The Dark Place: A Quasi-Fiction

A war for freedom rages deep within my soul. The battle sends a violent tremor through my body and shivers race to cover every inch of my flesh. My skin rises into bumps that make my skin raw, my nerves scream. My face remains impassive — no lips pressed tightly together, no jaws clenched, no pain visible in my eyes. To the more serious watcher, perhaps a slight narrowing of the eyes, or the occasional flair of my nostrils might catch the watcher’s attention. To a casual observer, however, there would be no facial expressions to alert the watcher to the war ranging within me, they’d see nothing but a blank expression on my face, a mask of neutrality that’s only removed in the lonely dark of the night.

The struggle ends as quickly as it began, leaving my body limp with exhaustion. The war is not over. There is no victor. There is simply a pause for rest, a chance to regroup and restrategize.

In the deepest recesses of my being there are hostages. There is a child howling with a rage born of years of imprisonment, and anger at being locked away before he had the chance to grow old. Another child huddles in a dark corner, mourning the loss of dreams long since buried, the illusions of What Might Have Been haunt him, taunt him like some bully from school days long past. Still another child shakes with fear, and bangs at the bars that have held him prisoner for so long. Each blow he rains down on the bars seem to bend them past their point of endurance, yet they do not break. As I walk down the corridors of my soul, I encounter cage after cage, each painstakingly constructed to hold The Children of Fears: the child afraid of the dark; the child scared of being abandoned; the child frightened of growing up; the child who is terrified because he doesn’t know who he is.

Down another hallway, just there, is yet another child, this one is not caged, but he’s chained by Time Past. He sits listlessly in a corner, wrapped in a black coat of loneliness, silently staring into the mist of memories. This child is thankful for the darkness, as the blackness hides the tears that scald his cheeks, allowing him to cry without being noticed. As I walk around the cellblock full of children inmates, I give no more than a passing glance to each. I know each child intimately, but each one is best kept at a distance. Our time of familiarity has long since past, our chance for reacquaintance is remote.

I’m not sure where I am headed, but my footsteps propel me assuredly forward. The corridors twist and turn with no particular reason, like a maze, designed to keep people from getting out. My pace quickens, and, after several turns, my eyes catch a door at the end of this hallway, and, I know that this is my destination, though I still don’t know why I’m walking faster and faster towards the door.

I realize that unlike the barred cages that line all of the other passages, this passage is barren, except for a heavily padded door at the very end. It feels as if my steps have stopped, and that I’ve somehow been whisked down the long corridor, as if my thoughts alone carried me, and am now standing in front of the door.

I have reached my destination.

I stand before the padded door, observing the padding, the thick bolts that hold the door shut, and the small barred window in the upper part of the door. The window suddenly lights up from inside, and I am compelled to stand on tiptoe and peer into the room.

The room, like the door, is heavily padded, and though it’s brightly lit I realize that there is no lightbulb in the room; instead, it is the thick cloak of darkness swirling around the room that creates an energy which lights up the cell with an eerie, flickering glow. Against the far wall of the room, a small child, tightly bound in a straightjacket, sits there. His head is bent forward, almost as if he’s dozed off, but sleep is not possible for this child. I stare at this lovely urchin, and wonder why he’s been so cruelly imprisoned. He seems too young, too small , too innocent to have warranted such treatment.

The sympathy I feel towards the child takes control of my mind, forcing all thought from my brain, and, in an instant, I find myself standing in front of the helpless child, looking down upon him. I have no memory of opening the cell door, but, I look back and notice the cell door is open. The black energy swirls around us, the child and I, and my thoughts of the door are disrupted, almost as if I’m being told not to think about the door. My thoughts are turned back to the child at my feet. As I stand there, staring down at this child so evilly confined by the straps of the jacket, a humming starts in my ears. I realize it is the voice of the room, of the swirling darkness. No. It’s the voices of the light that emanate from the darkness. These voices swirl around my head, chanting an odd siren song, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with the desire to release the child — no child should be confined in such a manner. A compulsion seizes my thoughts, and I have no choice but to obey its commands.

