Struggling against the almighty tides of eventuality

If life were like a yarn twisted about, what kind of clothing would your existence make? It seems like one of those stupid questions that stupid people ask to get stupid responses that people think are deep. There’s nothing really to it. Your life isn’t cloth, it’s flesh and blood and bone and pain and misery. That’s what I’ve always thought, what I’ll always think. Sometimes people get fooled by the shadow of their fathers and mothers, and think there’s someone watching over their shoulder, but it’s just a tree scraping against the window, nothing more.

We’re all just empty little hobgoblins pressing up against the roof of our world, with most ignorant of the quiet vacuum lying just beyond. It’s big, and it’s cold, and it’s empty. Our lives, they’re just a fraction of a blink to a universe that’s only now waking up. Even the people who “matter” are just insects crawling next to us. They found a tiny little crumb to make them seem important, but they all died too, when the ever-impending flood rose up and washed them away. Maybe the stupid and the lazy have it right; you’re going to die, you’re going to end up not mattering in the slightest, and you’re going to be alone; why bother making anything bigger out of it than it is?

I want to matter, I want to be important. But a flash in the pan is nothing to write home about, and the soup will still be cold. Even if I could turn this world into a burning star with my passion, the stars themselves die long before the space that birthed them could be considered young. Why am I fighting, then?

I don’t know.

I should get that printed on a shirt.

Do you ever meet someone who’s so startlingly beautiful that you’re not quite sure you can handle it? Sure, we’ve all got those little adolescent crushes where your heart beats a mile a minute and your throat closes up and your mouth goes dry just before you can ask them how they’re doing, but I’m not that young anymore. Of course, when you’re any age love still feels the same, and the story stays the same.

When I was young, I met this beautiful girl by a lake. We spent the summer with our legs drifting off the sides of the pier, where there never seemed to be any boats to anchor or sail, and just talked. It must have been utter nonsense, because I can barely remember any of it. We were reading books at the same time, like we were going on adventures together. I still remember one of the curious little facts: “Unicorns are primarily found in warm tropical climates but have been known to travel as far north as New Hampshire in November to enjoy the changing colors of the evergreens.” Maybe it was the utter strangeness of the idea, or maybe it was that, while we were giggling about the book and watching the little waves glisten with stolen sunlight, that she leaned over and kissed me. Though it should be a happy memory, it’s not; because the picture of a Unicorn watching evergreens change color made me laugh, and she thought I was laughing at her. I apologized, and life went on. We played together, laughed together, and read together the rest of the summer. But she never kissed me again. And the next summer I was at the dock alone.

Maybe that informed the rest of my relationships. Sure, that seems like an easy thing to say, because it was just one girl and one summer, but it’s the truth. I never wanted to have attachments. Well, maybe I did, but I couldn’t let myself get close. They say there are many fish in the sea; well, I swam the depths for years. I met firefighters, secretaries, and even a writer or two. They were great at giving me what I needed, but I was terrible at giving back. I felt badly about it, but I never wanted to change. There just wasn’t any reason.

The longest I stayed with a woman was Mildred. Mildred made weekly trips to the farmer’s market for social interaction and intrigue. She saw adventure in every corner and under every bed. There was no story she couldn’t spin out of a few bare threads she’d overhear in the morning, and nothing she wouldn’t do for me. One day I told her I’d had enough and thought I’d like to move to Vermont. I said something about New England drawing me. I left, and when I came back to get my things, I saw the house on fire. She looked at me and her face was covered with soot. Then she looked away. She stood tall and boldly faced the east with the burning remnants of her house and former treasure behind her. I knew she wasn’t coming with me, although that was my first thought. No, I’d broken her heart, and I could see it melting, like glass, in the flames behind her that were blowing her ragged hair and filling it with ash.

Vermont was a fine place to live, but it didn’t have what I wanted. For years I went through each and every town I could find, trying to locate a little piece of something I’d never know was missing. Maybe it was a sense of adventure, I’m not sure. Somehow I got involved with a shady woman who dealt drugs for the mob. She had some strange cover stories for why she’d be late to everything. There was her job, of course, but it changed day by day, though I had a tie for the best two. Eventually, she made some mistakes and disappeared without a trace. I never did find out of she was a stripper or a bank teller.

