The Doctor’s Office : Act 5

I’ve never needed to explain ANYTHING that wasn’t a fictional explanation used to reach my goal, to get my necessities, and even then when I am existing in the back of my mind, distant, and throwing words and phrases from the front and top of my head and out.  As I sit on this couch it seems as if my agenda is quite different, and the frustration has set in, as I exist on the front-and-center of my mind and reach back and into it trying to tie things together these things that have happened to me as of late, and where I am.

I attempted to make my escape, to tread this new path on the out and up, only to crash against these unknown forces which place me in scenarios I do not understand, and now I am using this couch as I lay on it to pull these things out from the recesses and string some sort of cohesive thought to them, and right now I am failing, and I look up and he is looking at me with his hand on his chin, brow furrowed, not like the usual but with the distance, the far-away.

It seems as if I’m getting a spoon or pill or needle of my own medicine, to take liberally from an overused metaphor, because I am alone in deciphering this mystery which very much has taken into account my steps and plans as cracks and other disturbances are starting to appear where they once were not.  And I have other things on my mind such as the result (no one else has time to consider the result!) and the details should be minor, nothing to see here and nothing to alter the path except when it DOES, such as now, and I am left to my own (now meager) devices to understand the how and the why, and even the when, although I can’t remember when, and I look down at my watch that still is saying 5:30 and IT is not telling me when, at all.

I cover my eyes to look deeper, to see the lights behind my eyelids like I usually see, the constellations that morph quickly into firestorms and meteor showers, and I am still, looking for the shapes.  And for once I do not see any.  Only black, darkness.  I throw my hands down in disgust and blurt out an expletive and look

To nothing.  I mean, I see another chair, some random books on a shelf, a barred window presumably to the outside, and the humming of the lights above.  But no one else.  I am now alone, and I sit up to rub my eyes and look again and again realize I am by myself, as it grows quieter.

These times, I’m having, they are not for me.  They are for someone else.  I will read about these times, close the book, and then move on to my more important tasks.  But the book, it will not close, and it is open to the one chapter I don’t want to read, and I read the same line over and over and over and over, and over.  At some point I will start to nod off, because I realize I have come across some words turned into ideas that my head at this point is not willing to overcome …

The Doctors Office: Act 4

After some careful consideration — and you know my, I consider it all fairly carefully, really — I have decided that today is the day I make my clean break. It seems more logical (and you know me, as a man of sound logic, like the sound of a hammer hitting the nail’s head) to do it today vs. any other day, when I may perhaps be distracted by the state of affairs, or of things I may see outside my window, or people I meet when I perhaps do not want to meet them.

More importantly rather than less importantly, I’ve decided to give the doctor’s office one more shot (even though we know what happened last time), and I think I know what I’ve done wrong: I haven’t been true to myself.

Yes, true, it’s true, I haven’t been true to myself. I haven’t fully explained myself — I mean, I HAVE explained myself, but not fully, and by that I mean I haven’t displayed my true character, while I have displayed my personality and expressed my mood, and this is something I should do, indeed, if I want to continuedown the path.

And I’ve decided that I need to do this with my mask, all the way on, I really do think. See, I find it hard for people to take me seriously just as I am. So I’m going to find some other way to make it work.

I do think one of the greatest risks in this world is overexposure. It is much more difficult a task to hide oneself from the dangers that can easily occur once you let yourself go: scrutiny, pity, and even jealousy can head your way. It is best, in my mind, that these emotions are kept behind close doors, as they only add to the growing trauma that builds within this world and manifests itself on an individual level oftentimes.

Personally I must say this is selfish, as I have been a victim of the world’s trauma on numerous occassions. Selfishly, then, I must take this step in order to get back at the world for making me miserable on a consistent basis.

So, today, I will head out to get the things in which I need to survive. Before I have done this with the help of my mask, although this has been during the other part of my journey toward self-fulfillment. I have now decided, as part of my plan, or maybe as an altered step in my pre-existing plan, to wear the mask at this stage as well, to ensure my success at this level, or at least to help ensure my success at some level, with myself in mind!