I kneel down to begin undoing the clasps of the straightjacket and find that my hands are trembling. The sight of my hands sets off the voices in my head, shrieking for me to stop, to not release the child, to flee the room. The thoughts are muddled and confused. Seemingly, in response to the shrieking voices in my head, the whirling light’s song gets louder, drowning out my own voices. The spell of the light and the room turns my hysteria from shrieks to whispers so low I cannot hear them.

I again start to fumble with the straps, and in my haste to release this child, an edge of the strap’s buckle catches the side of my fingernail, and rips a piece of it off. The pain shatters the spell of the room, and, at that moment, I’m filled with the certain knowledge that I cannot release the child — only some other has that power, though I do not know who The Other might be. I glance at the urchin, who still has not moved, rise to my feet, and turn to go.

I almost reach the door of the cell, but a howl from behind me freezes every muscle in my body. The howls grow louder, more animalistic. I whirl around in time to see the child launch himself at me, knocking me to the floor, forcing the breath out of me. This animal-child lay on top of me, howling in my ear, kicking wildly and trying to rip my face and neck with his teeth. I roll over, kick him away, and struggle to my feet. Only the fact that he is strapped into the jacket has saved me from mutilation, saved my life.

He howls in frustration, this beastly child, like an animal denied his prey. He is struggling to get to his feet, hindered by the fact that he cannot use his arms. I know I must leave before he gets back on his feet. I race for the door, pulling it closed behind me, and I hear his body slam into the door. His shriek of rage echoes down the hall, and, as the air leaves his lungs, the howl becomes a hideous lament.

I take a deep breath, stand on tiptoe, and peer into the cell through the barred window on the door. The creature stands in the center of the room, head thrown back, as the heinous lament rips from the depths of his blackened soul. His breath finally runs out, leaving an eerie silence after the echoing stops. He takes a deep breath, as if to begin the moan again, but he stops as he senses my gaze upon him. He turns towards me, and I can finally see his face. As our eyes meet, goosebumps race across my body, and the hair on my neck stands at attention. Standing there, peering through the bars, I realize I am looking into my own face. The urchin may have a childlike body, but the face is mine, the grownup face that I see every morning in the mirror as I shave. He has the same mouth, the same hair, the same nose — all me. But the eyes, staring into his eyes, I see that it’s not my eyes that are staring back at me. My eyes are blue, and I am staring into eyes of the darkest shade of black I’ve ever seen.

I want to turn away, but his gaze holds me. I look into those eyes, and I see the deepest, blackest pits of hell. Then I see the burning fires of rage that are bottled up inside this child. In those eyes I see things too terrifying to explain in words. Finally, I see the most horrifying image of all, and I realize why this child is confined in a straightjacket and bolted into a padded cell. This child is no longer human. This child is the violent, murderous part of my soul, the part that can never be set free, the part condemned to eternal confinement and torment. It is his struggle, his war, his battle to be free that sends the silent tremors through my body, and that I attempt to hide behind the mask of impassiveness.

I turn and walk away from the padded door, relieved that, for the moment, the child remains confined. As I walk down the hall I realize that looking into the child’s eyes, I saw the full meaning of hell. Hell is not the place of eternal fire and damnation for the souls of the dearly departed. Hell is a reality that lives inside. It’s a place we struggle to keep confined, to keep in control, while we try to avoid the spell it casts: The Desire To Be Free.

Who I Remember and Give Thanks To on Memorial Day

This Memorial Day, I’d like to share a post I wrote for Memorial Day 2010. I’m grateful, and thankful, to all the men and women who have served our country.  And, I am especially proud and thankful to all those in my family who have served.

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Though I was not an “Army Brat,” moving from base to base, state to state, country to country, I am a child of the Army. Much of my life has been shaped by the military, and by the people who’ve served our country. It would be thoughtless of me to let this Memorial Day go by without mentioning (and thanking) those special people.

My mom joined the Women’s Army Corps (WAC) on her 21st birthday. The year was 1944, and, at that time, for her to join, she had to be 21. She enlisted for “the duration of the war, plus 6-months.” At the time, no one knew how long the war was going to last. During the war, my mom worked on the bombing range, working with the surveyors, working to make the bombs more accurate in striking their targets. The war lasted less than a year after she enlisted. Perhaps, if she hadn’t met my father, she might have done more Active Duty time. Instead, she did 20 years as a Reserve Officer. Because my dad was the one who was Active Duty, my mom had to go from base to base, and, thus, her time in the Reserves was varied, taking whatever duty she could at the local post.