My latest stop is at a nice hostel. I’ve been here for a while, now, and it seems nice enough. I can’t really tell you how long it’s been, exactly. Sometimes you lose track of time. A couple of the guys here are into that real hardcore stuff, and it messes with my mind a little bit. It gets foggy every now and then and I forget what time it is or how long I’ve been awake and little details like that. But the sense of adventure is still calling me. One of these days I’m gonna get up and get out. But for now, I’m pretty happy and I think I’ll just stay for a bit longer.

Sometimes, on hard days like this, the weaker parts of me think that maybe I should just abandon him here. He’s the only part of his father that I have left, though, and my only child. I couldn’t really let him go any more than I could rip out my heart and offer it to a stranger. Sometimes I wish he weren’t so much his father’s son. His father, he was such a charming man. He was institutionalized when I met him, but that didn’t make me want him any less. As a day helper I met with the patients and told them stories, and he was always the most lucid, and always offered me something nice, or something he thought was nice. They didn’t exactly have lots of disposable income or any trips to the local stores. Still, it was an incredibly thoughtful gift with a compliment each time. I often credited myself with his recovery, but I’m sure I was more of a bystander than an incentive.

I’m glad I had that experience at the institution, though. Fifteen years ago, they told me: “Mildred, you have to talk to him, you have to keep him grounded with your voice. It’s the only way he’ll stay cognizant of the real world.” It was easy at the time, because I always thought he’d get better. When they found him by the docks he was babbling about a girl and a book and a unicorn, saying he only wanted to read her something funny he had found. It turned out, the girl was a neighbor’s daughter who I’d seen playing by herself at the dock while my son was in his room, and that day I learned that no amount of apologies can make up for a lost child. But I still had mine, or so I thought.

He had a breakthrough a few years back. Each story I told him seemed to bring him back to the room a little bit more. He stopped fidgeting and stared directly at me. The new medications seemed to be working, finally. One day, he even asked for me by name to tell him a story. But then, a few days later, he looked at me and said “Mildred, I think I’m going to Vermont. Something about New England is calling me.” I don’t remember what happened next but I know that later I was sobbing outside with a doctor rubbing my shoulder and telling me that it was probably just temporary. But he didn’t know, he didn’t even have any children. I stayed away for weeks after that, and when I came back, he was the same as he had always been.

I went to work today. It was my first day on a new job, trying to make ends meet. The hours are horrible, and they keep me away from my son. But it pays the bills, and each time I walk through the door, I feel freedom for a brief moment, as I take in the world around me and think how I’ve given up and moved on with my life. But then the doors swish closed behind me, and the moment is gone. I know I have my obligations.

Everyone looks better in a black suit. I distinctly remember thinking it first this morning when getting ready, trying for about the 5th time to get the tie tied to the right length, and now it won’t get out of my head. It’s like a song that keeps repeating, but it’s just that thought, ringing like tinnitus, boiling my brain in its own juices. I look around at everyone else. There’s a lot of sniffling, and some dainty dabbing of eyes. No one’s broken out bawling, yet. I well up a bit, but it’s purely empathetic. I don’t feel anything at all. There’s nothing even in the box in front of us. It’s just a box.

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry.

After the service, we’re waiting for the bus to come and take us back into town. We talk about something, hell, I don’t even bother to process what. “It was beautiful,” probably. Lip service. There’s probably a questioning of why these sorts of things happen. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a wishing well next to the little shop that had cropped up next to the bus stop. I’m not really thinking about suits anymore, but something I’d heard earlier.

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

I’m standing by the well. The coin I’d flicked in flutters lazily to the bottom. Already the exact wording of the wish I’d thrown together and uttered under my breath is fading. I look at you. You look away.

Wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.

