This month snuck up on me.
I’m a big nostalgia guy. The clinical term may in fact be “rumination” but that’s neither here nor there. The biggest takeaway is that I’m constantly thinking about the past. It’s like if they made the “one year ago today” feature in snapchat a thing in real life.
I don’t have happy childhood memories anymore. Honestly, it’s hard to find any happy memories, period, but prior to 2015 is almost definitely a negative remembrance. It doesn’t mean good things didn’t happen to me. I just —
It’s like going to a skyscraper restaurant, having expensive champagne and grade A wagyu burger (medium rare) on brioche with a garlic aioli, house slaw, caramelized onions, and bacon (maybe adding a little avocado for a few dollars extra). And truffle fries on the side. And then the restaurant comps your meal so you don’t even have to think about the cost of the experience.
But then you get home and spend the rest of the night violently puking. And maybe shitting yourself a little bit. I don’t care how good the meal I ate was. I don’t want to fucking puke it up uncontrollably. And that’s the nature of my Remembering right now. I’m not looking through a gallery of highlights. I’m violently regurgitating every experience I’ve ever had, and it doesn’t really matter at this point if the memory itself is good or bad – the way that I’m recalling it fucking. sucks.
So, two years ago today I was waiting for my brother to die. We all were. He was, my parents were, my sister was, my grandparents were drunk. The doctors had told him they were sorry and there was nothing left to do and he had to sign a form on How He’d Like His Corpse Disposed Of. I was watching my baby brother suffer and the only thing we could do was just —
My insides are screaming at me right now. I’m sitting at my desk typing this into a note; I’m not making noise or even really twitching; but a centimeter under the surface I’m writing and clawing at my own skin thinking about how I would stay in my room until 11am, either sleeping in or scrolling, because it was so uncomfortable to be around my dad; and so painful to be brave for Max; and then my mom would text me that he was asking for me and he would tell me it was okay for me to be in the room and I’d break all over again.
And then just now, I’m finding this screenshot. Back when I had my dad unblocked. And I remember how much pain and anger and confusion this text made me feel. Because who the fuck was this man?? And all I had was anger and confusion and he trying so hard in this moment to just be a supportive parent. It wasn’t too little too late. But at the time it felt like it was. My anger was there to protect me. And as I was waiting for Max to die it really felt like I needed some protection.
And now my dad is dead. And my brother is dead. And many of my friends are gone, or perished, or changed. I mean, I’ve changed. But.
How am I supposed to look at the past without breaking my own heart? What can I even do to make this memory less sharp? Are the sandpapers of time all that are required to smooth the edges of this pain into something tolerable? All sea glass was just a shattered bottle at some point I guess. I don’t fucking know. I’m rambling because the act of writing this has uncovered as much dissonance and pain as it’s resolved.
Like, I just reread this message and dry heaved tears? It’s a physical gag. My inner state rejecting the outer shell of my psyche. A cry that forces its way through the sticky messy gunked up pipes of my consciousness. And it does — it does feel better to release. But it hurts so fucking much. And then it’s over and it’s like — where did that leave me? Boot and rally? I have 100,000 units of memories exactly like this one and I can’t pull trig on all of them.
Man, who even wants to read this? I don’t want to re-read it. Which one of you even made it to the end? My friends who I send this link to you, probably, because let’s be honest there’s no one else here by that name – and I mean you probably aren’t here because you liked reading it. Some sense of duty or responsibility to our friendship. Well, I’m not slamming that. So thanks if you did. I’m gonna go find a photo that makes me suitably depressed and then upload this and then add this to the shit-posting spam that I heap in your inboxes.