07/24/23 - Watching My Body from a Distance
If I am gone, you will know why I am gone. If I change, you will know why I changed. If I grow sick, you will know why I’ve grown sick.
Content warning: suicidal ideation, references to s*xual assault
Hard reset. Hotwire. We will try this again.
I am sick.
In my worst dreams, I am being chased. The highest tier of nightmare my sleeping brain can produce is rather plain, which saddens me, but in the dreaming moment, it’s real. I am being chased by a Man. The objective of the Man is to kill me, or torment me with various instruments. In one dream, he follows me down the street and asks for a dance. In another, the silhouette of his arm’s shadow tapers into long scissor blades. Very Hitchcock-esque. My mind’s eye does not produce specific features for the man, in that I can’t tell you what he wears, the shape of his hair, his face or build. I can only say that he’s fast.
The Man appears when I take too much of a supplement that helps me sleep. One capsule, he does not appear. Two, there is a small chance. Three, I hear his footsteps.
The Man has visited maybe… half a dozen times. Most vivid is when my father passed and The Man cut me. Gash in my side. The dream fabricated a bystander to tell me that what I experienced was not real. Does that make sense?
I used to be afraid to look at mirrors.
I am sick.
Investigations of mental health through the memoir form tend to take one or two directions: grounding the experience in theory and data while incorporating bits of anecdotal flourish, or blunt force diary entries. Very rarely do I see the third path, which has no choice but to think magically. The Man was born from years of mental self-abuse. The Man was born when I was r***d. There is a storage closet in my brain meant for other memories, but the Man lives there instead. Event produces rift produces entity. A disturbance in the natural order of things, by way of some awful bargain struck, exacts a toll.
One capsule.
I won’t tell you what happened—the details feel pedestrian, now that so much time has passed. Like a bad dream. I was inebriated. I was watching my body from a distance.
I’ll tell you something else: I was sober for a good long while. The reasons for this are complicated, but one is that I’ve passed out a few times and been left in the lurch by friends without a Man in their head. Do you get me? In any case, I thought this abstinence would do something. It didn’t really do anything, if we’re being honest!
Recently I drank again to make myself not an un-fun person. That didn’t do anything either, if we’re being honest! My body is processing things all wrong.
I am sick.
What was the awful bargain struck? That I am chased, running, kinetic.
Running on grease. Running in place.
Feet thrown behind me, caught by pure torque.
Football season is over.
My relationship with sleep is fraught. I am better at it now, but still bad. Churning static no music no language cold shakes four hours.
Two capsules.
I might see the Man tonight.
Dear you, I end this with the disclaimer that I endorse nothing here—only that I’ve been holding this for a long while. Several times, I’ve been offered to put it down. I’ve been offered places where I could put it down. I declined because I thought the holding of these things was impressive. Now it’s spilling. Thrown jewelery, shattered stone. It is very, VERY scary watching this all happen, watching my body let this happen from a distance. I am sick. If I haven’t made this confession before, I’ll make it now. For the past few years I’ve been feeling my mind deteriorate. I can feel the floors erode, the paint on the walls chip, the piping rust. It’s just harder for me to do shit now. I really thought I was getting better at shit. I was going to therapy, introducing healthy habits into my life, and working hard to save money. The Man hasn’t caught me in years. But I can feel grief welling up again. I am so, so scared of the wake I will attend. My hands are clammy. Portent of loss. I can feel a knife-wound opening. I’m so bad at doing shit now. I get on the nerves of others more easily. I watch my body be annoying and I can’t stop it.
If I am gone, you will know why I am gone.
If I change, you will know why I changed.
If I grow sick, you will know why I’ve grown sick.