I tossed the bags on the couch, thinking I’d unpack them later. We went about our routines. Nothing had changed. Like the tides, we still came and went, not noting the passing of one of our number as it rolled back out to the sea. We’re all crashing up on the shore, and we’re all getting dragged back out. Later on, when the tears finally came, I cried alone. You never even knew it had happened. I wonder if you did the same, but we haven’t talked.

What they thought was silence, because they didn’t know how to listen, was full of accidental sounds.

A month later, I heard you. A little noise, a faint gasp. I looked at you and knew, and you reached out and put your hand on mine. The wind rustled outside, and I thought about that coin. I thought about the scripture that I’d heard, and the book I’d been reading on the way over when you’d fallen asleep and your head accidentally drifted onto my shoulder for a moment. I remembered, and I saw your eyes, and I believed once again that we can make it.

Update: I’ve set up my own blog for pain purposes.

In the past, I’ve written extensively on the subject of chronic pain, and opioid therapy to treat that pain. In those writings, I’ve mentioned as an aside that these things apply to me, being that I am a chronic pain patient. What I haven’t done is write extensively on my specific pain, my specific treatment, and how my pain changes my life. There are reasons for this.

The main reason is because–until recently–I didn’t want to believe that my pain affected my life at large. I didn’t want to believe that this can not only affect my life, but it in fact dictates the majority of my day. I wanted to believe that I could take medications and ignore it and continue on the path I’ve chosen without modifying anything. To my disdain, this is painfully untrue.

In high school, I participated in running sports like Cross Country and the long distance division of Track & Field. I ran 6-8 miles every night, and I was in fantastic shape. I continued to run after high school until I was around 19. At this age I started having a dull ache at my tailbone. It was intermittent and mild, so I’d take over-the-counter (OTC) analgesics like acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and naproxen. As time passed and my age grew, so did my pain. The pain spread to my entire lower back and started taking over my life. By the time I was 21 OTC analgesics weren’t working anymore, and I had no health insurance. After being turned away at free clinics under suspicion of drug-seeking, I started going to an ER on a regular basis. They’d occasionally give me a shot of hydromorphone or prescriptions for a few day’s worth of muscle relaxants and opioid analgesics, but 90% of the time they’d also turn me away under suspicion of drug-seeking. At this point, the pain was nearly constant and unbearable. The clinic the ER sent me to for follow-up had a lazy doctor who never treated anything but crotch-rot and runny noses. He sent me to Physical Therapy, and a litany of other specialists within the charity hospital. I had x-rays and MRIs and no one ever saw anything. So, again, I was ignored for what was presumed to be drug-seeking behavior. Then, the aforementioned clinic was aquired by new management, and with this came a new doctor. I gave him a shot, and gave him my history, and he decided to give me a chance. I went through two-week trials of every NSAID you can think of, until he finally agreed to give me opioid analgesics, under the condition that I would continue to try to figure out what was wrong with me, and that he would stop prescribing them when I did. Around the time I turned 22 I moved 900 miles from that clinic, to Baltimore.

In Baltimore I spent about a year making my way through an orthopedist, rheumatologist, gastroenterologist, and a cardiologist. The original orthopedist discontinued the opioids and gave me injections, which worked at first but quickly faded. He gave me a few month’s worth of opioids and referred me to a pain management doctor. This doctor diagnosed me with lateral facet joint hypertrophy, or more plainly, a severe form of arthritis in the joints of my spinal vertebrae. He continued the opioids and gave me a multitude of injections, which didn’t help much. I was still miserable despite the narcotics and one day I broke down crying and he decided to pull out all the stops and put me on some real opioid therapy. I started taking extended release morphine along with the hydrocodone I was already receiving. In the time since I’ve been on methadone, and now transdermal fentanyl fills the role of my 24/7 medication, and the hydrocodone has been replaced with oxycodone. I also have adjuvant medications like muscle relaxants and sedative/hypnotics. All in all, it took nearly four years to get my pain under control.