It is somewhat earlier in the day than I choose to operate that I am now operating, and I am moving outside my door and down the street to my destination.  I am wearing my mask and, as always, I am equipped with my layers (the hot Miami sun, it comes and goes, and when it goes I want to be prepared, see?), and I have my plan in my head.  I will follow the steps in order to get what I want and then get on my way.  I have this thing figured out, and I’m here, so let the fun begin.

I’m greeting this doctor like I greet the other ones, with a handshake and a nod, although I usually get a different reaction.  This time around, this doctor, he is puzzled.  He wants to inquire immediately about my status underneath this mask, and I just am not going to give up that kind of information just for the sake of giving up that type of information, because I do respect my privacy, even if this man doesn’t.  Unfortunately he seems to be persistent; he wants to know more about me, and to do so he must see my face.  I mean, this isn’t going like I planned, but that’s fine, I’ll take the mask off.  I grab at the back of my neck and pull forward–

–and I’m in a different place, in the lair of my “man”, as he jumps back in shock.  I knew it was you!, he says, as he almost falls back in scrambling for something on the table.   It is a weapon, a sharp weapon, or a loaded weapon — it seems I can’t tell — but a weapon nonetheless.  He lunges toward me as I duck off to the side, a near miss, and I push a chair in his path.  I’m grabbing for a small table when on it I see something familiar, yes–

The ashtray.  I grab it with my forefinger and thumb as I bolt for the door, which thankfully is still open, and straight out onto the street, running and running and running some more, blocks away, still running and running and sweating under my layers, and I do not know where my mask is but it is not here, and running until gradually the night has come, and I can not see but I keep running, running, until I stop.

I turn around and no one is behind me.

That is good, because I have just run a long way, longer and farther away than maybe anyone has ever run from where they once were, and I am especially tired, and ready to collapse, and this is fine. I’ll just lay down here and sleep it off.

Addendum aka The Doctor’s Office : Act 2

With everything that has happened to me in my life, I ought to deserve (yes, I am OWED) a truckload of the good stuff. Yet I seem to be back in these offices with increasing regularity, playing pitch and catch.

I mean, i’m back in offices of this type, but not necessarily the SAME office, but I’m gonna face it– they’re all the same and serve the same purpose, as long as I can get what I need, see, and I don’t worry about that one anymore. I’ve got it down pat.

It starts off something like this:

“So, how have you been doing lately?”

“Oh, not so well — it seems I’ve had a bit of a relapse.”

“Hmmm … well, can you tell me about it?”

And then I go on some long tirade about how I was neglected this one time when I was six and it popped back in my head when I was eating a cheese sandwich one day or that my 5th grade teacher had a vendetta for me and turned my classmates against me for the better part of that school year, yadda yadda.

See, none of it matters if I make it seem that it DOES matter to me, regardless of weather it’s my kitten dying or the sun staying behind the clouds too long one afternoon, I don’t need to justify it anymore. If I seem like a reasonably honest person, and I seem to be reasonably in need of some treatment outside of telling stories within the office once a week, then I’m going to get some pills.

But I really think it’s time for you to know I’m turning these pills into what I want. I am not interested in the pills — this is kids stuff. SOME people like them, but for me, eh, they don’t seem to do much. I’m holding out for something better, and I made a pact with myself that once I went to this “better place”, I would do everything in my power to remain there via whatever means necessary. Well, it took me some time to figure out how to do that, but you know, even the toughest nuts will crack if you apply enough pressure for enough time. I really think that.

The Doctors Office: Act 3

I’m once again back in the doc’s den, and I’m on the couch listening to the chirping originating somewhere near my feet, see. This is the first chirping I’ve heard in my doc visits and, I mean, it’s more than a bit off putting. It’s making me concentrate very hard on what I’m trying to sell (and as you know, I sell myself in order to get what I want, and you really do know what that is, really) and it’s causing me a bit of anxiety that I don’t necessarily deal well with, at all, really. This chirping is going straight into my right ear and in some cases up my nose and through my eye and every other orifice that leads straight to the root of my brain, the place where I get pissed, and yeah, it’s starting to show. I’ve got to keep my composure or things won’t go as planned. The doc right now, he’s looking at my kinda funny, maybe because I’m rambling and intermittently mumbling under my breath about that damn bird, all the while staring straight at it, with it’s stupid eyes and beak. I don’t waver from my stare, see, and even though I hear someone talking very close to my ear in a raised voice, I can’t really respond, just stare in the direction of this thing that obviously has it in for me, and I don’t feel much of anything when someone grabs my arm — I grab back, and push — not taking my eye off that bird, that little tweeting asshole, I’m going for him, forget anything else, I’m up …

