1 post tagged “sign”
Nothing is as difficult as the decision to answer or ignore incoming calls. For me at least, it had been this way my whole life. Until recently, a new path flattened the hazy overgrowth around me, and I was set in forward motion to an unknown destination.
It started about three months ago. I was at a party with some friends, a college somewhere northwest of where I am now. It is pretty hazy. All I remember is drinking my fourteenth beer and then blood-- blood everywhere. Something had broken, some sort of glass structure. I didn't fully understand what, but I knew it had been my fault. In earnest, I gathered the splinters with my hands, some piercing my skin. Blood poured out on tile flooring and two silhouettes told me it was okay, and to stop.
I didn't stop.
Blood kept pouring until my hands were red, and someone grabbed me by the shoulder, picking me up and hustling me to the bathroom. In my beer-full dream, I wept as someone picked little shards from my palm.
"I'm worthless," I told the person, and believed it.
The person helping me was my friend, Parson. He reassured me I wasn't worthless, that I was worth something, but I persisted.
"I'm a horrible waste," I kept saying, "A horrible piece of shit, worthless, worthless, worthless."
No, he would tell me, you are my best friend. Whether that was true or not was the least of my concerns. What happened next is most important. After cleaning out my wounds, Parson left to tend to what I later heard was a broken hookah. By "tend to," I mean he paid the guy for it. He was going to sell it to us anyway. But now it was broken. A false, empty purchase, like the day I was birthed to my parents, I had in my head.
Parson was full of money. He drove a nice car that he had replaced after totaling his first. He paid for the damages, but it was ultimately with the backing of his mother, a banker, that pulled him through. On the other hand, there is me, alone in the bathroom with only a sad, depressed version of myself, filling myself with horrible thoughts.
I look down at the ripples in the toilette. My tears are falling in with the rest of the waste. I'm Poor, my drunk version told me. I'm Poor and I'll Never Amount to Anything. My Girlfriend Won't Love Me. My Parents Have Abandoned Me. None of it true, except for right now. I reach in my pocket to grab my phone. To talk with God or who knows, but I grab my phone. It fumbles from my pocket and hand, spins through the air and splashes right into the middle of the toilette. Water spills up onto my leg, and this is the grain of rice that tips the scale. I actually begin crying.
I bend to fish my phone out and reach for some towels. Parson comes back and walks me out. The rest is a blur. All I remember is crying for what seemed like an hour while some girl desperately tried to study in the far corner. I must have been in some study hall. The study desks, four linked desks, looked like swastikas from above, up on the stairs.
Somehow Parson managed to drive us back-- a two hour drive-- somewhat drunk. He asked me questions all the way back, wondering how to contact my girlfriend and tell her I was in bad shape. He called people to message her online since he couldn't get in contact with them.
God, she was fucking worried the next day. She felt waste.
Waste is something unneeded. Like worrying about nothing, she would tell me. Like wasting your worry, your feelings expecting something much, much worse than just a sad, sad drunk. But expectations narrow your reality-- which is why dropping my phone in a toilette was a blessing. My view-screen is permanently fucked up. I could break my two year contract with those miser-y bastards and get a new one, but this is a sign. A sign to answer every call. My view screen is white. Just white. A harsh, clinical whiteness. And I have no fucking clue as to who is calling me. As to what is coming my way. So I let it come. I accept everything.
Sometimes I let it stay.
And sometimes I let it go.