Now that I see a good doctor–who does his best to help me manage my pain–I thought my fight might be over. It took day after day of good days and bad days before it dawned on me that I only won a small battle, and while I’ll spend the rest of my life at war, I’ll never win. I’ll continue to have good days where the pain is balled up into a corner of my mind, and I’ll continue to have bad days where I’m balled up into a corner of my bed. I’ve always known this, but only recently has it really fully elucidated itself: I will be in gut-wrenching pain for the rest of my life.

Knowing that, it begins to dawn on me that I will be unable to live the life I want to live. A given activity may be restricted or even impossible for me to endure. Walks in the park are now a test of my pain threshold rather than a harmless stroll. Going out with my girlfriend to places like malls is now not only mind-blowingly boring, but back-breakingly painful (one might think this is a good thing, but any time together is good time together). Not only are these things difficult now, but my condition is degenerative; it will continue to get worse every single day, as will my pain. While a walk through the mall may seem hard now, walking at all may be an arduous task in the not-too-distant future.

So where do I go from there? Will I become legally disabled and unable to work? What of my plan to go to medical school? What of all the hard work I’ve already put into school? Medical disability programs in this country are pitiful, and a mere pittance compared to my current income, let alone the future income I could achieve with a medical license. Being a physician is physical work, and carries the longest hours of any profession. I’m not implying that I couldn’t get a degree, but what am I to do with it if my physical limitations continue unabated? Will I be seeing patients or will I be relegated to boring research?

The degeneration could be curbed by strong back muscles, but in order to get stronger I have to exercise, and that is quite difficult when mere walking is a test of pure will. I don’t believe any amount of medication in the world can change this. My medication barely allows me to function in the world. I’m lucky when I get out of bed and get back into it without some horrifying pain in-between, let alone adding purposeful physical exertion into every day. Perhaps if I take a morphine shower afterwards.

As things are I take quite a bit of strong, dangerous medication and it barely manages an uneventful day. I frequently employ the aid of a cane. If I so much as play with my little nieces or wrestle around with my girlfriend, I pay for it dearly. I used to think that bill would stop coming, but I really do realize now that bill controls my life. It controls what I can and can’t do. I can think “don’t let this control me, don’t let this be who I am,” and yet it is anyway. My pain is my life, and my life is pain.

I don’t care much about anything.  Deliberately dispassionate reactions to the world have long divorced me from anything resembling a damn I could possibly give.  Unfortunately, it didn’t do anything to relieve me of my regrets.  Because, while I look forward into a dismal future of doing the same thing day in and day out, and can’t seem to muster up the essence of being – the will – to change my course, I look back and see every single missed opportunity and bemoan it.

It is no one’s fault but my own.

I had a discussion tonight with my partner Larry about school, to which I intend to return shortly.  I explained that I’m going back to discover that in which I might still find interest, and specifically not going back because I have a topic which rocks my world; although, the major I’ve selected certainly does interest me.  Essentially, I am going back deliberately for the “finding myself” period of college wherein a major is a priority, but not a fixed and immutable point.  This was met with abject disdain: “But you’ll be wasting your time and your money.”

My response was abrupt and ended the conversation as abruptly: “I don’t care.”

And that pretty much sums it up.  I’m going back, to a community college of all things, to start a program in foreign languages.  I have a trajectory, – an arc, whatever – that I’d like to follow which ends with me enmeshing all I’ve learned into a patchwork career which could be both rewarding and interesting.  Of course, it relies on a lot happening almost exactly as I imagine, but a shaky plan is quite literally infinitely more than the nothing I had before.

Because, you see, it’s hard to figure out what you want to do when you just can’t dredge up any passion for life.  Once it’s been sucked out of you and the tiniest spark of inspiration is all that’s left, you just kind of have to roll with it.  I can’t sit around and wait and think of what will light the proverbial burning fires in my soul; absolutely nothing ever will.  There will no lightning bolt, descending from the heavens to strike me with great inspiration and insight.  There is nothing but a growing gnawing darkness encircling my life since I left school, and no one’s interested in helping bring me back to the light.

