Problems In a Time of Peace

By

Scott Bryan

The trees beyond the fence that marked Caleb’s backyard grew up toward the sky like they were reaching for the sun. They defied the laws of ground and air, gravity, and logic. They were thin but hard, and they seemed to have purpose in their height. They were far enough away from each other that Caleb and Sammie could run between them, effortlessly dodging the spindly white trunks as they looked over their shoulders for invading spacemen or gangsters or Native Braves in pursuit on horseback.

“Wait for me, Caleb,” Sammie would whine as she fell behind him. She was round in all the wrong places. Her feet were puffy and tilted out at the arches. Her belly was plump and it stuck out even more when she pouted, which was a lot of the time. Her bottom lip followed her tummy’s lead and her eyes- great peering orbs that demystified her thoughts in an instant- looked longingly for a kind movement from Caleb.

He picked up the pace just to see if he could outrun her pleas. He was no stallion either, an awkward little hellion who was prone to fits of anger when playtime was over, but here he was in control. He dictated the games played and length of time spent in each fantasy. He told her when he did not want to run anymore. He pushed her on the swing, a great heavy tire fastened to a rope that hung from the increasingly strained branch of one of the otherwise inclined trees. Then he would, at his leisure, heave his lumpy body onto the grass to stare at the sky or run to sit on the fence at the edge of his yard.

Now they were out beyond the fence. The moment he felt his lungs start to burn, Caleb collapsed on the leaf covered turf of the forest floor. A runner he was not. A few moments later, Sammie emerged from the brush, her arms flapping at her sides and her hot breath bordering on a wheeze.

“Cay-lub,” she said his name like her mouth was full of marbles. “You never wait for me.”

Caleb ignored her and looked up through the trees at the dimming, late-afternoon sky. The air was calm and the leaves, those that still clung to their posts, bustled only enough to calm the animals that perked up at the sound of stillness. Caleb put his hands behind his head and hoped Sammie would see how completely he was relaxing. It would be a miracle if she did not pester him.

Sammie sloshed clumsily down next to him and looked up. She tried to see what he was seeing. Her breath hitched and she began to cough. She tried to stop the fit, but the dust from the ground only made everything more difficult. She was not concerned about her form-fitting blue pants. She had a million of them. If she came back dirty, her dad would probably be relieved that she hadn’t spent the entire afternoon inside in front of the flat screen.

Caleb was thinking about video games. He was obsessed with the latest ‘jump and grab’ affair that his mom had deemed appropriate for his age. Caleb did not daydream about great deeds or riches. He thought mostly about ascending to the next level of his game. There was no one to shoot or defeat, and no one was after you. Really, there weren’t even puzzles to figure out. He would mash the controller and wander around, escaping his own body and inhabiting the persona of whatever character he had unlocked. He would pick up rings or orbs, and eventually reach the next level. Caleb liked games that didn’t make him compete against other characters.

“Let’s go back. It’s dirty out here,” Sammie picked at puffy white skin on one of her fingers. It was a blister that had popped. Now that skin was hard and callused. White like a fried egg, crispy like a grain of rice.

Caleb looked at her with a childhood version of disdain. “Go ahead, I’m going to stay until it’s dark and my mom has to come.”

“She’ll be mad.”

“I don’t care,” Caleb said with as much defiance as he could muster. He thought of his mother coming out into the woods and finding him. He would be asleep in the grass and she would cradle him in her arms and tell him how she worried and how much she loved him. “She’s stupid anyway.”

“I don’t like my dad either,” Sammie said in solidarity.

CLICK

I have a gun in my black gym bag, and the gun is just big enough to be scary when I pull it out. I’ve never pulled it out in public, but I think today is the day. This city is so overrun with idiots that today has to be the day.

I started carrying the gun a couple days ago, bought it a week before that. I just can’t see any other way for me to make a point anymore. Everyone is so obsessed with hearing themselves talk that they don’t listen to people who are smarter than they are. I know this because no one ever listens to me. I’m starting to think I’m going to have to speak in a way that helps them understand. That’s why I have the gun.