My father joined the Navy during WWII, though he eventually switched to the Army. You could say that my dad gave his life for his country, though not in the typical “on the field of battle” way. My dad was a medic, and was on one of the medial frigates during the testing of the Atomic Bomb, at Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands. At the time, it was assumed they were a safe distance from the site of the explosion, but, in later years, as more and more was learned about radiation and it’s effects, they were indeed in harm’s way. On my dad’s ship, they all stood on deck and watched the explosion, in just their uniforms; no special equipment protected them. As the years went by, more and more of the men on those ships died of cancer and other diseases which, it was later determined, were all caused by the exposure to the radiation. My dad died of brain cancer, in 1980, at the age of 55.

Both of my parents were done with their military service by the time I came around (my mom was 42, dad 41, when I was born) so I missed out on the life of a military child. Which, perhaps, might be a good thing. I was painfully shy as a kid, and had a tough enough time making friends living in the same place all my life. Moving around every few years might have been even worse, though, maybe it might have helped my shyness. I guess I’ll never know.

The military was an important part of both my parent’s families. My father was one of 5 boys, and my mom (who was an only child), grew up with her 4 cousins, and they all felt like they were brothers and sisters. Out of the 10 then, 9 were in the military. All 4 of my dad’s brothers served: two in the navy and two in the army (and my dad, who was in both branches.) On my mom’s side, of the 3 who served, they were all army. I’m quite proud of all of them.

There’s quite a history among them all. My mom was among the early number of women who were allowed to serve, helping to pave the way for women to serve in the capacities they do today. My dad, as I said, was at the Atomic Bomb testing. I have an uncle who was among those who landed on the beaches of Normandy, another landed at Iwo Jima. I have an uncle who served under General George Patton. I have an uncle who won two purple hearts. Two of my uncles were in the Infantry.

Of course, growing up with a military family, one becomes friends with other military families. My mom’s two best friends were military wives, one’s husband was in the 10th Mountain Division during WWII, and the other served two tours of duty in Vietnam. A non-family member (though he’s quite dear to me) was wounded on the landing at Iwo Jima. And, then there are the children and their children, and I know veterans of Korea, Vietnam, Desert Shield, Desert Storm.

My parents were never pushing for me to join the military. Of course, I was 14 when my father died, so I don’t think I was ever old enough for him to encourage to join. My mom, while never pressuring me, did like to mention that it was a good place to learn new skills, and find out who you are. There was a time when I had thought about it, though, being gay makes you think even more seriously about it (especially back in the 80s, before being gay was fashionable.) Then, of couse, there is my bad eye, with it’s blind spot and 20/200 vision which may have kept me out (or at least away from a gun) and, then, when I was 22 I found out that I was HIV+, and, in the early days of AIDS, we weren’t accepted most places. So, any thought I had about the military pretty much ended. I would like to have joined, to continue a family tradition, and to make my parents proud. She’s never actually said so, but, I think, mom’s a bit disappointed that I didn’t join (though, in her own way, she understands about my being gay and the HIV thing keeping me out.)

It was probably for the best that I didn’t join. I’m not sure I’m military material. I am, however, very proud, and very thankful to be surrounded by so many who have been in the military. I am humbled and honored to know so many people who have served in our country’s military. For those in my family, for those friends, and for those soldiers I don’t even know, on this Memorial Day, I offer my sincerest thanks for all that you do.

Joke: Train Stop

Reblogged from Dumb Workers:

Dumbestic Goddess and Terror

A mother was working in the kitchen listening to her young son playing with his new electric train in the living room.

She heard the train stop and her son said, “All of you sons of b*tches who want off, get the hell off now, cause this is the last stop! And all of you sons of b*tches who are getting on, get your asses in the train, cause we’re going down the tracks.”

Read more… 200 more words

A very funny joke from my blogger friend Down Under

A Blast From The Past

I just ran across this journal entry dated September 13, 2005, and thought I’d share:

Night before last.

