It's Getting Slightly Better All the Time...

As I begin to stabilize and the world's vibrancy grows more and more dull, I find myself, in the stronger moments, telling myself to breathe, to remember I've been through this all before, and most of all, to embrace the subdued. In time and with eyes straight forward, the tendency to view life in a shadowy peripheral will diminish.

Boring, routine, and sure, I miss walking into a dark room and with a flip of a switch, POP POP POP, turning on the Fourth of July...but a slightly less dark room is nice too. Unexciting, lifeless, explaining to the Higher-Ups at work the medications I'm on should not make it easier for me to smile at the customers. They are not those kinds of drugs. For instance, thanks to my lovely anti-psychotics, halfway through the night my muscles spasmed. My words recommend the Cod but the confused and horrified expression now frozen on my face told a completely different story.

Empty, usual, each day, I take my meds in Heather-Mary's room. My accounta-billa-buddy. The bathroom has a toilet and trashcans, no one would know. These are dangerous times.

"These confused feelings are normal," says my Doctor. Doctor Goode. Six months ago, the irony horrified me. What doctor could ever live up to that name? Now it gives me comfort, he is what he is - the Good Doctor. I showed him the photos I took yesterday, and we went through each one.
"What is this couple laughing at?"
"Not me?"
"No, not you."
"They're just enjoying the nice day?"
"That's right. Was it a nice day?" And as I looked through the rest of the pics and at Doctor Goode and at the clouds outside the open window that were definitely not spelling out the word jump, I said out loud, "Yes, it was a nice day." And Doctor Goode said, "Good."

And for at least this moment, I will escape that world under the neath, and life will be in the literal where it belongs...in all its glorious blacks and whites.

The Precious Effect...

As a kid, my parents said I felt too much. "Sensitive," they called me. Kids at school had other names for it, but sensitive was the least offensive. I wanted to be stoic, cold and unfeeling so I practised, everyday I practised. Staring into the mirror for hours, I perfected my detached and unemotional face. I would not smile, I would not frown. I paid some older kid to rent for me Faces of Death 1 and 2 and watched them hundreds of times, desensitizing myself to all its horrors. I thought I felt nothing, I thought I was cured until the day Precious, the dog went missing. I saw him playing, noticed the gate was open but didn't care, Face of Death 3 had just been released and I needed to find a 9th Grader to rent it for me. A few hours later, the neighbor came frantically knocking at the door, crying that Precious ran away. I tried to get it out of my mind, focusing on the video, but it didn't work. Precious was now being decapitated, Precious was now being electrocuted and the autopsy was now being done on Precious. I felt so guilty. If I would have just shut that gate. Sensitive or not, I felt responsible for things, and eventually as my sickness grew, I felt responsible for everything. Doors, mine or not, must be shut and locked, someone could get in. Out-of-towners, even the French, to whom wrong directions were given must be found and set straight, they might end up someplace they shouldn't be. It's all up to me. All of it. Tommy said so.

This illness I have, this thing in my head can be destructive in so many ways. It sees what it wants to see, never mind the truth. I have scared people who have been nothing but kind to me, whose smiles have been misinterpreted as an invitation...to watch, to follow, to protect. She was so precious. Standing below her window each night, bloody and bruised from fights Tommy had no business getting me into, babbling incoherently, trying to explain how I was responsible for the safety of others. It was up to me. I see a fight, I have to stop it, to step in and if necessary, fight my way out. Paul-David may be a 145 pound geek but Tommy was crazy. Crazy Wins! From her window, dark, the curtains ever so slightly open, she heard the rants of a sleepless manic, saw his cuts and the hypocrisy of his words.

Don't Cry, Heather-Mary, Don't Cry...

Heather-Mary cried last night. I heard her, and for the rest of the night, I was awake. It wasn't loud. She did not weep or sob or thrash about - antics reserved for silly drunk girls wobbling along the streets of Hell's Square at 3AM - high drama, little true pain. No, Heather-Mary did not want the attention. She cried quiet. Enormously quiet. It satisfied me. And the guilt from that satisfaction made me ill.