This coffee shop is just like any coffee shop that you’ve ever been to. Everyone in line gets to the front and suddenly they have no idea what coffee is, how to use money, or how to talk to a teenager in an apron.

“Yeah, it’s a white beamer,” the guy in front of me tells the girl at the register. Then he laughs. It’s one of those ‘guy laughs’ that kind of sounds mocking in some way. Like he’s laughing at his own good fortune. It could also easily be mistaken for a cough.

Look at this preppy college jerk. He’s trying to flirt with this girl. Yeah, right, idiot. Oh, what’s that? You drive a white BMW? Well, whoopee! Your parents are rich, so you must be worth more than everyone behind you in this line. Mention your car two or three more times. I bet this girl is just going to quit her job right now and go home with you. Maybe you should take out your wallet and pay for the drink you still haven’t ordered so the rest of us can get on with this abysmal day. Show her how much cash you carry.

I start to think this guy might be the one. He might start the spree. I guess this counts as ‘pre-meditation’ on my part. That would make any crime I carry out worthy of more severe punishment. And I’m pretty sure once I get going it will turn into a spree. I won’t be able to stop at just this one revolting example of the human experience gone wrong. I know there are other people in here who would be easy, justifiable targets. That, or they’d make themselves into a target after I started shooting. They’d do something dumb. So, you know, this guy is a reasonable sacrifice to the larger point, but maybe he isn’t worth whatever the rest of my life would be reduced to if I were to pull out a gun and end him.

Eventually, he moves along. He isn’t brave enough for bold action in the line at the coffee shop. My guess is that he’d love to ask that girl for her number. I bet he’ll be thinking about her all day. Maybe he’ll slowly become a regular in the shop, kind of creepily but not too creepily only come in when she’s working, talk to her enough to build their customer/barista relationship into a point of contact that she remembers the next time he comes in, take certain calculated actions to build upon that experience until a quasi-friendship occurs; then he’ll contact her on social media, chat with her, eventually get up the nerve to ask her to hang out, become one of her better friends, watch her go through a string of stupid boyfriends that he doesn’t approve of and tries to undermine for his own purposes. All of this will happen over about a year’s time. He’ll buy her expensive gifts that reinforce his single selling point but actually kind of make her uncomfortable. Then, when he finally gets up the nerve to make a move on her, he’ll get the rejection and he won’t know why. He will fail to recognize that she was always merely a passive participant in the entire dance. That he was easier to tolerate than he was to put off. But that will change when his real intentions become known. The minute he asks anything of her, he’ll be served the rejection he could have right now if he had the guts. Why doesn’t he ask her for her number and let her shoot him down right now?

Fear. That’s why. Fear, and some misguided hope that all of that other nonsense would change the fact that she is not interested in a guy in a collared shirt who makes a big deal about having lots of cash that he didn’t earn. Why doesn’t he just move along and find someone to date-rape instead of causing me to witness all of this potential human tragedy? Maybe I should do him a favor and pull out the gun after all.

“HELLO?”

Sammie finally talked Caleb into going back. They were taking turns on the tire swing before the sun began to disappear behind the tree-lined horizon. The swing was within the official barriers of the backyard. A small picket fence marked the line. These boards, made from the wood of trees that had given their lives to the rule of the natural world, were a shield against the wild world beyond. Sammie felt as though she could lower her guard, at least somewhat, when she and Caleb played within the wobbly cube of the actual yard. Out beyond the fence, where Caleb preferred to roam, were animals and dangers and the unknown. Sammie much preferred the calculated enjoyment of the treehouse and the tire swing.

She looked out at the horizon as she broke free from the ground. She knew that she was heading in the opposite direction of the sun. She kicked her awkward legs out in front of her as if they gave the swing any added momentum, and she felt her stomach drop as she rose away from the earth.

