.blogspot.com/2017/10/dark-chocolate-for-soul.html

As always, I feel obliged to ask that you only read this if you're mentally and emotionally prepared for a heavy dose of melancholy.

I am serious, please don't read this if you're in a bad place.

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

She drunkenly flipped open the photo album, her tears splattering against the waterproof, transparent plastic sleeve of the first page.

The picture made her forget her woes for a sweet, blissful second... and she unconsciously smiled at the look of pure joy on the toddler's face as he played with his little rubber duck in the bathtub; she could almost hear his shrieks of delight as he splashed around in the bath foam... and whenever she popped a soap bubble he'd clap his tiny hands and laugh even harder.

She turned a few pages, and felt another blast of emotions as she looked at a picture of a beaming child in his brand new uniform. The memory was so clear in her mind that it felt like yesterday; the excited gleam in his eyes, her fussing over the tiny wrinkles on his shirt, the hurry she was in as she rushed him to her car so he wouldn't be late for his first day, the smell of his hair as she leaned in to hug and kiss him and hand him his little lunchbox in the parked car in front of the school gates.

She turned a few more pages, and her eyes caught a glimpse of a picture that gave her pause; the same boy had grown up a little and was standing next to a birthday cake with a number-eleven-shaped candle sunk deep in the chocolate frosting, its flame glowing merrily... in contrast to the forced, posed smile on her son's face. She remembered that day, too; how miserable he'd been when he came home; how he tried to avoid her questions when she asked him out what was wrong with him after they blew the candle on his cake; and most of all, she distinctly remembered the exact moment she saw that accusing look in his eyes as he told her his classmates were teasing him about his mom's job and calling her a whore.

She finally found the picture she'd been looking for: the last picture they'd ever taken together; a sulky teenager in a hoodie scowled at the camera as he tried to escape her attempts at a hug. She'd taken him out for dinner at a local diner to celebrate his first job... but he seemed preoccupied and wasn't paying her any attention as he focused his full attention on his phone. He'd been increasingly avoiding being seen with her in public, and it wasn't just the normal embarrassment a teenager felt at the prospect of being spotted with his mother... no, that was a teenager who was thoroughly ashamed of his mother and what she did for a living.

That night, he told her he was moving out. He told her he was tired of everyone associating him with her; that he'd had enough of all his high school classmates claiming they'd fucked his mom; that he was sick of them insisting that they could have her any day for twenty bucks.

Every word felt like a vicious stab... but somehow, she couldn't blame him.

How could he know how hard it is for a single mom to raise a boy all alone for seventeen years after his dad had bailed on them? How could he know how many other ways she'd tried to support him without selling her body, but that it was either that or starve? How could he know how many realities of life she'd tried to shield him from; how much she'd sacrificed to give him as normal a life as possible?

In the end, everything she did for him paled to insignificance next to "how" she did it.

It had been ten years to the day, and she hadn't heard from him since. Apart from a few drunken late night phone calls - which he never answered- she respected his wish; he evidently didn't want her in his life, as he hadn't tried to contact her for all these years... but sometimes she missed him so much, it was like physical pain.

For at least the fifth time that night, her eyes darted to the sharp razor on her table...

Perhaps tonight would be the night.

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

Sometimes he wondered how he got there.

Looking back, the odds were almost comically against him... he'd gone from being a boy from a small town in the middle of nowhere to being a famous author with tens of book deals, book-signing events, cross-country promotional tours and a rabid fan-base. How was that even possible?

It was all because of her... and for her.

Not only were his writings primarily inspired by her and her stimulating presence in his life; but she was also his biggest supporter and number one fan. Whenever he started having doubts about his abilities, all he'd need to do was look at the degree of conviction in her eyes as she assured him that he was a fantastic writer and that he was going places... these weren't the vacant, slightly bored eyes of a supportive girlfriend as she offered some empty reassurances; these were the eyes of a massive fan who genuinely believed in him and wanted to read his words.

No matter how dark or depressing his writings got, she not only wanted to read them to learn a little bit more about him, but she also actually loved what he wrote... and that was all the motivation he needed to keep writing, even when the voice of negativity in his head denounced him for a mediocre, wannabe poser.

Year after year, he tried and failed and tried again at her insistence... and whenever he'd start doubting he had what it takes, she'd give him a brief glimpse at himself through her eyes and he'd be immediately back on track. It was one of those days when he decided that she was the girl for him; he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the only girl who could make him feel so exceptional when he was so utterly average... the only one who thought he was somebody when he felt like a complete nobody.

For years, she'd promised that she'd never leave him... but that was one promise she couldn't keep.

Before he knew it, he found himself alone in the world... without his safety net; his comfort zone; his home. The pain was indescribable... but after months of grieving, he decided that the best way to honor their relationship -and her- was to write about it. His first draft happened to fall into the hands of an interested publisher, and the rest was history.

