oh god. the 20 year old window ac/heater unit in my deathtrap apartment has finally died. I was in denial the last few days(weeks, wait what year is it?), but now it is beyond a delusions hope. if i turn it on i can see the heating element begin to glow a menacing red, because no air is passing through it, threatening to burst the wall it is mounted in, into warm probably wouldn't be too bad anything to feel my toes again flames. i woke up being able to see my own breath all, "i can see dead people" style still bundled up in my not prepared to shelter me through below freezing temperatures blanket.......I always knew it would be something simple like this that would do me in. "but mike, you just call the land lord and get it replaced or repaired, it won't cost you anything" and to that I say, Nothing, because the thoughts of dealing with the landlord, who has her own "oh dear sweet god why" problems a thousand times worse than mine, and is notorious for not getting onto things right away or the six month later equivalent, and the freshly recovered from crack addiction glue huffing wet swiss cheese brained smegma faced army of repair men she employs invading the delicate safety bubble of my fragile metaphor for my soul apartment, with their judging brains and off hand comments, and disrespect for personal boundaries and possessions and lifestyle choices, sends me into a downward spiral of panic and despair that seizes up my throat and sends my brain into a LSD convulsion loop of "who the fuck are you, mike? obviously no one knows, you did too good of a job wearing those masks you love like a skin and armor, because they uttered this shit at you, like you were some sort of, functioning person, or something. not the reclusive fucktarded broken wretch you and all the other secret voices in your head know you are, you always knew it would be something simple like this, the thin glass hope of a life outside the destined gutter of death or imprisonment in white doing the Thorazine shuffle, will soon finally crack beneath your growing weight letting you and the empire of decaying monuments to your past, hopes, and dreams fall forever lost in the void. till you loose all sense of who or what you are again, and have to ask, who the fuck are you mike?....." over and over until all the switches in the damaged section of my nervous system i call the trauma ward takes over and I feel the hands holding me down again knowing where they are pushing leads, that space where all the fucked up shit i have lived through overlaps into one single inescapable moment opening like a repulsive flower, the spams of the body, mind and soul aligned at a fever pitch, already beyond tears, beyond fear, distantly beyond numb. until everything goes
.....................................a timeless time passes, the fractured glitter of thoughts seeming less repulsive with each floating by, even though they are repulsive thoughts, the appeal and purpose of the void eroding faster and faster, the rushing of wind in your ears and suddenly the crashing of air hitting the back wall of collapsed lungs in deep rapid breaths with a heart ripping itself out of it's home, every bone breaking on the brick wall of consciousness, and you lay there, on the other side of the PTSD void, with your lovers, shame and weakness, shaking. afraid to share these words with anyone. afraid of being seen as melodramatic, and attention seeking, afraid to share a glimpse behind the mask, and let you all know who you have really been dealing with all this time. just who the fuck mike really is.
and so we read and reread this tome of crazy words a thousand times procrastinating with various websites and games, and pipe dream notions of filming yourself reading this aloud in a eloquently edited together you-tube video, anything to relieve the stress or build up steam while you flail, trying to rationalize with the part of you who fears being touched, arguing the merit to your friends and loved ones, and all the while the other half edits, adds and occludes the sensitive bits while stabbing the part of you who needs to be held, in the face with a red hot poker for being so foolish as to ever write this much, about all this stuff, no one would ever want to read. trying to push the mask back on, But what is shown is seen, what is sung is heard, and what is written is read. like I have always said,
what doesn't kill me, only leaves me maimed....dying but not dead.