Now came the best part. She recoiled, the pendulum of the swing reacted to gravity and the rope creaked as the wind whipped her hair around her face. She let herself fall backward past Caleb on the ground. She looked at him until the swing lost its thrust. She hung in the air for a moment, a blob of blossoming feelings encased in a rubber donut. 

She was 10 feet off the ground, looking down from heaven, observing Caleb and wondering why her insides felt like a hurricane when she saw him. Then, as she passed him again, the swing coming to the lowest point, the long ancient rope perpendicular to the grass plane below, Caleb’s hand graced her back and pushed her forward.

When he touched her, Sammie felt a shock of emotion and energy that made her clench her teeth. This surge mixed with the feeling of flight and she rose again back toward the heavens, this time looking up at the sky. There was no other action in the world. Sammie closed her eyes.

DARKNESS

“I really like what you’ve done here, Cameron,” I am thankful that these guys have stopped talking politics. How would I have possibly been seen as the bad guy if I gunned down two supporters of this ignorant, insane, Cro-Magnon, power-mad president? They have just been talking about how this idiot with the hair who wears the suit with the American flag pin was going to save the coal industry. Holy cow. But now they were switching gears.

I was supposed to go into the office after I got my coffee, but I just couldn’t force myself. The human garbage show is too intense and someone needs to monitor it. These people are all repurposed waste, masquerading as fine art.

They are now bent over a small canvas. The older guy seems to be a professor of sorts. Of what, I’m not sure. I don’t see how anyone in education could possibly support this president. They are inspecting the canvas, a crappy piece of student art that Cameron, the younger of the two, brought along to showcase in front of his prof.

“Your use of color and space, the symbolism of the imagery- it’s interesting.”

“Yeah, I like the juxtaposition of conflicting ideas within the same space,” Cameron twitters incoherently. That’s it! It has to be now. ‘Juxtaposition?!’ What a worthless word. Doesn’t Cameron know that the word ‘juxtaposition’ is only used by college kids who are describing the genius of their own work or critiquing the work of classmates? This word doesn’t exist in the real world. It only works as a calling card for know-it-all college students. If you use it, the rest of the educated world knows you’re kind of green. Juxtaposers are worthless. If that word appears in a sentence, it is cause for evacuation from the conversation. But still, the Prof sits there and indulges this creep. This confident, overpraised fool.

Cameron should not be allowed to reach fruition. His teacher should not be allowed to encourage the continued pampering of lesser minds. Why do people always get a gold star nowadays? I never did. Why doesn’t anyone love me?

“Do you need anything else, Mister?” another kid in a visor and an apron, probably about the same age as Cameron, but less educated, is standing next to me. He has one of those little brown tubs that restaurants use to gather dishes for the wash. It is full of trash and discarded cups and napkins. His face is pimpled and pocked. His eyes are dead. His life is worthless, or so I would assume.

I look at his nametag. “No, thank you… Sammy.”

Sammy rolls his eyes at me and walks away. The juxtaposers continue with their little art show and the coffee shop employee, who isn’t even competent enough to wrangle one of the endlessly available barista positions, walks away from me like I’m some worthless, needy customer without any feelings or thoughts of my own. How could he think that of me when I think it of him?

PULL

The kids sat on a cross-piece of the fence where two of the picketed boards had been knocked out. Caleb talked about video games and Sammie watched the sun dip into the land in the distance. Sammie liked how the sunset seemed to light the world on fire, the flames of some distant blaze just over the curve of the earth sending trundles of red light billowing up into the sky. It was gorgeous.

“It’s pretty easy, you know,” Caleb exclaimed of his conquest in the digital world. “You just run around and smash up blocks and these stars appear and…”

Sammie and Caleb dangled their legs over the tall grass that grew wildly on the outer side of the fence. The line of trimmed, manicured lawn went right up to the fence line. This border ran directly under where the children now sat. The world seemed so easy to explain when Sammie looked at grass lines and sunsets. The good guys always won, beauty always prevailed. Sammy smiled and reached over for Caleb’s hand.