I’m in the kitchen. Mom suddenly hollers from the living room.

What she said: “There’s a dike leaking.”

What I heard: “There’s a dyke leaking.”

I found this rather disturbing, and wasn’t sure I wanted to know why my mom was informing me of this. Then realized CNN was on, she was watching Hurricane Katrina coverage from New Orleans. Dyke became dike, and the image was much better, though still disturbing (in an entirely different way.)

A Bit Of Randomness

I’m not a fan of Skittles. Ok, it’s more than that: I think they’re really kinda nasty.  Yet, I had a dream two nights ago about Skittles.

In the dream, I was arguing with several Skittles about a hotel room.

You read that correctly. I was arguing with the Skittles.  The Skittles in my dream talked, much like the M&Ms in the commercials.

I remember nothing more about the dream, other than waking up, laying there for a few minutes, and trying to figure out if Bitchy Skittles in a dream meant anything significant.

So far, I’ve yet to decide if this means therapy is in my future.

Goodbye Ms Summer, Day 2

I’m still feeling as if yesterday’s news of Donna Summer’s death is some sort of weird, Johnnie-Walker-Red-Label-Scotch-induced dream.

Most of us have an artist who’s songs seem to be the soundtrack of our life.  For me, it was Donna Summer.  Whenever I play one of her songs, images and memories fill my brain, and I’m reliving the moments.

These two songs are from Donna’s 1987 album All Systems Go, an album that didn’t receive too much attention.  Maybe some day I’ll share the full memories these two songs conjure up, but, not now.  It was a dark period in my life, a time that wounded me, yet, ultimately changed me for the better.

The first song takes me to the time of the end of a relationship.  I was 21, and my first real relationship was ending, and, while it was a necessary ending, there was still that nostalgia for the Good Times.  This song made me think of the relationship that ended, and, also, about the desire to move on and find another love.

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As my relationship was ending, this next song seemed to echo so much of what I was going through.  It’s not a broken-heart song.  It’s a song that’s meaning to me is summed up in the lyric:

It’s a life of a boy who’s scared

Of the waves rushing out

And the wind in the air

It’s a sight of one longing to taste of life.

Even now, as a 46 year old man, when The Black Wave of Depression envelops me, I still feel like that boy who’s scared of the waves and the wind, a boy who wants to be free.  There’s a mournfulness in the song, yet the song gives me hope as well, its lyric lifts me up:

It’s the hope

That the time goes by

Take you up on a wing

Teach your soul how to fly

It’s a wish that you live to experience life

And, hey… as a Crazy Man, any song about The Voices makes total sense.

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Returning From Vagueness

A few weeks ago, I mentioned that I started taking Prozac again.  Usually I have good luck with Prozac, but, this time, my dosage was too high.  All I wanted to do for two weeks was sleep.

When I sat down to write, this was what my thoughts looked like this:

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So, I’m sure you can guess that my writing was rather vague and insubstantial.

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When I sat down to read a book, an article, my favorite blogs, anything with more than one sentence, my comprehension of the words looked like this:

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Finally, I called my doctor and said that I was feeling just a bit too unconcerned and uninterested in anything other than sleeping.  So, she lowered my dose.

Antiepressants take some time to work their way through your system, so, I was still feeling rather vague for awhile after the dose was dropped.

I’m starting to feel more like myself again, but with a happier disposition.  I’m again able to have more than one sentence floating around in my mind, and, more importantly, I’m able to feel again.  Now, I understand that some people would be greatful for the opportunity to pop a pill and have their thoughts vanish and to feel as if they didn’t have a care in the world.  There is a part of me that rather enjoys it.  However, as a shy, introverted child (and a not-quite-so-shy but still introverted adult), I spend a great deal of time living in my mind.  I enjoy thinking, and talking to myself; I find myself quite happy keeping myself company.  So, when the pills come along and quiet the voices in my head, the good ones along with the bad ones, I feel lost and alone.  When my mind is empty, I feel as if I’ve lost my best friend.  For some, the silence might be a welcomed relief.  For me, it’s agony, though, it takes me some time to realize that my self has been silent.  This is not the first time that I’ve had to lower a dose of an antidepressant, though it’s the first time that I wanted to take an afternoon and an evening nap.

