An army with iron boots, clanging symbols, and loud, off-key trumpets marches to battle inside my head. I bang on my temples but the extra pain doesn't distract that bloodthirsty army looking to wage war with my sanity and peace and health.
I can do nothing but fight back, but I'm outnumbered and I'm tired and I'm ready to lay down my guns and surrender. Still, I pop a few miracles and hope for a bigger one. Could I even take this with Prozac? I don't know and I don't care.
My phone buzzes with a text from my wife, reminding me to schedule an appointment with my new psychiatrist, Dr. Smith. But screw that, screw shrinks. They've done very little for me, except screw up my life. Paranoid Schizophrenic, Undifferentiated Schizophrenic, Antisocial Personality, Residual Schizophrenic, Schizoaffective, Bipolar, PTSD, Depression--
Stop labeling me! You've killed your credibility by changing your minds and re-labeling and shoving all sorts of chemicals down my throat. I know what I am, I know who I am, I know what I'm not. I'm not a psychopath or an ASP, I'm not insane or a schizo--yes, I can be sad and I can be happy and I can be angry and I can be apathetic--I am human and I have times where I am overwhelmed by emotion and completely without it at times...but that doesn't mean I deserve a label or a stigma.
But that's off track, like I've been these past few days. And that's thanks to you, Mikey. General of the little army wrecking havoc inside my mind. Why destroy my happiness? Why not set fire to all the memories I have of you? We both know I have so many. Why couldn't you have taken all of it with you when you decided to off yourself? Didn't you have any decency to think of anyone but yourself, you selfish bastard? Why couldn't you have opened your ugly mouth and said something, told someone?
No, instead you've decided to lead your army and overtake me.
Twenty-two DVDs, one for each year you've been alive. So many hours of one man talking, and talking, and talking and never shutting up. He never could talk like that before, could he? He had to wait until the very last minute, to make sure everyone would listen. People will listen to a dead man.
Such a long monologue. But not the comedic kind that you and I would perform, to make the world happy when we both were secretly so miserable. The only difference between you and I is that I was easily cracked open by friendly hands--you were stronger and preferred to sour in silence.
My throat's been sober for too long, way too long--and I nearly give in to get myself twenty-two drinks or so to accompany your goodbye, but I know you'd come back from wherever you are and tell me those two awful words: I'm disappointed.
Well, well, isn't that ironic--because I'm disappointed in you. So very disappointed.
I never thought it'd be you who did it, it was always supposed to be me. Right? It was always supposed to be me. I was the one with the bad brain. Not you. You were healthy and strong and okay and there for me when I couldn't even breathe or stand or imagine how I would go on.
You were my rock. But I guess you were just too heavy for me to carry. Is that why you never told me? Maybe you did tell me something, and maybe I was too dumb to get the hint. I'm an awful listener, you know.
Video after video, I watch you. I watch your face, searching for an answer. I listen to your words, searching for an answer.
And maybe I got one, maybe I didn't. I know what answer I was looking for, but my answer is buried six feet, when it wanted to be scattered in the Ningaloo Reef (did I spell it right this time?).
The army marches on. I have another panic attack. I contemplate everything, everyone, and all existence.
My stomach twists and turns on itself. Has your armies invaded even farther? When will you conquer my hands and force them to do things I don't want them to do anymore? Will you conquer my eyes and reign over my perception? Will you conquer my mouth and make me tell myself bitter words and hateful messages?
I don't think you could. I think that would just be me, blaming you. The only thing I blame you for is what your hands have done, and the tears your actions ripped from all of our eyes.
I don't even know where I'm going with this.