She didn’t think about her move, her body acted almost of its own accord, as if it was simply giving into the ancient and old laws of nature. She moved her hand along the painted wood and grasped Caleb’s. It was electric, just like the feeling she enjoyed when his hand grazed her back to propel her forward on the swing.

Caleb stopped talking and looked down at their joined hands. For a moment he just stared, but in another instant, he reacted. Before he moved his hand at all, Sammie could feel the anger surge through him.

He jerked his hand away from her and her hurt was instantaneous. Her mouth curled down into a grimace and she braced for his reaction.

But Caleb simply hopped down off the fence and landed with his back to her. It was as if he really wanted to make sure this moment was not wasted, so he stood in silent contemplation before he spoke.

“I think that you’re ugly,” he said calmly, coldly.

GO

It is time. My coffee is drained down to the sugary bottom, that last horrid drink where the cup lets you know what a glutton you have been. I usually don’t drink this last drink. I don’t want a reminder of how wasteful I am. I rise, hoist the bag up onto the table and move my hand to the zipper.

Suddenly, however, before I can pull the piece out of the bag, Cameron begins to choke. He starts slow, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal, hoping that whatever is lodged in his throat will make its way down into his guts without further inconvenience to the important discussion of his artistic triumph. His hope is not granted. He coughs and retches. He grabs violently at his neck and tries to stand. Apparently, Mr. Juxtaposition-of-color-and-images never learned to chew his biscotti effectively. His professor stares at him as their coffees and the canvas are knocked asunder. Cameron clutches his throat. All of the idiots in visors and aprons look on helplessly or, even worse, apathetically. Some of the other customers actually just look down at their cups or napkins. They mind their business. They are worthless, selfish fools. They have no stake in this.

One other guy, the college coward, starts to move toward Cameron, perhaps hoping his heroics will catch the attention of his fantasy barista, thus accelerating the chain of events that will lead to his evisceration at her hands. I had not even noticed that he lingered, but for some reason, I react faster.

I leave my bag unopened. There is no spree. There is no sporadic fire and no one dies, not even Cameron. I am behind him quickly and my hands are locked into fists on his abdomen. His professor reaches up as if to help and I wish I was holding the gun instead of this educated nincompoop. I jerk upward and, in one try, I pop a little piece of food out of his windpipe. The windpipe of Cameron, the visual artist.

SNAP

Sammie is down off the fence faster than her lumpy body would suggest was possible. Frenetic action drives her now. She is in the present tense as she picks up a board from the ground. It is a tree that has a sad story. It was cut and cut and cut and cut down and painted and nailed and neglected, and now it rests in her hand. A rusty nail jaggedly punctured through holds court at the opposite summit of the stick. She grips her end so tightly that she feels splinters nearly jump into her hands. Her picked blister sends a rush of fire up her arm. Her fury is uncontrollable, unexplainable. She does not hate Caleb, she loves him. She loves him so much.

POP

The college guy slunk away in past tense. He was defeated. He had not acted, twice.

I dropped to the floor for a moment, my act of compassion had exhausted me and I wanted to cry. Suddenly, and with some surprise, I am. I was. I wept as if I have been unexpectedly smacked by my father like he used to do. Backhanded, the hard coil of metal on his pinky clunking against my eye socket and telling me I will never be loved. He died in a hotel room with a prostitute, my father did. I brought my hand to my face and cried into it and realized that everyone in the coffee shop wanted to join me. They wanted to cry. We all wanted to cry. Some of them loved me because I was crying. We all have fathers and sad stories and shame and pain, and we feel it while we are alone. We are almost always alone. If I had taken my gun out of my bag in this moment, we could have all been together, I guess. But I didn’t, because I loved them back.

“BYE?”

Sammie swings the plank only once and strikes Caleb in the temple. He wretches as if he is belching. His tongue waggles out of his mouth and he tries to scream, but the belch noise only increases. He drops as Sammie releases the stick from her hands. She screams- the pain of the planet is rising though her chubby limbs. She screams for Jesus, she screams for her mother and Caleb’s father. She screams for herself. She clutches at her face as her faculties return to her. Her vision returns, the memory of the tire swing returns, the memory of the swing of the plank returns, the rejection flees and she is alone.

