A Chronic Invalid
I.
But I’m not sure what I want. Out of life, I mean.
It goes on every day and to be honest, I don’t really have much to live for. A normal day would consist of a slice of toast, two cups of black coffee and about twenty cigarettes to last me through the rest of the restless hours that I’m awake.
‘What the hell am I doing here?’ I ask myself on a daily basis, ‘Why am I still living?’
And I still have no idea. So I go on through the rest of my life, wondering—pondering why why why why why I’m still here and what what what what what I plan to do with the next twenty years of my life.
I’m tired because I still haven’t got the answer. That’s what went through my head, every single day of every single week of every single month of every single year.
My parents were never much help, always telling me what to do and how to live life the way that they saw fit. Of course, being a teenager, I rebelled against them and started doing things that were against everything—and I mean fucking everything—they believed in.
Yeah, sometimes I wonder why I’m still standing.
Why am I living? What’s so damn fucking important for me to still be here? My counselor asks me if I’ve had any suicidal thoughts lately. And I’d always respond with a cheery smile and reply in a tone that would match my expression; “Nope. I’m perfect.”
Yeah, perfectly imperfect.
“I’m as happy as a drunken clam,” and then I say that I mean it figuratively because I’m supposed to be on this slow as five o’clock traffic road to sobriety. Of course, I’m giving him complete bullshit because despite his help, I still wonder why the hell I’m living.
“You’re not lying to me, are you?” he asks with one of his brows arched, giving a hard stare through a crack in the dark curtain that was his hair. “Are you counting?”
And I always reply with the same thing. “Yes, of course.” Because I have to. Because I can’t stop. I’ve been sober, away from drink, for about forty two days now and really, it’s killing me. The damn stuff keeps calling to me, saying my name, asking why the fuck I’ve left it alone for so long.
Every time I know I’m near the liquor store, I have to cross the street because I know that I’ll go in—not to buy a drink—just to hold the bottles in my hands and eventually, I’ll get yelled at by the Chinese man that enjoys hitting me with Sunday’s paper.
“So why are you still coming to me?”
The question runs through my mind every day, despite the fact that I’m almost (as the doctors say) cured from the depression, due to my excessive drinking. But to be honest it’s because—
“I can’t finish this alone.”
And it’s a fact that I can’t. Honestly and sincerely and justly and all those fucking words that mean the truth, can’t. I have no willpower and no motivation to do this by myself. If I didn’t have someone (namely, my counselor) to keep me on this track, I’d be either in a bar or in an alley Downtown, downing a bottle of Jack and wrecking the six pack I’ve managed to shape in rehab by adding a useless layer of failure.
God. This is what happens whenever I daydream. Or think. I hate thinking. Especially about drinking. I want a drink.
My counselor eyes me cautiously, as if he knows exactly what I’m saying in my mind. ‘Stay out of my head!’ I shout to myself, hoping he’d hear it. I watch as if on cue, his eyes roll and he uncrosses his legs out of his fag position.
“Why do you think that?”
Because I still wonder why the fuck I’m doing here. But I don’t really say that. Instead I tell him, “Because I need help.”
I watch as he puts down his Clipboard and runs a hand through his hair, pulling back his fringe so his entire face shows. It’s pretty. And I’m openly gay, so I’m allowed to say that.
“My god, Frank,” he sighs, saying my name and blowing air sharply out of his nose so he sounds half like a hoover and half a pig. “You really are as unconfident as your doctors’ say.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m not unconfident—”
“Yeah, you are.”
“—I just choose not to be a stuck up prick—”
“Right.”
“—who needs to take a few lessons on how to take—”
“Uh huh.”
“—the stripper pole out of his—”
“Go on.”
“—ASS!”
I scream the last part because I’m frustrated. For the past month that I’ve been seeing him, our appointments have always been the same. He asks me questions, I answer them, he asks me questions about my answers, I elaborate, he interrupts my elaborations, and I always end up sounding like an idiot.
But he smiles his fucking charming therapist smile, showing the little tick tack teeth of his, and checks his watch. “It’s been an hour and a half. I have other sessions with other people—”
“With the same damn problems,” I finish his sentence while rolling my eyes. “I know.”
And cue the grin. I get up off the leather sofa and gather my things that I’ve thrown on the floor—my bag, my coat and the scarf that my mum sent me from Orleans for Christmas. It’s ugly and clashes with everything I’m wearing. The only reason I wear it and haven’t thrown it in with the trash is so she’ll feel like she’s still a part of her only son’s life.
He’s still grinning, but with a slight smirk. I’m tempted to slap him, just to get that look off of his face. Instead, I glare daggers into his eyes and the contradicting smile only gets wider. I huff while he opens the door for me to leave, then holds a hand up to call in his next manic psycho.
“Come on in, Gladys!”
I rest my case.
I skip the elevator and decide to walk down the two flights of stairs. I reach the lobby and step outside and walk the five blocks back to my flat. I go by the liquor store and I can feel the Chinese man’s eyes bear into my very soul. I can almost smell the sweet scent of Jameson and I light up a Belmont so I won’t be tempted. I break out into run so I won’t be tempted.
I sprint up the concrete stairs into my building, fumbling with my keys and quickly stuffing them through the keyhole so I won’t go back. I ram my face into my door and slam it behind me, going to the bathroom and splashing cold water onto my face. I can’t handle it, I can’t handle this, I have no control, absolutely no control.
I close the blinds to block out the day and turn off all the lights. I collapse onto my mattress, sticking another cigarette in between my teeth and quickly lighting it up. I inhale deeply, thankful that chain smoking isn’t as openly frowned upon as my other vice is.
I shut my eyes tightly and this is when I lie awake in bed and realize that it’s sad, because this is what my twenty-six year old life has become.
