To tell true stories about trauma, depression, anxiety, and panic you will set yourself up for judgment. Some will see you writing and hang onto the one simple thing where they will say, “This seems unreal.” There will be others that will say, “I think people do not know how to respond to your writing. It’s too real. Too tragic.” There will be others that feel it is revealing too much pain, and then there will be a few that compare their own pain and just want you to stop. Perhaps it’s that one word that seems to halt deep conversation these days, “Trigger,” comes ringing out. Sometimes we need to be triggered to know we’re truly alive. Some will stop reading my stories because they want happy ones. Some will pass over the words and wish you well, and in the same breath they wish you would just go away.
To tell the truth requires a strong memory and stronger shoulders. As an author, I take those memories and put them into scenes and characters and then sit back and hear the readers tell me my words either, “Saved their life,” or “There certainly is a lot of swearing. I guess I didn’t know young people swore so much.” I am not sure what that really means, but everyone is entitled to their opinion, including myself. Then, there are some that don’t want to admit that young people harm themselves just to feel something, anything, but the dreaded numbness. Yes, maybe my stories are too real for some. Though, from the feedback I have gotten, they are only too real for those that have not experienced the pain and suffering that comes with the territory of mental illness.
Here’s a true story about death. My father called me up one day after not speaking to him for months and said, “I am thinking about taking myself off of kidney dialysis, I’ll be dead within a week, what should I do?” What a mindfuck that question is. As I paused a moment on the phone I realized this man, my life’s nemesis, just gave me the power to influence his death. For that one moment, I relished in my power, taking control back, or so I thought, from a man who abused me for years. I thought back to the shovels across the back, the reason why I was often in pain when bending over to tie my shoes. I thought about the punches to my young belly, the slaps to the head and balls, the grotesque fondlings, which I now know were nothing more than power and control. I thought about the emotional abuse, the worst abuse of all, where he once convinced me that I was the reason my mother had cancer. For a thirteen year old boy, this was devastating news. One where I decided right then and there to either kill myself or runaway from home. How could I possibly face my mother who I was just told that I gave her a death sentence because of my behavior? A person’s life can flash before their eyes within moments and when my adrenaline settled enough I responded to him, “Go ahead. If that’s what you want to do, go ahead.” He did it! He killed himself and I wish I could say that it healed my pain.
Stories linger in the air like passing a field of lilacs or a slaughterhouse. Either one has a smell that lasts. One just stinks of life and one of death. The stories dangle on our minds and come up when we least expect it. Sometimes it is from coming across a picture that either makes you laugh or cry. Other times, it is an anniversary date of a death or a tragedy. It could be a meal or a song that triggers your thoughts. Then, there are other times, where for no reason, like a movie in your head, a scene flashes in your mind that makes you stop and stare into the distance and you realize that you will always carry the agony with you. It is just a reality that you come to accept and you know that in order to survive, you must learn how to suffer.
I remember picking him up from the psychiatric unit and wondering what the fuck am I going to do to help him stay alive? This thought stayed with me as he opened the car door to walk into his condo and said with dark eyes and a serious tone, “I am going to need you now more than ever.” Oh how I tried, at least I think I did. I did my best to be a buffer between happiness and insanity for my friend. I was there, physically and emotionally, and I gave him all I could. At least, I think I did? I try to convince myself that I did, and that is when guilt regurgitates into my throat. One night, when I was out east in Vermont, my friend decided to perform some tortious acts. He became a monster, something I could see in him, which is one of the most difficult things I had to come to terms with. Admitting that my friend had this vicious side of himself is something I have had to carry because it has produced more guilt than not being there to stop him from killing himself. He did it with an assault rifle. A round to the head. The last time I saw him, he layed in an open casket, his head sewn together, elongated, and I saw my friend’s disfigured face and it tortured my thoughts for years to come. Hell, it still does. I sometimes wonder why we all had to witness his monster-like head, lying there in his dress blues, propped up on a white, silk pillow? Then I realized it was a reminder for all of us that we can slip off the deep end at any time and perform cruel acts on ourselves and others. No! That last part cannot be true. That has to be fiction. I could never harm someone else who didn’t deserve it.
I’m not sure if true stories are worth repeating. I tell them from time to time, and sometimes I remember them differently every time I tell them, so are they still true? Perhaps, the details in my memory become more clear and so there are additions to what I see and tell? Yet, I tell them with an open heart that beats a little faster than normal from time-to-time.
I wanted to kill a man once. Though, I didn’t know him as a man. For some reason our paths crossed when we were boys, he was much older than me, but still a boy, and I became his victim, his plaything, and he took his wrath out on me. I am not sure why I was the one he chose? Maybe it is because of my innocence? I was only seven. A shy, frightened seven because that’s when my dad started his abuse too. Why seven? I sometimes think about this. Maybe it’s because they knew I would remember it? Their control for ages to come? If I were younger, perhaps it wouldn’t have impacted my life as much, but seven, well, the memory sticks. The redheaded boy, as I have called him throughout my life, started his abuse at a sleepover. Then, he would often find me walking home from school and grab me by the neck, pulling me into the nearby woods, punching me so hard I could not breathe. He hit me everywhere that was not visible because that is what abusers do. They conceal their rage. He did put a belt around my neck once and threatened to hang me from the tree above. I still remember looking up at that tree and not caring. At least it would stop what was happening. How does a seven year old have such thoughts? So, I became a man, a strong one, resilient, and I saw the redheaded boy one day, but he was now a man too. I stalked him for hours, and plotted my revenge, and prepared my ambush like I had been trained to do. I wanted his death. I could taste it, but I let him live. I let him have a son and I let him go to prison for other acts because he was always a criminal. He was a psychopath from early on. Realizing this, I finally knew that what he did to me was not my fault. I let him live and I forgave myself. Forgiveness is when I took back control and I took back my seven-year-old self. It’s when I was finally able to nurture that blond haired, seven year old boy and tell him that everything would be okay. I cry with him sometimes, my younger self, but I cry because I survived and am content with the man I have become.