My Voice has been returning, my focus and concentration levels feel nearly normal again, though, I must admit to still being easily distracted if I’m not vigilant.

I guess, what I’m trying to say is that for those of you who’ve been following me, thank you for your patience with my rather uninspired posts of late, and I hope to have some more substantial things for you to read soon.  And, to those whose blogs I follow:  I have been reading your posts, though, in my Prozac Haze, I’ve not always grasped enough of your words and meaning to form any kind of comment to leave.  I have many posts saved, so I can re-read them with clearer vision, so don’t be alarmed if you see a comment from me for a post you wrote weeks ago.   I’m just catching up.

Thought For The Day

Dispatches From The Moon: Two

The conversation in my head went like this:

Me:  “I need to tell my mom right away.”

Myself:  “Are you sure?”

Me:  “Yes.”

I:  “But you know what she’s like.”

Me:  “I do. But, she’s my mom. I have to tell her.”

Myself:  “How do you think she’ll react?”

Me:  “I’m not sure.”

Myself:  “This will break her heart.”

I:  “She’ll freak out and throw you out again.”

Me:  “Well, I don’t know that she’ll throw me out, but, if she does, I at least have somewhere to go this time.”

Myself:  “True.”

I:  “Are you sure Ronn will let you move in?”

Me:  “I think so. He said that we could live together.”

Myself:  “Well, let’s not think about that at the moment. She hasn’t thrown you out yet.”

I:  “You should have a plan.”

Me:  “A plan? C’mon. You know me better than that. I don’t ever have a plan. I just make it all up as I go along.”

Myself:  “You’re not that bad, you can plan things when you have to.”

Me:  “Thank you.”

Myself:  “You’re welcome. Don’t sell yourself so short.”

I:  “Can we stop with this lovefest and stick to the point. Are you sure you want to tell her.”

Me:  “I can’t not tell her. I mean, how can I keep it a secret? Well, I know how, but, … you know what I mean.”

Myself:  “Yeah. You’ve already got too many secrets you keep from your mom. Don’t add to it.”

I:  “At least she can’t take you to a shrink, like she did when you told her you were gay. This is beyond the power of a shrink.”

Me:  “That’s something to be thankful for.”

I:  “Is she still going to love you?”

Myself:  “Maybe the question should be does she love you enough?”

Me:  “I’m not sure I know the answer to that.”

Myself:  “There’s only one way to find out.”

Me:  “I know.”

I:  “Are you sure?”

Me:  “I’m sure.”

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The day was the same day that I found out about my status, all those many years ago, back in that dark time where we all thought that finding out that you were infected with the virus was virtually the same as being sentenced to death from AIDS, when there was still uncertainty and confusion about how one could become infected. I wish I could tell a story about what happened when I told my mom that I was HIV+. You’d think that with it being something that was so important to me that I would remember every detail, every word, every facial expression; it seems that it should be one of those moments that you always remember with such sharp clarity. There’s not much I remember about that day. This is what I do remember:

Pulling up in front of the house.

Seeing mom and a family friend in the window of my room: they were Spring Cleaning.

We gathered in my bedroom, mom, my brother (who was staying with us for awhile), our dear family friend, Ronn and I.

I don’t remember the words I said. Again, it seems as if they should be words that are etched in my mind, seared there by the pain of having to tell my mom that I was, again, in trouble. Whatever form the words took, the result was crying and tears.

What I do remember most about that day was that my mom said the most extraordinary thing to me, and, it’s those words that remain etched in my brain. This is what she said:

“I love you. You’re my son, and I love you. You’ll never be alone if you get sick. Even if it means that I catch HIV caring for you, I’ll take care of you. You’re my son, and I will always love you.”

Quoth The Raven

“Men must die because they cannot join the beginning to the end.

Yes, that is indeed wise.  A man’s life can be drawn as a straight and descending line.  But when the soul or the fragment of the divine fire in each of us rejoins the original source of life, then the perfect form has been achieved, and what was a straight line is now a circle and the beginning has joined the end.”

—Gore Vidal, from his novel “Creation“