NO, HELLO

Someone touched my shoulder as if to comfort me. They wanted to say ‘thanks’ or ‘it’s okay’ or ‘are you okay?’ but instead someone just touched me and I jolted back into form. I rose to my feet and ran from the shop. I left my bag sitting on the table. I knew I didn’t need it anymore. I needed something else. I wanted to reach for the sky as if there was something up there, reach inside the sky and pull out the answers, but I didn’t know how. All I knew how to do was run away, so I did. I did not talk to anyone. I did not scream or cry anymore, after someone touched me.

I ran out of the coffee shop in search of the world. I ran down the pavement and I weaved in and out of the people there. We did not touch each other. I looked behind me, expecting to see the horsemen of the apocalypse or a tidal wave or a picket fence. Something running me down, trying to overtake me, to make me cry again. Something there that would let me know that we all want to cry.

I ran right into a tree.

Okay, here’s the thing: About a year and a half ago, I slit my wrists from my thumb to halfway to my elbow. It wasn’t easy, first I drank myself to the point where I got the sack to buy a box cutter and a bottle of Tylenol PM from the Wal-Mart. Some of you may know that. For the rest of you, I guess maybe you were busy looking at pictures of cats on Facebook or something. Or maybe you had your own problems to deal with. Either way, I was kind of angry with you about it.

You know why? You know what I didn’t see? I didn’t see anyone posting suicide prevention hotline info. I didn’t see anyone ‘reaching out’, I didn’t see anyone ‘caring about other people.’ What I saw were unanswered phone calls. What I got was defriended on social media.

You know why I saw that? Because that’s the reality I engineered for myself. My suicide attempt was premeditated. It was a mix of feelings from self-loathing to delusions of grandeur. I didn’t like the world the way it was and I didn’t feel like I had to play by its rules. I hated my situation, I was angry at the hand that I had been dealt. I wanted to see what death was like. I wanted to know the point. So, away I went. This was not something that was anybody’s fault. It couldn’t have happened any other way, because I would not have allowed it.

I finished the books I was reading, drank away all of my money, quit my job, pissed off all of my friends and loved ones to the point where they wouldn’t speak to me anymore. I did this to prove to myself that the world wasn’t worth my time. “The ex doesn’t see my value, better take a box cutter to the old jugular.” (oh yeah, I also have scars on my neck and in the bends of my elbows.) In the end, I guess that it came down to simple laziness. I didn’t want to put an effort into anything. I wanted all the good shit with none of the work. So I looked for an easy action with a big payoff.

I'm not a cutter. I never wanted to do anything like this before. This was a one time deal. I got one shot at checking out early. I just figured that I was at a good stopping point, and I didn’t really want to deal with shit anymore. And I tried hard. I did not leave a note. This was not about them. It was about me. I wanted out. It was not a ‘cry for help’. The only thing that stopped my success was my own ineptitude (just another of my many failures!).

When I was finished, I was laying in a puddle of my own blood and vomit. My apartment was wrecked, there were blood stains all over the floor because I hadn’t eaten in two weeks and I couldn’t stand up without having a seizure due to blood loss/alcohol withdrawal/malnutrition. I had been crawling around. No one came to help me. I had driven them all away. So, sometimes I want to respond to ‘help prevention’ posts. Sometimes I want to say that there is nothing you can do to prevent suicide. There are only things you can do to exacerbate its possibility. If someone chooses to look at the world a certain way, you can only be part of the problem. Only a full attack of kindness and compassion will do, and nobody in this ‘me first’ society has the capacity to do that. I know that this seems negative, and believe me, I'm aware of the futility of trying to make commentary on the hypocrisy of social media by... posting on social media. But what is the alternative, do nothing? I can't do that either. I just know that anyone who tried to help me just got a bigger dose of crap, I just acted shittier until they went away. If someone is going to take their own life, it’s going to happen whether you try to call them or not. They just won’t pick up the phone. It's a hard road for all involved, and I know that there is no easy answer.