Don’t get me wrong, school was a prickly place, full of self-centered braggarts who couldn’t be bothered with beings they considered lesser than themselves.  However, since then I’ve just reduced the quality and quantity of those people, not their sentiments.  At least in a place designed to foster creativity and intellectual pursuit, I could, you know, be creative and pursue intellectual activities.

So that’s it, I’m going to jump back into the pool.  Maybe I’ll find out that foreign languages aren’t my cup of tea and I’ll have to switch up after testing the waters.  Maybe it’ll be like waking up from a nightmare into a bright and shining new day.  I don’t know, and I truly, honestly, don’t care anymore.  Everyone tells me to be more decisive but rushes to make sure I second-guess myself at every turn.

I’m done second-guessing.

I bought this house two months ago.  Two months ago, we were sitting in a small room with not nearly enough ventiation; across from us: three people with whom we could barely communiate.  They spoke Korean and a little bit of English.  I knew how to say “no” in Korean, a vestige from a party with me and a guy who had a crush on my sister in high school.  I barely knew it, actually, and I think it might have sounded something like “no.”   It’s weird, but “no” almost always sounds the same in all languages.

Ever since then I’ve meant to fix the lights in our bedroom.  I meant to take those two cords, swinging merrily in the breeze, and unify them so they weren’t low enough to hit our heads.  I’ve never gotten around to it.  Tonight, I’m looking at them yet again.  They’re just another in a long line of projects I’ve never finished.  I’ve yet to fix the kitchen.  I haven’t called the radon remediation company.  I am miles away from sending out a slew of E-mails my boss has been on my ass for since three weeks ago.  But I’m staring at these light fixture pullchains, with my partner’s head in the nook of my arm.

The chains are two different sizes.  I just now noticed.

I’d never be able to unify those two chains, it just plain couldn’t happen.  It’s a stupid little thought, but for some reason it’s sticking with me.  After all these things that happen during the day, just one thought sticks out.  It’s because it’s so useless, so pointless, that I can’t get it out of my head.  We, as human beings, have about 10,000 useless thoughts run through our heads every day.  Some, they’re just temptations and easily forgotten; others, they’re desires never to be fulfilled.  What happens to them?  Like us, they are ephemeral: fleeting electrical impulses soon thrust out of our brains and never existing again.

I’m still thinking about those chains though.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll make a special trip to Home Depot, or Lowe’s because they’ve been caught less often trying to put a value on customers’ lives in court cases about safety.  Maybe sometimes, our thoughts, like us, can be held on to, made important.  There are six billion people, we’ve each thought more thoughts in a year.  Thoughts can cling to you, can make themselves heard.  Will you be heard?  Will I?  Time will tell, and time will make fools or heroes of all of us.

There seems to be a movement afoot to promote animal research; I saw this the other day, and now get to see a copy of that billboard every day on my way to work.  The thing I don’t understand is: are these people high?

I don’t particularly like animal research.  It’s not that I don’t understand that it advances medical technologies that help human beings.  It’s not that I want more people to die horribly from cancer.  But you’re still breeding animals specifically for the purpose of injecting them with or otherwise inducing horrible afflictions (or doing various other experiments to make their lives awful).  Does this mean we should stop doing it?  Well, I don’t know what alternatives there are that people will be satisfied with, and thus there’s no response I could give that is even remotely close to “yes” which won’t get me labeled as a monster; and that’s weird, cause I’d be advocating not torturing animals for our personal gain.

So, we’ll accept animal testing as a given, if only for the impossibility of stopping it.  However, I do think we can agree that it’s not something we should all be happy about.  If we suffered some horrible nuclear winter down the road, you’d probably eat your dog.  It’s unlikely you’d be overjoyed at the prospect.  As such, I don’t think it’s a good idea to make a whole god damn ad campaign extolling the virtues of dog meat.  Guess what?  You’re still eating Rex, you jackasses, and he was a part of the family.