There are times when I can tell no one wants to hear sad stories. They would rather have me laughing and smiling and acting like a joyous fool for them. Sad stories make people think too much. It’s easier to just block it out and pretend everything is okay. I understand. I truly do, but I have this need to put it all out to the world because I have the hope that through my stories, some may find a way to feel less alone and heal. Maybe there is another seven year old who is going through what I did and several years from now he will come across one of my novels or stories and it will help him survive.
I had a friend once who talked so much shit it would fill a farmer’s field. He was Sicilian, from New York, nineteen years my elder, but our souls and wisdom met in the middle. We had a similar love for storytelling, walking the streets of San Francisco for hours, just talking about everything from martial arts to The Beatles, from knife fighting to reading On The Road. We never had a loss for words, subjects, or tales of desperation. I miss our conversations. The last I saw of my friend was a newspaper picture of his dead, bullet ridden body, lying in the street. Fuck you media, with your need to pour your toxic chemicals into our souls! Or, as my friend would say in his thick, Sicilian, accent, “Fucking people.” His addictions came back, as did his violence, and so when the police arrived to talk with a “despondent” man, my friend came out of his house, walked towards the first officer, listening to the commands, and then reached for his knife that he always kept on his side. The closest officer tased him while the punk rookie in the back had a rifle site on my friend’s head and became trigger happy. I don’t blame the police. My friend wanted to die. We told each other too many stories for me not to know the ending of his.
I like sad stories, tragic ones even. Well, maybe “like” is not the word. Perhaps the realness of them resonates with me. Too many of us try to forget, hide in the safety of our closets, or just avoid the sad stories. I placed my stories in a secure box for years and locked them up. Unfortunately, that box came undone. We have to face the truth, the pain, eventually. It is how we do it that matters. I don’t think my dad faced his demons very well, nor did my two friends who took their own lives, either by their own hand or someone else’s. Yet, I have those stories too that’s why I cannot judge them. I can be hurt and angry but I cannot judge.
Over a year ago I was sitting in an exhaust filled garage, inhaling in my death. I’ve told this story before. It was a popular blog, my most read, and in my darker moments it made me wonder if people wanted my death? That last sentence is depression talking. I am not sure why I share it? I guess like most things I write or stories I tell, I hope that it helps someone else know that there is another option. The better option, the healing one, is to accept your pain and suffering. It is to be mindful of all of the joy in your life. I suppose I hope I can help others build resilience and the ability to build an arsenal of coping strategies and grit for their life, so they can survive. So I share it all, well almost all of it. Yes, I was sitting in a running Toyota Tacoma, the windows down, forehead on the steering wheel, trying to lift my hand to turn off the key but my limbs were much too heavy. My mind was at war and the opiods that ran through my veins dulled my mind. I was ready to drift away. It was my time of reckoning with the world and myself. I would save everyone from the burden I am. That is the dialogue that the darkness was producing. Yet, there was this glimmer of light, of hope, and clarity that said what was happening was not my truth. I was trying so hard to lift my arms and take my heavy hands and turn off the key before it was too late. Another voice kept repeating, “This is not you, it’s the drugs. It’s the drugs! It’s the fucking drugs! Turn off the fucking key and walk into the house!” Oh Chris Cornell, his magnificent voice called to me through the speakers and gave me enough strength and adrenaline to reach up and turn the key off and walk into the house to keep living a life that I have created, for better or worse, I have shaped all of what I have become. I did not want to go through what he did. As I sit and tell this true story, I wonder why I make a suicide attempt so dramtic? Maybe it is because we are all actors in a play, maybe even a Shakespearean play, and I was sitting in a truck delivering my greatest monologue to an empty theater?
True stories are often difficult to read or come to terms with. We wish they could all have a happy ending. There is a happy ending. One of a beautiful life.
Here’s a true story. I am a fortunate man. I always have been. I met my best friend when I was thirteen and we started a journey together when we were fifteen. Sure, we were just kids at the time, so we had no idea if we would create a life together or not. However, if there is one story that is true and lovely and gives me hope, it is experiencing life with the woman I love more than anything. We will soon be married thirty years. How did that happen? Love lingers and can stall time, letting it move by slowly, like the most wonderful sunset that you have ever seen being absorbed into the ocean. Like the sunset, love is a gift that God has given me, taking away all of the tragedy and allowing me to swallow what life has offered, which is the true story of love. It is the simple things that I cherish, like when she can bring joyous tears to my eyes by simply walking in front of me across the living room floor. The tears are from being thankful that she chose me to love. I look back at our life together, the adventure of it all, and I know that she feels loved. It is enough! Our story is true but one that sometimes feels like fiction.
My stories are shared with my heart. I cannot give anything less and I cannot give you anything more. What I try to offer the world is kindness, compassion, and empathy. I am a flawed and stubborn man. I know this. I swear I do, and I am trying to improve myself daily, to make my life meaningful, and I hope that if I can help someone, even just one person survive this world, my life has purpose. A true story is difficult to tell, it is vulnerable and revealing, and even fiction is difficult because it has a certain amount of truth.