There was simply no way he'd ever have made it without her unwavering support and belief in him... and even though their relationship had had such an agonizing, abrupt end; he couldn't blame her for it... and he would always be grateful to her for everything she did for him.

Fast forward to present time, where he found himself at the graveyard once again, quietly weeping at her grave.

He leaned down and placed a wreathe of roses in front of her headstone... and in its center, he placed the first copy of his first novel; the one that had started it all.

The book was flipped to the first page, where the dedication simply read:

"To the only reason for my success... I will always love you".

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

Stolen glances; lingering eye contact at times and an averted gaze at others; a stutter and even the occasional blush...

The signs were there for all to see.

He wasn't exactly subtle about it, either... but then again, what teenager is? She could see him staring at her chest whenever she walked into the room and she could practically feel his eyes on her as she walked away from him... and at times she could even notice the distinct outline of his erection as it strained against the fabric of his jeans.

The boy was smitten.

All she needed to do was give him a metaphorical nudge; a lingering light touch, a flirtatious wink, a subtle brush of her breasts against his upper arm after an unexpected hug. She knew the power of the ever-expanding arsenal of a beautiful, blooming temptress, and he was just an awkward boy still trying to come to grips with his puberty.

He never stood a chance.

Sometimes at night before she went to sleep, she'd absently wonder why she toyed with him; she knew she wanted nothing to do with him and that his feeble attempts at flirting gave her the same non-existent sexual urges one would get from watching a puppy trying to learn how to use the stairs for the first time... the thought of him masturbating to her Facebook pictures -which she was sure he did almost daily- only made her laugh at best and recoil with disgust at worst.

Whenever he showed any signs of moving on or getting tired of her games, she would pull him back into her orbit; yet when he tried to make a move, she'd push him away... but always with an implied, sly hint of something more in the future if he were patient with her.

He was on her hook, and she would keep him there for as long as she could... it made her feel good about herself.

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

Jim had to get used to his new reality. He had to convince himself that that was his life now, even when he knew it wasn't. If he didn't believe it himself, who would?

Every day, he'd go to sleep next to the most beautiful woman on the planet; the girl of his dreams, the one he'd always loved since he was a little boy. He'd catch himself watching her sleep sometimes, not believing how lucky he was... but no, he mustn't think that, ever.

Life was more perfect than he dared hope; he was married to the love of his life, he had two beautiful children and a dog (who hated Jim because his smell wasn't right); a successful, well-paying career and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. It was almost too good to be true...

Which of course, it was.

His life had been turned upside down that one day when his brother showed up unannounced at his house... the memory of that day would haunt him forever; John's arrival on a stormy day in the early hours of the morning, having taken a spontaneous flight to Jim's town without telling his own family; his nonsensical, inebriated ravings about mistakes he made and his determination to fix them; his gradual loss of consciousness after frantically begging Jim to take care of his family; and the look of silent appeal in his lifeless eyes as he rocked back and forth while Jim repeatedly tried -and failed- to resuscitate him.

He remembered sitting next to John's body for hours; grieving, recovering from shock and pondering how best to carry out his brother's dying wish... but who was he kidding? He knew exactly what he'd do the minute he realized his identical twin brother was dead... perhaps he'd even let him die on purpose.

Jim had always privately thought that he would gladly give anything to have his brother's life... and it seemed like fate had taken his wish quite literally. Besides, that was probably what his brother would have wanted... right? Who better to take care of John's family than... John?

It was decided... "Jim" died that day -of a self-administered poison according to the autopsy- and when John's family flew in for the funeral, they were received by a tearful, grieving "John".

They would never know they buried their own husband and father that day... he would make sure of it.

He owed the real John that much.

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

After all that time, he still starred regularly in her dreams.

Usually, they were the sort of meaningless, disjointed dreams one has when they're exhausted and can barely remember in the morning... but every now and then, her mind would up the production value to the maximum setting and it would produce, screen-write and direct the perfect bittersweet, metaphorical blitz to completely ruin her next morning.

That was one of those nights.

She found herself sitting in the driver's seat of her ex-boyfriend's car for some reason; staking out his house... which is a nicer way of saying that she was stalking him. 

She was wearing his signature leather jacket and combat boots while listening to his favorite rock music on the car's speakers. It wasn't one of those dreams where she was aware she was dreaming... on the contrary; everything felt very real and none of those weird details seemed unusual to her dream-self. 

In the dream, she felt a strong sense of purpose; like she was doing a very important job for an important reason... but whenever she tried to mentally zero-in on what it is she was supposed to be doing, it seemed to escape her.

She sat there for what felt like hours, just watching his house and feeling an inexplicable surge of joy whenever his face briefly appeared from between the curtains of his kitchen window. Suddenly it was very clear to her; that was the only reason she was there... she simply missed him and wanted to see his face.

