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[15:11 pst 12/23/2017 CE, 1514070660 E]

As of this entry, the entire archive has been reversed and reformatted to ease readability. The backward chronological system did not prove friendly, however throughout so many years it spiraled out of control. Just since the onset of 2015, the archive has grown tremendously and readers had difficulty understanding why. Well, that is that.

Also, the long-neglected archive from 2002 has been completely revamped and organized for later publication. That content has been offline since early 2011 and the idea of rolling it back into the eyes of the world is a tad frightening. There is no current plan to launch that archive, but the updating leads us to believe that it will happen in the near future.


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The Illness and the Isolation

Part Eight


"And things would not soon improve. I stayed within my little cocoon for days and collected the disability checks. My absence from work was health-related, and due to the high wage I had been earning up to the point of my departure, the income was equally high. It allowed me to have the things I needed for daily life and much comfort (read: food and alcohol), and provided a cushion to be spent on frivolous items which helped to distract me from the reality of all that had taken place along with the fact that work was not returning. In such a situation, the prudent path would have been to seek employment and bank as much as possible to maintain living expenses, but my sordid mind did the opposite. I dove in just as Michelle and I did in the goblet -- I created yet another illusion to keep myself afloat both mentally and emotionally. Deep down I knew that I was heading in a horrible direction, however I did not care. The denial which brought me all over the state and occasionally into Nevada was an enormous draw toward avoiding the trials I wanted to wish away. None of it was healthy, nothing was positive, and I pushed myself into a darker place yet again.

The letter informing me of the position being eliminated was shredded just like all of the feelings regarding my possible survival.

The Brunette reacted to my lack of a return to work with understanding, and she could also sense my drop. I had been hiding anything over a 'normal' supply of alcohol within my apartment and eventually hid any drinking from her in order to avoid turmoil between us. She knew full well what that substance could do to my mind (and hers as well), so I had to keep it from her completely. Yes, more denial, more drinking, and more of what brought me to the edge on too many occasions to count. Goddamn it all anyway. I did not know what else to do. The thought of seeking work in an unfamiliar place and around people I wished to avoid was too much for my sensitive head. My previous place of work had become a haven of comfort, familiarity, and a location within which I felt at home. The career fit me to a tee, from coworkers to the physical environment. Trying to duplicate such a perfect match was a hill I simply could not climb. Downhill had become my only direction yet again.

Days passed and I focused myself within a pattern of seeing her when she allowed it, and remaining within my space and making it into what I needed. And then the fateful day arrived... I began to receive messages from the Brunette that she was not well and had been visiting the doctor often in order to learn of the source. Over time she realized there was something happening which would take her away from me so she could care for herself. I cannot detail the reasoning nor the issue, but suffice to say it was enough to force her into the necessity of shifting attention almost entirely toward herself. Much to my dismay (but not my surprise), this led me to realize once again that my decisions had been wrong and I was placing my value upon another. I was in exactly the same frame as in previous months. Nothing had really improved at all, and for the millionth time I felt the need to escape everything. Fuck me.



296

Her incredible body, right in front of me



There I sat, within the little apartment, and constantly awaiting any communication from the Brunette. I was filled daily with my own discomfort over all that had been removed from my life via my own actions, combined with worry over her health. I saw her on the occasions when she was feeling fairly well, and went for long periods with nothing more than a short message asking about my condition. Over time the feeling of being holed up began to bring me a necessary solace. I was in that space nearly every moment, save for when I walked down the hill for things from the market. My computer began to feel like a friend and kept me company while I moved about and decorated the walls with my thoughts. I ventured to the store for black paint and eventually isolated myself until such time as I was happy with the messages and symbols surrounding me. The apartment began to bring me enough comfort to where I had no desire to be around others. And that led me to even more isolation from the outside world. Within months I began to fear traveling beyond my front door. The laundry and market were the only two places which would get me to release the deadbolt.

From time to time the Brunette would speak with me, and she seemed to be getting more of a handle on her illness as the days burned away. And despite my joy in learning of her improvement, my situation was worsening by the second. Eventually the disability ran out and I opted to collect money from the state since I was not working. That kept my needs coming, and still provided the resources for maintaining the interior of my space in the manner I required, and to keep myself above the soil. It was not much, but sufficient for the time being. I did not spend one moment on any given day planning for what might come next. I simply remained there and drowned myself, all the while wallowing in tremendous regret and remorse over everything. And I found less and less reason to go outside. The fear never let up.

