Psyck!

As I draw closer to the end of the year 2007, I have no choice but to reflect... after all, I am sick in bed with what may be pneumonia, maybe not (what I know is I've had this since December 19, which is obviously too long)...

I am alone in my apartment until New Year's Day. My roommate is with her boyfriend until then, then threatens to come back and spend some quality time with me. Sigh... I have to explain this, as I may have referred to her intimately in the past. She is my ex-girlfriend of four years, the longest relationship I've had among the few that I've actually had. That's not to say I feel sorry for myself, because I have no reason to be ashamed, especially considering whom I've been with; all beautiful and desirable, but ultimately none could I offer all of what they needed. That's not hard to admit at all, actually. I am what I am, and I mean it.

That's not to say I don't get bored, or lonely. I do love someone, but she's neither here, nor am I there. I was in love with someone else for quite a while, or so I thought I was. I once gave her a knife for her birthday, with a note: I give you this knife as I give you my life, do as you will, to protect or to kill. I am at your mercy. Melodramatic, yes. And for naught, or maybe for better. As it is, I am far better off now than I was then. Except for being sick, of course...

You see, I gave my life away to others who did not know what to do with it. It was not their responsibility, nor do I think they really wanted it. I took it back and things changed. I embarked on a fast track with my stalled film career (with a failed pit-stop at the end of summer), finding and continuing to find work as a production assistant. I also began saving money at a decent clip. And though my dreams of attaining a grad degree crashed and burned earlier this year because of denied financial aid, I have carried on my dream of one day owning my own business, and carrying my childhood endeavors further towards reality with this, Serious Consideration!

I do owe some of this rejuvenation to my friends, including the ones we read here; especially Macedonia for naming the blog (there's a story behind the name, of course), Call Me Ishmael for being an outstanding trouper and contributor, and Aqua Boogie for the love and support she's given me spiritually (including sending me a copy of The Secret on DVD!) And as usual, my family has been my rock, no matter how spread out we are.

Speaking of family, my sister and I spoke recently and I asked her some questions about acquiring a passport. I had a concern; my birth certificate has a different name than my Social Security Card. Not only that, but my father's name on my birth certificate is not real. It's actually a combination of my father and stepfather's names, with my stepfather being the prominent one! I had always been confused about that, but decided not to ask questions. Knowing my parents' history together, I'm certain Mom had her reasons. "Mom was kinda ticked off at him," my sister said, "in fact, she was always kinda ticked off at him. Even when you were born." I wouldn't have been born if he didn't try to change himself, in fact. Nevertheless, he and I have different names because he didn't change. Still, that could easily be explained to the passport people; I simply changed my name when I was a child and it says so on my Social Security card. Life can change that way, too, if you grab the pen and start writing your own story.

So here I am, doing what? Writing my story. Oh, there will be time for songs, sad songs about love and life, sad movies and such. I'm a sucker for both. I have no issue with crying my eyes out because of some tune or a scene in a movie. Because when I see stuff in real life, I don't cry.

Not anymore.

Real life has taken something important away from me, I guess, and I'm a lot tougher than I want to be. So I watch movies, read books, listen to music to touch base with that room where my emotions have been locked away, the key lost somewhere in the recesses of my psyche.

Am I crazy?

Would I really be crazy if I knew I was?

All I know is that it's the last day of the year, a year spinning with changes in my life, and I am alone and sick in bed. Trying, trying very hard to tell myself that I'm tough, and I'm loved. Trying hard not to think about how easily it could all end so quickly and arbitrarily. Like my friend Jim Dean. Like Mom and Terry. Like my father. Like getting shot at for "no reason". Like watching someone play the piano with grace, knowing you can only play that well in your dreams. Like talking to someone miles away, too far to touch, but somehow she touches you. Like a song that reaches your heart and twists it around like a tomato on a stalk, about to be broken off.

Do you really want to know what a broken heart feels like? I have one. Though, it's not really broken, it's kind-of deformed. I have an extra bundle of nerves in my heart, which cause sort of a short-cut for the electrical impulses. WPW Syndrome they call it, and a catheterization nearly rendered it and my life moot. Between the two, I'd rather have the first, honestly. I feel fine.

I feel something. especially when I listen. And watch. I watched my friends win a competition I helped them prepare for in high school. It was during that preparation that I had one of a series of grand mal seizures; this one knocking me cold and leaving great scars on my face. I bandaged myself up and went back to school the next day, but apparently I frightened everyone by coming back so soon and, of course, with big bandages on my face. I didn't come in the next day. But I came back to help my friends, to keep them together and keep their spirits up. And when the day came, they tore the house down.

I remember watching the screaming crowds and my friends being crowned the champions. My work was done. I wandered outside in front of the school. It was snowing hard, but I found a bench in a greenspace of the parking lot and sat.

What's next?

What is there for me to do?

And will I live to be able to do it?

The last person I would expect to come out after me came out the front door. She saw me slouched on the bench collecting snow. She was my first high school crush, a cousin of one of my friends who had just won in glorious fashion. She was the first girl to break my heart. She asked me why I was out here when everyone was inside celebrating. What could I possibly say that made sense? That I'm out here, feeling sorry for myself because I had given my all, even to the extent that I would given my life, to someone else and felt nothing was left? That I felt empty even as I helped facilitate one of the biggest successes in the school to date? I felt used up, and worse than that, I felt useless.

I don't remember exactly what she said. I do remember that she began to rage at me, but instead the rage became pleading. I saw tears streaming down her face as she spoke. She was saying something to me, but all I really know was that tears were flowing when I didn't have any reason to think they should. No one cries for me, I thought. And so none shall...

I returned to the auditorium, but there was literally no room. Suddenly I was pulled into the boy's bathroom. My friends stood before me with a pile of cash they had just won. "We want you to have your share," one of them said. "You are not gonna argue with us, and that's that," said the other, and they split up the money, giving me an equal share of the winnings.

That was the last competition of that type the school ever had, and nearly twenty years later, they are still the last champions. And I still remember. Many broken hearts later, I still remember.

And as I lay here sick, I remember way too many things. Except going to sleep. Time to look for brotha Ice-T and wish him a good morning as I try to lay me down to sleep. Time indeed goes by, and tomorrow's another year.