It goes on every day and to be honest, I don’t really have much to live for. A normal day would consist of a slice of toast, two cups of black coffee and about twenty cigarettes to last me through the rest of the restless hours that I’m awake.
‘What the hell am I doing here?’ I ask myself on a daily basis, ‘Why am I still living?’
And I still have no idea. So I go on through the rest of my life, wondering—pondering why why why why why I’m still here and what what what what what I plan to do with the next twenty years of my life.
I’m tired because I still haven’t got the answer. That’s what went through my head, every single day of every single week of every single month of every single year.
My parents were never much help, always telling me what to do and how to live life the way that they saw fit. Of course, being a teenager, I rebelled against them and started doing things that were against everything—and I mean fucking everything—they believed in.
Yeah, sometimes I wonder why I’m still standing.
Why am I living? What’s so damn fucking important for me to still be here? My counselor asks me if I’ve had any suicidal thoughts lately. And I’d always respond with a cheery smile and reply in a tone that would match my expression; “Nope. I’m perfect.”
Yeah, perfectly imperfect.
“I’m as happy as a drunken clam,” and then I say that I mean it figuratively because I’m supposed to be on this slow as five o’clock traffic road to sobriety. Of course, I’m giving him complete bullshit because despite his help, I still wonder why the hell I’m living.
“You’re not lying to me, are you?” he asks with one of his brows arched, giving a hard stare through a crack in the dark curtain that was his hair. “Are you counting?”
And I always reply with the same thing. “Yes, of course.” Because I have to. Because I can’t stop. I’ve been sober, away from drink, for about forty two days now and really, it’s killing me. The damn stuff keeps calling to me, saying my name, asking why the fuck I’ve left it alone for so long.
Every time I know I’m near the liquor store, I have to cross the street because I know that I’ll go in—not to buy a drink—just to hold the bottles in my hands and eventually, I’ll get yelled at by the Chinese man that enjoys hitting me with Sunday’s paper.
“So why are you still coming to me?”
The question runs through my mind every day, despite the fact that I’m almost (as the doctors say) cured from the depression, due to my excessive drinking. But to be honest it’s because—
“I can’t finish this alone.”
And it’s a fact that I can’t. Honestly and sincerely and justly and all those fucking words that mean the truth, can’t. I have no willpower and no motivation to do this by myself. If I didn’t have someone (namely, my counselor) to keep me on this track, I’d be either in a bar or in an alley Downtown, downing a bottle of Jack and wrecking the six pack I’ve managed to shape in rehab by adding a useless layer of failure.
God. This is what happens whenever I daydream. Or think. I hate thinking. Especially about drinking. I want a drink.
My counselor eyes me cautiously, as if he knows exactly what I’m saying in my mind. ‘Stay out of my head!’ I shout to myself, hoping he’d hear it. I watch as if on cue, his eyes roll and he uncrosses his legs out of his fag position.
“Why do you think that?”
Because I still wonder why the fuck I’m doing here. But I don’t really say that. Instead I tell him, “Because I need help.”
I watch as he puts down his Clipboard and runs a hand through his hair, pulling back his fringe so his entire face shows. It’s pretty. And I’m openly gay, so I’m allowed to say that.
“My god, Frank,” he sighs, saying my name and blowing air sharply out of his nose so he sounds half like a hoover and half a pig. “You really are as unconfident as your doctors’ say.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m not unconfident—”
“Yeah, you are.”
“—I just choose not to be a stuck up prick—”
“Right.”
“—who needs to take a few lessons on how to take—”
“Uh huh.”
“—the stripper pole out of his—”
“Go on.”
“—ASS!”
I scream the last part because I’m frustrated. For the past month that I’ve been seeing him, our appointments have always been the same. He asks me questions, I answer them, he asks me questions about my answers, I elaborate, he interrupts my elaborations, and I always end up sounding like an idiot.
But he smiles his fucking charming therapist smile, showing the little tick tack teeth of his, and checks his watch. “It’s been an hour and a half. I have other sessions with other people—”
“With the same damn problems,” I finish his sentence while rolling my eyes. “I know.”
And cue the grin. I get up off the leather sofa and gather my things that I’ve thrown on the floor—my bag, my coat and the scarf that my mum sent me from Orleans for Christmas. It’s ugly and clashes with everything I’m wearing. The only reason I wear it and haven’t thrown it in with the trash is so she’ll feel like she’s still a part of her only son’s life.
He’s still grinning, but with a slight smirk. I’m tempted to slap him, just to get that look off of his face. Instead, I glare daggers into his eyes and the contradicting smile only gets wider. I huff while he opens the door for me to leave, then holds a hand up to call in his next manic psycho.
“Come on in, Gladys!”
I rest my case.
I skip the elevator and decide to walk down the two flights of stairs. I reach the lobby and step outside and walk the five blocks back to my flat. I go by the liquor store and I can feel the Chinese man’s eyes bear into my very soul. I can almost smell the sweet scent of Jameson and I light up a Belmont so I won’t be tempted. I break out into run so I won’t be tempted.
I sprint up the concrete stairs into my building, fumbling with my keys and quickly stuffing them through the keyhole so I won’t go back. I ram my face into my door and slam it behind me, going to the bathroom and splashing cold water onto my face. I can’t handle it, I can’t handle this, I have no control, absolutely no control.
I close the blinds to block out the day and turn off all the lights. I collapse onto my mattress, sticking another cigarette in between my teeth and quickly lighting it up. I inhale deeply, thankful that chain smoking isn’t as openly frowned upon as my other vice is.
I shut my eyes tightly and this is when I lie awake in bed and realize that it’s sad, because this is what my twenty-six year old life has become.