… and I’m out the door, running. Can’t think much now, but that probably didn’t make me any friends. I’m wiping feathers off my coat as my feet sloppily hit the pavement and navigate, wildly turning and looking back, and the feathers have already mixed with the blood. This is not a good way to get pills, not a good way, I can hear someone behind me, feet running fast, skidding tires, screaming and wailing and lights. Got to keep going, left, I’m close to his house so I shoot my way in. I’ve bothered him, he’s in the middle of something, I turn around, he hears the wailing and oncoming commotion and he’s screaming, at me and himself and the other end of his deal, and I’m frozen, can’t go forward or back, my clothes a mess, so I run for the bathroom, small window, grab a bar of soap and throw it at it, wailing is closer, yank down the shower curtain rod, whack whack against the window, some screaming behind me, my dealer “friend”, someone’s beating at the front door, he’ll go to jail he says, I say what and swing the rod around, he goes down as the front door bursts open and dogs, and lights, and the smell, I swing my arms, my head …

As I go down, I think about how I should have learned to like birds when I was young.

The Doctors Office : Act 1

Few things get my heart racing like a trip to doc’s chair. Everyone has fun. Scratch that — I have fun, who cares about the rest. Put the feet up, pass me the candy bowl, sheet’s gonna start flyin’ out of my head without me even straining a brain cell.

Preparation starts in the home when I decide what to wear. Presentation is the first impression: I can accentuate my emotions with color or lack thereof; I can show how open or closed I am based on the clothing type. Then it’s the facial hair — what to do with it. I can show the conservative shaven look, the sloppy and unstable unshaven look, the well-manicured shit-together look, the I’m-a-freaking-timebomb billy goat chin hair.

See, if I don’t think about these things, he who is deemed to judge me will judge me. I think that, I really do. And I’d rather be judged by my words, as crazy as they may be, and I’m thinking about that. I walked up the stairs with that in mind, and my mind is buzzing too much for me to notice the wet-paint sign on the wall. (Now I’ll be judged as the one who lacks attention to detail, because only those loose in the head don’t notice white paint on an unclothed arm.)

I opened a door. The first thing I see is a black curly haired dog that sees me and says nothing. I appreciate that, I really do, because dogs set me off. I like them sitting in an elevated position and looking away from me — that’s closer to me and further away from me at the same time. I sit down and do not sit on a cat. I can’t handle a cat right now, and it seems they pop up during times such as these.

So, lets not make a production out of the introduction: it started long ago, ten-plus years in fact. No, make that twelve. No, lets rewind to fifth grade. That’s when things started happening, and that’s the most logical correlation to my activity right now. As long as I can tie a thread between then and, forty-five minutes later, now. That’s the only thing I need to remember to do. If I do that, I will get my way, appear sane, and get my drugs. I don’t even know if I want drugs but I’ve made that my goal. It feels good to have goals.

In short, I made a production out of the entire production. See, I have to appear in control, even in front of the slightly condescending, nodding head. The grin, the furrowed eyebrows, the pencil jotting and tapping. I try not to get distracted by his shoes, the dog, or what’s happening outside that window that I look out of while I spew things from my insides. I’m just biding time. In a month, I don’t expect anything to be different, do I, really do I? But I’m not worried about that now — I’m spinning a yarn, heading toward the goal line.

I left the office ten minutes later than scheduled. I look at the white paint on my arm; it is dry. Not surprisingly enough, the sun is hiding, as per usual for this time of year, but at least it is not raining. I don’t like to carry an umbrella when I obviously have a lot of other things I’m carrying, although I do feel I could carry it right now because I left everything else on the floor of that office. Maybe the dog is licking up the remnants as I speak. Even though I’m not speaking.