I knew her story, so I was always confused by Heather-Mary's happiness. A part of me resented her for it...his name was Tommy. He wanted to see her scream, to lash out, to take her collection of fucking Precious Moments figurines and slam them against the wall. Now that would be a Precious Moment to see. But she never did. She smiles and jokes and takes care and is content to live in her little room, in her little world shrinking smaller and smaller. Insignificant. Disappear.

Heather-Mary hasn't left her room for 6 months. She sits on her bed all day, on her computer all day, chatting and Facebooking and tweeting all day. "Still in my bed," she tweets, "Still in my bed."

Heather-Mary hasn't left her two-bedroom apartment in 6 years, the Lower East Side in 9 and New York in 12. She enjoyed 3 years in San Francisco, the intricate system of electric cable lines lidding the city secured her to the street, unlike the 2 years prior she spent in LA, roaming its vast and all too open freeway system.

From age 6 to 18, Heather-Mary lived with her Grandparents on their 100 acre farm in Idaho. As much as she loved her Grandparents, she hated the land. Too much damn land. Constantly lost, free-spinning and out of control, Heather-Mary's simple chores became an anxiety filled hell. Her core growing more and more unstable, each of her cells expanding, being pulled as if hooked by some invisible string connected to the eternal sky and infinite terrain. Heather-Mary was being ripped apart.

Heather-Mary was happy the first 6 years of her life.

Heather-Mary was born and spent the first 6 years of her life with her mother in a Mexican Prison. She was a guinea pig of sorts - The Effects of Prison on Children, or The Effects of Children on Mothers in Prison, or How Much can We Fuck Up this Child in Prison. Whatever the experiment, by all the data, Heather-Mary had a happy childhood. She adored her mother and was devastated when her father's parents ripped her away from the only home she had ever known. A home small and confined and comfortably finite.

35 years later, Heather-Mary lives in a space smaller than her first. She pretends to be happy, but I heard her crying last night. I felt satisfied. I felt guilty and ill, but I felt no more resentment. Maybe now I can make her feel better.

Picture Perfect...

It started when I was about 10, the worrying. A nagging feeling something was out of place. On my bed, the arrangement of Monkey, Raggedy Andy and Major Matt Mason had to be just so. My tennis shoes must always be pointed out while my dress shoes pointed in...everything in its place. Leaving the house became a guaranteed argument with my parents. Being on time was a concept tossed out the window, the always locked, curtains overlapping one inch, shades pulled down exactly 18 inches from the ledge, window. When it was time to go, my sister and brother would wait in the car, betting on how long it would take me to get out of the house. Back and forth, in and out of my room, checking on the boys. This might take awhile. Did I put Monkey on the bed? Did Major Matt Mason fall behind the desk. I couldn't leave till I knew everything was right. I begged my parents just to leave me behind. It would be so much easier that way, and after a while of having to stand in the back of the church too many times, they finally agreed.

One Christmas, Santa got me a brand new Polaroid instant camera. At the time, it seemed an odd gift. I had asked him for the A.M.A's Complete Medical Encyclopedia. Imagine having the answers to all my medical questions...and with colorful illustrations...but a camera would be fun too. I had always been interested in photography. My father let me play with his old Minolta Twin Lens and it became as important to me as any medical journal. The problem was, after saving up for weeks to buy the expensive film, I would take the shots and it would be another couple weeks to save enough to have them developed. Getting the photos back was always depressing. The pictures were good, but the subjects were, many times, now dead. Once I used a whole roll on a stray dog that used to come around the house. We called him Lucky because he only had one eye. After taking the shots, I fed him and he ran happily into the street, getting hit by two cars. Hopefully, he only saw one. Interesting trees where a few days later struck by lighting and interesting relatives passed away. Like none of them ever truly existed. These pictures became a morbid look at what once was. The inevitability of change. After word got around town, mysteriously, subjects became harder to find, so I decided to put away the camera.

But now with my new Polaroid, you take the shot and 30 seconds later, like magic, the truth has been captured. I see it. It does exist. There, in front of me and in my hands. My parents were geniuses. Now when it was time to go, I would grab the Polaroid, snap off a shot of my bed, of the window, of the shoes on the floor and feel fine about taking a ride in the car. If I got a little anxious, I would pull out my "album" and see with my own two eyes, everything was right...everything in its place.

