Deciduous

Eleven weeks ago I made the conscious decision to alter my own reality. I woke up one day, exhausted and illiterate, stuck in a continuous cycle of abuse and violence. An abuse of the self and violence directed inward at a heart that still had value but an inability to properly convey the fact. My body felt heavy and sour and stoned, as if I had broken every bone with cinderblock in hand, unaware of the damage I was doing to myself. Well, aware and yet unconcerned. Hurt but happy in my euphoric daze. I’d bathe and drink and sleep and drink and claw my way into the next day, the next week, the next month, forever on the floor, forever bloodied. My fingertips and cuticles cut open by the long loops that weave together to create the carpet, my hair spread out across the bathroom, a skeleton of myself peering through hazy eyes at what I’d let become of me. My nose would bleed here and there, the crushed up medication and the dry desert both playing part but not equal part. I’d slip out of bed and drag my soul across the clothing scattered about to cook some half ass meal, only to drown it in beer and then more beer. These long limbs of mine would carry me back and forth and back and forth to buy more and more. I was not capable of creation nor satisfaction or serenity. I could only ever continue to think about what could have been or should have been and never what was, never about the present moment I would find myself in. My spirit was split and leaking through the spaces in my rib cage, I’d made quite the mess with moss and meadows and snakes and fireflies but it was quite a sight to see, I would imagine. I think that I am all the things I love the most and on some days that looks more like opioids and promiscuity, like droning on throughout an entire month on autopilot, polite yet unpolished and unfinished business laid about some messy woman’s dismal apartment. I was starved of everything I’ve ever actually felt fond of. The fire that coats the wooden wheel in my chest was almost out, my passion was compromised and I myself was two feet in the grave. Eleven weeks ago I had a thought come into view, one that felt like shame and tasted similarly but I chose to swallow even though the bitterness was almost much too much. Eleven weeks ago I picked the phone up and hid my face, even though the person on the other end couldn’t have possibly seen the way I looked in that scene, the composition was dreadful and yet the voice I heard had happy things to say. My story wasn’t over yet and I was welcomed back into the arms of people that have only ever had the best intentions for a boy like me. The beaten boy, the machinegun boy, the loss of brothers boy, the burden on society that felt like little more than some red stain splattered on a pretty painting. Eleven weeks ago I chose to sit through the shakes, to hold myself steady through hallucinations. Eleven weeks ago I picked the path that led me to the moments I now cherish even while within them, the path that had no promise or safety but had pine trees. I’ve always loved the way they looked, either deciduous or corniferous. From light blue to dark green, from pinecones to redwoods, with ivy and bark and bones beneath where roots stretch through the moisture. Always seeking, always growing, forever stuck in one long pirouette through time. If I am to be honest, I do miss the pieces of me that don’t fit the mold. The addict in me never stops to take a second to rest. I think he spins the wheel even if it burns the flesh. I think he is the same as me but different, as if there’s two of us and one of us. If I am to be honest, a drink always sounds lovely and a pill or five sounds like a sweet way to start the day. But now I have to be more than honest with myself if I am to see more than the next week or the next month or the next decade. I myself must be loving with myself, kind with myself, understanding and discerning with my heart and soul and spirit. I myself must be cautious with myself and promise to the self to thrive instead of dwell, for the mountains where my friends went out to die are not the same, I find. Nor am I the same boy. At some point, I have to put the automatic weapon down and pick up sheers to trim the trees, a water pail for the peonies, a set of gloves so that I don’t prick my thumb while roaming through the roses. Eleven weeks ago I started up a garden, one that I must tend to every day.