I just know that, for me, there was nothing that anyone could have done. I just had to figure it out for myself, and I'm lucky to still be here. Ultimately, I suppose, the only real solution is a devaluation of all the things that cause us misery and an elevation in the idea that happiness does not come from any external means. The placing of value on money or property or personal relationships is futile because all of these things are temporary and fallible. No amount of approval or money or success or praise can make a person feel worthy, we have to find it for ourselves and, unfortunately, sometimes people don't make it to that conclusion. I know I was desperately close to being one of the casualties of this problem, and I still don't know exactly how to communicate a solution to anyone else beyond 'If you keep trying, you'll figure it out. The only way you really lose is to give up.'

The bug guy at my apartment building saved my life. The bug guy, a guy I never met and who I will never see again, came into my apartment, saw me there, called the cops. That’s my story. That’s how I was saved. I didn’t save myself, and no one intervened on my behalf. None of the people that I wanted to hurt with my own death gave a shit. None of those relationships were reconciled by my bullshit. The people that I wanted approval from were the first to bail. Funny how life works, kind of seems like a big joke. I have not heard one word from some of these people, and the rest have faded into the past as well. When I reached that stopping place, I killed off my entire life, my entire way of thinking, everything that was dissatisfying, which was just about everything.

How did I survive? It was nothing short of something bigger. The bug guy, and everything afterward, was a fucking miracle. When they got me to the hospital, the boys who stitched me up marveled that I was going to retain the use of all of my fingers. One pointed to my open wound and exclaimed, “If you had cut that tendon, you’d have lost the use of your hand.”

It was another loss for the way that I looked at the world. I said, ‘here’s what I think of your ‘plan’’, and the universe proved to me that its plan was bigger than the flaws in the way that I was looking at it. It was bigger than my hate of the people around me, it was bigger than my disapproval of the nature of existence and my lack of faith in humanity. Of course, when I was ready to look, I saw kindness and compassion and beauty all around me. From the people who watched over me in the hospital, to my sponsor in the 12 step groups that would follow, to a random few who actually did show kindness without expectation, you know who you are and I can never thank you enough.

I know the pain of people who end themselves. If you are successful, I still kind of envy you. I miss Robin Williams, Sylvia Plath, Chris Cornell. I kind of wish that I was with them. I still struggle with the idea that it would be a lot better if I just wasn’t here anymore. I see that their own misery and the manner in which they succumb to it now makes a contribution to the discussion that is worthwhile. Their deaths bring attention to the value of human life, and how fragile the ego (even the celebrity ego) can be when recognizing that value.

I still think about people that would be better off not to have to deal with me, and I still don’t want to deal with them either. The thing that I’ve realized since I was forced to continue living: I don’t have to think like that. I’ve learned how clouded and delusional I was, and how this is a natural state for me. It is a challenge that I am presented with on a daily basis, maybe it’s just a little more extreme than others. I’ve seen a lot of people talk about their struggles with depression, and I think that everyone does struggle, to varying degrees. Who hasn't wondered what it would be like to die? Those of us who can’t get over these thoughts actually give dying a try. We test the fates to see if we are worth continuing. Most of us just question ourselves and never get to the point where we try to take control and check out. If we do, it is the ultimate form of selfishness and cowardice. I still think that I could just end it all, maybe this time I’d get lucky and not wake up. It’s always an option. The only cure for this thinking is a daily bargain that I have with the universe. I realize that, with the nature of my behavior and wounds, I should not be here. I don’t deserve this life (yes I do). I have to give it up to the universe for that. So, I owe something big time. I guess I’m obliged to pay up. I just figure, ‘hey, just tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it. But if you fuck me, you know I ain’t afraid to take matters into my own hands.’ Every day that I give up my plan to the plan of the universe, the universe shows me that it’s got my back. It’s that simple.