One quiet morning I received a message from her asking if I was home. When I responded she arrived at my door in seconds and knocked. The sound startled me, and upon opening the door to what had become an alien world, I saw her in front of me in tears, and clutching a bottle of pills. To that point I had not been exposed to the depth of her illness, and when she informed me that she did not have the strength to open the bottle, I fell through the floor. What had happened? And why? God help that woman. I opened it and she fell into my arms momentarily. And then she apologized. Huh? Wow. Yes, she told me she was sorry that I had to see her that way. Jesus god that was a blow. The Brunette then exited my space and left me there to wonder. And worry. And wallow even more than I already had. Fuck me, what a situation.

So I decided to drink everything away yet again.

Michelle, the life I threw away, the Brunette, the Knife, the goblet, the dream of dropping from that balcony, the drive... all of it began to put so much pressure upon my head and heart that the exit was illuminated yet again. One of the necessities that I had brought into my home was a safe, and within that safe was the revolver -- right next to my beloved blade. The firearm looked inviting like never before. Everything pushed me around that little apartment with no respite. I spiraled within the thoughts like I was flailing to survive a cyclone. It was nearly too much at any given moment, so the alcohol and tissue became a daily routine.



295

Both of them floating in my sordid head



Each morning became like the last... coffee, gazes toward my massive paintings, and then tears. I failed to find reasons for anything outside that routine. I failed all of the typical thoughts that one may run across which brought semblance of normalcy. My days became an endless exercise in finding anything which kept my finger off the trigger. Most of the time by the early afternoon I was drunk and stumbling around with the V6s on my ears and a glass which hardly left my hand. Hours would pass as I walked about the rooms lacking any reason or clarity. I often ventured out onto the balcony to look at the sea and calculate how I could survive a walk among others to be closer to the water. But to no avail... I simply could not be away from the weapons which had the ability to deliver me out of my mental and emotional hell. I needed to remain within striking distance of my own mortality. And I did just that. Every single day for months, all I could focus upon was some light food and the walk down to the market for more whiskey.

I was nearly a complete wreck and suicidal like never before.

The Brunette visited less and less, I dropped myself out of the photography club, and all of my hobbies went by the wayside in favor of the increasing amounts of alcohol and decreasing meals. I had become a fraction of myself again. And I felt no need for anything whatsoever. There was no drive in any direction nor was there any ambition to pick myself up or attempt to recover. Understanding was as far away as the nearest black hole. The only thing which felt close was my desire to cut the rope which connected me to my own consciousness and leave the world behind.

As the months passed, I began to run short of resources, and the decision was made to simplify and streamline my possessions in order to continue living there and remaining as the drunken, drowned, and depressed half-person I had created. Things which I cherished made their way into the mail so I could recover monies thrown to the wind on booze and frivolity. My high-on-the-hog trips and wayward sense came to an end so I could stay in my apartment. I sold off nearly every item which was either purchased after the move or brought from my previous residence. That included many keepsakes and trophies from better days. I was blinded in the extreme. Nothing looked valuable except the space within which I spun and fell. Eventually all that remained was the safe and weapons, the bed, and my computer which was a friend. An entire life of things which once were important went away quickly and only furthered my depression. All of it -- from watches to furniture to technology -- out the door and gone forever.

Along with any common sense which may have still been accessible. Splendid.



The Weapon

The carrier I failed to grab



The one item sold which quickly brought me to my knees was my beloved camera which had been my companion all over the state, and which held memories I could not begin to describe. Once I boxed everything and delivered it to the buyer in Hawaii I fell through the floor and into a place which felt unrecoverable. That was bad. And I had to inform the Brunette of my circumstances at the first invitation to go out shooting when she was feeling better. Again... it was bad. At that point she learned of my true situation and felt compelled to assist me with daily needs. When I considered her compassion and understanding, I again felt as if hope was not impossible. All at once I wished to embrace her... to ravage her... to go back to a place where we were alone and reckless with our desires. I needed her to feel the same, but knew full well such a thing was unlikely. Her kindness and unending caring was overwhelming and nearly brought me to my knees, literally. I broke down in front of her gorgeous eyes and began to babble terribly of all that had taken place and expressed to her my need to die just for the freedom from everything.