The voices in her head nagged and nagged; they called her an idiot for giving up on their relationship too soon, and claimed that she would never find love again... that she had lost the perfect guy.

She drowned them out by turning up the radio, and absently wondered how he couldn't hear the very loud music coming from his own car.

The voices in her head were getting louder and louder, but she couldn't turn up the volume on the radio any higher. She felt the beginnings of a terrible headache, and still the voices kept going... higher and higher and higher they got, until eventually they were all she could hear...

And just when it was getting too much, she saw her ex-boyfriend kiss a girl through the window.

It was her.

Suddenly, the world was as quiet as a crypt.

She wasn't stalking her ex-boyfriend with somebody new and wondering what could have been if they'd stayed together; she was actually getting a glimpse of what her own life would have been like if she'd ended up with him. 

It was somehow much worse... like a metaphorical punch in the stomach; the yearning, the regret, the loss of everything she'd ever wanted, and the inexplicable jealousy she harbored for a version of her in a parallel universe who wasn't stupid enough to give up on the love of her life.

She revved up the car's engine, and drove as fast as she could; away from her pain; from him, her past, her impossible future, and the voices... the goddamned voices.

She woke up with the realization that she'd never be able to forget that dream.

He would haunt her forever.

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

They were fighting again... it was a particularly bad one.

His father had been drinking; but he wasn't normally the cliche abusive drunk... instead, he'd usually just wallow in his misery; sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, his eyes barely processing anything as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was more a harm to himself than he was to his son or daughters... but tonight, he was the scary type of drunk, because tonight was different; his mother had stumbled into the house very late, also wreaking of alcohol. It wasn't that uncommon for them both to be drunk, but they weren't usually both home -and conscious- at the same time... yet tonight was one of those unfortunate nights.

It started how it always did; he made some comment about her being a cheating, drunk whore, and she took a stab at his manhood... but while he usually meekly snorted, drank and turned up the volume on the TV to drown out her goading, tonight he worked himself into a fury and before long they were bellowing at each other at the top of their lungs.

He knew what he had to do.

The first of many, many times that happened in his parents' explosively miserable marriage, he'd tried to intervene... but he found out that they were both too violent and too drunk to care what damage they did to him when one of his parents threw a beer bottle at the other -he forgot who- and it hit him in the head instead. One concussion and 6 stitches later, he learned that the best thing to do was just let them try their best to kill each other until one of them succeeds, or the neighbors call the police, or they both pass out.

Instead, he ran into the bedroom he shared with his two sisters and quickly closed and locked the door. The heartbreaking looks in their eyes were painfully too familiar; his eight-year-old sister Hailey, old enough to understand what was happening yet young enough to need a hug and reassurances even as she tried her best to hide her tears; and Sara, the innocent, playful four-year-old who usually just cried and tearfully asked him why they wouldn't stop fighting.

Without a word, they both crawled into their big brother's bed where he hugged them, whispered some soothing words and sang a few lullabies until they both fell asleep.

Only then did he allow himself to cry, too.

Silently, so he wouldn't wake them up.

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

I guess that's enough for now... but don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from.

For now, please watch this video to stay sane:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ON-fOaTMWo

Rewind

Tick tock, tick tock
Time moved on, yet he did not.
And though his body may age and fray,
His mind stood still, forever stuck.

Stuck in times long gone,
Feeling pain no longer there.
While every day, he told himself;
Tomorrow would be a better day.

Yet that day would come and go,
And come and go again and again...
Until one day he found himself
Ten years older, yet still stuck.

He trained himself to look ahead,
Forget the past and all his pain
But he could wait till the end of days
And still tomorrow would never come.

The biggest lie he'd told himself;
That all he'd need to heal was time...
While the plain truth he tried to ignore
Was that he'd likely never forget.

If only time were like a film,
Which he could play and pause at will
So many would pause their happiest times
Forever stuck in bittersweet bliss...

Yet he cared not for freezing time;

The charms of his past held little sway...

If he'd had the power to control time,

He would always then choose to rewind...

Not to the time when he was in love,

Nor to the time when they'd just met...

He would instead go further back,

Before he'd ever seen her face.

Before he'd ever heard her name

Or associated it with pure joy.

Before he'd ever heard her laugh,

The music that once made his day.

Before he'd known her gentle heart,

Or touched the pain behind her soul.

Before he'd learned her greatest fears,

And held her close to soothe her woes.

Yes, he'd choose to erase it all,

With all the pain he knew would come.

He would give all he had and more,

Just to spare them both the grief

And though they'd lose the happy times,

They'd both go back to ignorant bliss...

And never have to face a world,

Where they both knew how much they'd lost.

So let's rewind and go far back,

To a simpler time with no regrets...

A time when his heart was still his own;

His mind not forever stuck in place.