A picture is worth 1000 words - I don't really care about that. For me, one word is fine...one word repeated 1000 times; Peace of Mind. Peace of Mind. Peace of Mind...ect. (You get my point)

Cue the Angry Villagers...

Remember being young, and after a long hot summer full of adventure and mischief, remember actually being excited about going back to school? I do. That magical first day, decked out in my brand new school clothes, holding tightly to my satchel, filled with shiny unused pencils, crisp and colorful construction paper and best of all, the Deluxe Crayola 64 Pack of Crayons with built-in sharpener. The smell of a freshly opened box still fills my soul with such glee, and inside, seeing for the first time, the Uber-Rainbow of impossible colors, standing tall and proudly pointed, equal in possibilities, and with no favorites. For a brief moment, Blue is no better than Pale Yellow.

The first day, a fresh beginning and anything can happen.

After being away from the restaurant for 6 months, tonight was my first day back. Like first days of the past, I had on my brand new black pants and white shirt. A crisp white apron and crumb-free crummer completed the ensamble. My doctor had concerns about me starting work so soon after getting out. He felt I should take a little more time to adjust, but I wanted to start working again, to try and be normal again. He assured the higher-ups I posed no threat to anyone, and reluctantly, they allowed me back.

I wondered if the other waiters knew where I had been all this time, if they knew what had happened, and as I flung open the doors and caught the unmistakable glare coming from my, obviously now, former friends, all questions in my very quiet head had loudly been answered. So many new faces dotted among the old ones, unrecognizable eyes and noses and mouths, but by the looks they gave me, they all seemed identical.

They all remembered what I did, and those who didn't remember were told. As I looked around the room for just one friendly face, no one in particular, I noticed the screaming absence of one particular face...Sophia. I new she no longer worked at the restaurant, but I was still surprised not to see her. I don't blame her for leaving. I just wish I could tell her...try and explain...say I was sorry. My doctor says not to contact her. I'm sure he's right...for now. But for now, I need to learn the new menu and wine list and get myself back to the way I was. Look beyond all the stares and see the truth - it's the first day, a fresh beginning and anything can happen.

Little Darling, it's Been a Long Cold Lonely Winter...

Tommy's back, or should I say, put back...safe once again where he belongs, behind the wooden door with the rusted hinges and the old metal circle latch. I still hear him sometimes tapping, whispering softly at night, begging to be set free, but I'm getting stronger now. My thoughts, once diluted by his, are slowly floating their way back together with renewed coherency. What I see is no longer tangled with what he shows me...rinsed clean in Johnson's Baby Shampoo...no more tears. He's fine now, quiet now...for now.

It's been a long 6 months, at least that's what people tell me. I truly have no idea. I remember yesterday, it was Christmas. I remember being very cold. I remember loud music coming from Shit-Head's apartment across the hall. I remember his laugh. I remember just wanting some quiet. I don't remember kicking in the door, but my broken foot does. They said I was sitting alone in Shit-Head's apartment, or what used to be Shit-Head's apartment, before he moved out 2 months earlier. Fresh snow piled high by the cold radiator and broken glass windows. Did I do that. No. Tommy. Not me. He's gone now, and now I know there was no music, no noise but the clamoring in my own head. Needless to say, when I got out, I moved to a new building.

I live with a girl named Heather-Mary. She's a wonderful person, she's a lovely person, and she's sitting right behind me, reading everything I am writing. She has a wonderful laugh. She's kind enough to let me use her computer and in return, I help with her correspondence to a variety of "gentlemen". She just asked why I put gentlemen in quotes. She knows why.

I'm still waiting tables at the same restaurant. They were kind enough to take me back. Even with everything that happened, which I will get to later. But for now, right now, things are good. With help from my old friends Thorazine and Haldol, I'm actually pretty positive about the future. Heck, I'm even taking a class at the Learning Annex. French. It's a pretty language. And also, it might be a good idea to understand what Heather-Mary's cat has been saying to me these past couple days. It could be important.

Oh, and by the way, my name is Paul-David.