And the latest fall, chasm, hell -- whatever -- began. God damn all of it and every single fucking detail of those many months. God damn it.

Jesus fucking Christ I could not have collapsed at a worse time. The Brunette needed precisely nothing negative during that time, and even moreso she did not need me being a fucking basket case. Unfortunately, I was a champion at falling toward the grave. And she knew it very well. She stood there beside me and wondered if she could keep herself healthy and me alive. My eyes told the entire story before she asked... 'Hey. Are you going to be ok?' And then again... 'Hey.' She then told me of how much she loved me and the fact that it never ceased. She also said she needed me but her time alone was taking priority over everything. Her eyes were so huge and emotional, and she looked like the most beautiful angel I had ever seen. Upon gazing into those lovely windows for a moment, it began. At that point I could no longer hold back, so I unloaded my misery and plight right in front of her eyes and all over the carpet. I fell, literally, onto the floor and into a mumbling puddle of tears and anger. I writhed and yelled, then curled up and sobbed like a child, then back to the yelling. I lashed out at the world, at myself, and at my lack of strength to grab the revolver. Or the knife. The whole scene was one of bloody hatred for my decisions and actions, regret over everything I had decided, and a massive lamenting of what I had become. For what seemed an eternity, I continued to throw myself around the room, smashing my head into the sheetrock and falling over and over to the floor. I ran into the kitchen and she followed, grabbing at my arms and hands to keep me away from anything which could harm me.

Flailing... screaming... crying.

The situation forced her to take control of me and wrestle my trembling self to the floor. She held me there for a long while and caressed my hair, all the while whispering and sobbing. She told me over and over that everything would be fine and she would not let me go until I felt myself returning from the black. I have no idea of how much time passed, but eventually we made our way to my bed and lay there for the remainder of the day. And then she informed me of how much she could identify with such horrible feelings and actions. The Brunette had gone through so much before I ever knew of her, and she proceeded to lay down a story I would not soon forget.

Evening. Darkness. Love. Caring.

What a fucking day. And in the end I realized it all catalyzed over a camera and the many wonderful memories it lived through.

Sleep.



297

Her huge, loving eyes took me back to myself



God fucking damn it what a person the Brunette was. She lived right there -- three doors down -- and maintained herself despite the illness. And she took the time to look after me. God. And I brought to her a mess of a person who could barely keep it together from one moment to the next.

In the early morning I awakened to find the other side of my bed empty. In the space that gorgeous creature inhabited the night before was a note -- 'Be well. I'll come see you after work.' The writing also outlined a bit of a plan for me to follow in the coming days, and one that she wished me to confirm. 'Just stay out of the bottom of the bottle. The middle is fine. Just the bottom should be avoided.'

Adorable.

I composed myself a bit and staggered down to the market for some staples. Upon the return I made a light breakfast and sat on the balcony feeling weaker and more frail than ever. The thoughts continued to invade, and they forced me to think over and over of the prior evening's events. I just could not help but rehash all of it in my mind. I did remain calm, however, and realized that as long as I could see her from time to time, and stay occupied for the most part, there was a possibility of traveling beyond that terrible situation. There was no work to keep me busy, and all of my things had flown out the door. I had to focus on something, and the computer seemed the only option.

After relaxing outside a bit longer, I decided to turn my full attention to the machine inside and make it work for me. I researched and worked out a plan for some changes which would require me to venture out of the little cocoon. That was a bit too much to consider after being a complete wreck so recently, so I merely kept on with the research and planning. The rest of that day was spent reflecting, communicating here and there with the woman who saved me (again), and preparing meals. I watched a handful of shows on the computer and tried to get myself mentally prepared to take a drive the following day.

A little measure of upward, a shitload of emotional support from that beautiful soul down the hall, and a small plan for the coming days, and I began to pull my sorry ass out of the ground and into the world.

Such as it was."



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Random Quote:

"Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day,
in all the thousand small uncaring ways."
-- Stephen Vincent Benét


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