My point is this: you shouldn’t spend time advocating a “necessary evil.”  It really makes you look like you enjoy the suffering. Ultimately, that just makes me wish you would wander in front of the nearest mass-transit bus.  Meanwhile, I’ll still think animal testing is something we put up with as a society because we don’t have better choices.  If only someone with an interest in saving more human lives had some spare money to throw at such an issue…

Been feeling down lately. Wait, what am I talking about? I’ve been down for a long time. Every now and then I’ll get into a little episode of depression, just like most of us humans. It’s normally inexplicable, and equally harmless. Most times homoeostasis is returned within mere days, but I’m starting to think I may actually have a depression problem.

At first, I thought it was just a bout of homesickness. I don’t particularly care for my life at the moment. So far I’ve managed to convince myself it’s merely a transition–I must simply “hang in there” as it were, while my beloved girlfriend completes nursing school, which will allow us to move anywhere we please–or so the theory goes. The problem with this is I can only convince myself for so long. The cold hard truth is that there is a big difference between plans and reality, and reality has never seemed to have much of a predisposition for conforming to my plans–in fact, it seems to almost have its own plan for my life. I would prefer it left it to me. I find that reality is almost always wrong.

My friends from back home ask me what I’m doing in Baltimore, and when I tell them I work for an engineering company that has me write computer software for the government they’re pretty impressed–if only I were also. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I’m no longer particularly interested in it. In fact, when I coded as a hobby I vowed I would never rely on it for a paycheck, simply because I cannot maintain an interest in some arbitrary project. I have the “open source itch,” as it’s come to be known. That is, I have an urge to code particular things I’m interested in, and not something that a project manager tells me to code. Fortunately I’m not in that situation–I get to code however I want, with whatever method, style, or language I prefer–but I still don’t get to pick what I code. When I first started this job I ran at full speed; I completed two major projects in the first three months, one of which had been in limbo for nearly three years. I am good at what I do, I just don’t like what I do.

So what do I want to do? Due to various encounters–positive and negative–with the healthcare profession, I would very much like to attend medical school and work as a pain management physician. I don’t know if I’m smart enough, and I don’t think I’m young enough. If I wait until my girlfriend has finished nursing school I will be–at the minimum–three years shy of thirty before I can even start pre-med. I just can’t convince myself this is a realistic thing to do, especially seeing as how we have plans to start a family around that time.

I dreadfully find that I have fallen into the exact same predicament most members of our society do–one that I promised myself I would never be trapped into: not achieving my dreams. Most of us have something happen in their early twenties, and you think “oh, I’ll just wait a year until I can figure this out,” or “I’ll just take a few years to get this right,” and then you turn around and it’s been five, seven, ten years. I’ve spent a mere twenty-three years on this planet–four of them taken away by intractable pain that isn’t stopping anytime soon–and already I feel the pressure of time slowly pushing me farther and farther from my dreams.

I see my friends saving money, buying houses, having families; I see me stuck, as if running in a dream: never quite able to catch what you’re chasing. No matter how hard and fast you run, it only gets farther anyway. I’m very afraid that I’ll become like so many blue-collar families–like my own parents: spending their entire lives attempting to ensure a better one for their children. That’s simply not what my life was made for. It was made for greater things than these.

I’m laying here, tugging at my brain, trying to pull it out of the sludge that doesn’t seem to stop coating it in ever more thick layers these days.  Something breaks free.  It’s just another piece of flaking paint covering the walls of my so-called life.

Back in the day, I was filled with promise, or so they would say.  I guess they say that about everyone.  Of course, I believed them.  I was one of the smartest people I knew, and I was barely even giving it a good-faith effort.  I’ve lost all my faith now.

Sometimes I feel a slight glimmer of hope, underneath all this crushing tide of sameness forever washing over me.  Sometimes, I think of what might be, if I can break free of the mire.  I’ve wanted to fly for years.  The runway’s always over the next hill.  I can see it, before the next wave rushes over my head again.

Some day, some day, and it’s always some day, I’ll do it.  I’ll take off, and fly away and never come back to this dreadful place…this dreadful place here inside myself.  My soul is atrophied, but maybe all it needs is a little fresh air, up in the sky.  It’s always some day.  But not tomorrow; tomorrow will be the same day.