Again, these are things that everyone deals with, to a certain degree. Think about the things in your life that you try to control. Your friends, your coworkers, your house, your bank account, the dishes, the afterlife, whatever. It comes from a desire to have a handle on things. We all do it. That’s why the first step in the 12 steps is admitting powerlessness. That’s why the Gods of religion all want your trust and loyalty. Part of being connected to this world is realizing that we aren’t in control. For me, it’s a relief. Because I’m pretty shitty at being in charge. I am afraid and I just want to quit. It’s the same fear that makes us try to clutch to some form of order in our lives. Just apply that same fear to the idea of your life, and you have the kind of fear that it takes to try and kill yourself. I just wanted to be in control. So much so that I felt that I should be able to decide when and how I died.

I used to think that I would never understand what would push someone to that point, then I got there. It can happen to you too. You’re not that far away from it.

So the next time that some celebrity ends themselves, just be thankful that you’ve never been there. Reach out to a friend that seems low, because you never know how low they might be. And if you’re there, just know that life has a way of giving us what we want, but there are always conditions. Mine is the knowledge that if today doesn’t suit me, I could always try again, but I’d just have to deal with all of this crap in some way anyway. So, I’m grateful for the life that I am given now. I try my best and, because the universe has my back, just like it has yours, I’m doing fine. I see even my challenges and troubles as gifts to help me get by. Because of my specific experiences, I'm not afraid of death. In fact, I have a lot less fear about a lot of things, and that makes life a little easier. I know that all life is worth the effort, all existence has a purpose. If you don’t see that, I feel you. I’ve been there too. If you want to chat about it, give me a shout and I can tell you what I know. I can tell you the specifics of how I got from there to here. I’ll tell you, you’re not going to like it. It’s hard, but it’s better. And my story is not exceptional. It’s the same as a lot of people. It’s not as bad as some I’ve heard. I’ve tried my best to leave it behind and to put it out there, just in case you need it. But, like I said, if you want (or need) to hear more of it, give me a shout. If not, take care. Again, I don’t blame anyone for the way that I felt, the things that I did, and I don't blame you for how you feel either. I also don’t credit anyone with my recovery. I know that if someone is not ready to move forward, no one can make them.

We’re all headed to the same place and, as someone who’s had a glimpse of it, I’ll tell you that it’s great. All we have to do is trudge the road of life to get there. And we have to do it whether we like it or not. So we might as well have a good time, okay? The more clearly we see reality, the happier we are. Let me say that again: The less we fool ourselves, the more we understand that everything is okay. If you don’t feel that way, you’re fooling yourself. If I don’t feel that way, I’m fooling myself. There are things in our way, stuff obstructing our view. If we can’t see the joke of life, we are the punchline. Don’t be the punchline. Get the joke, my friend, it’s much better. And let me tell you, the joke of life is hilarious. Now, even when I look back at how miserable I was, it seems kind of hilarious. You might find that kind of morbid… but that’s funny too.

I know that it’s kind of cliche to say that you never know what might happen. I know that’s a terrible argument for someone who is thinking about killing themselves. I guess that I just have to say that I’m the proof that it is true. Some of my scars will never fully heal, but everything I lost has been returned to me. Everything that was dissatisfying now works just fine. If I had died a year and a half ago, I never would have known this year, the best year of my life. And I’m not saying that to downplay the happiness that I’ve experienced before, but this is just different. Through experience, I’ve overcome what got me to the horrible bottom in the first place. It didn’t happen overnight. You’ll note that I’ve only been sober a year, and I started from a pretty awful place. But in that time, I’ve traveled the country, shed my dependence on the external for my sense of happiness and wonder, found love again, found an outlet for my art. I’ve found my self-confidence and my self-respect again, which came largely from my renewed confidence and respect for others, for the universe. It's a hard line to walk, and I know that I could fall off at any moment. So, now I just try to keep my own head clear, and that daily task turns into a daily adventure. Every day of my life is the best day of my life, without exception.