Blood Will Out

chapter one

PANIC

Like you're dying.

It feels almost exactly like you're dying.

Your heart pounds so hard it rattles your teeth and hurts your chest. When you can't take enough air into your lungs you strain harder. That feels like you're inhaling through a straw, the lack of air makes it worse.

So much worse.

Your vision gets twisted; becomes dotty, becomes a kaleidoscope of concerned faces or the absence of any help.

I've never decided which one is worse.

Years ago a therapist told me that touching something solid, like the ground, would remind me that I am solid, that I will be ok. Years ago when they prescribed the first pill, the first of many. Xanax, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, Alprazolam, Sertraline... even the sound of the words tastes bad on my tongue. Years ago, when I didn't have a choice. Years ago when social workers talked about finding someone to meet my needs, when the parade of "resource parents" was never ending, when the tiny chalky gems in blue and peach and white as snow were shoved down my throat at regular intervals.

Years ago, back before I got away from all the help I never asked for.

                                                                              —————

Your eyes can trace the lines of each wall and alcove. Your fingertips can follow the structure, one detail sliding against the next— but you'll never truly understand the nuance because it isn't yours. Seeing an old home is like hearing someone else's love song. Its rhythms may graze along the surface, but it will never truly get under your skin because it wasn't yours.

I've always been preoccupied with the stories of old buildings; with the people who lived inside of them.  All those lives lit up and snuffed out over time; a time that stretched to infinity for its bearers and means less than nothing to anyone else. The rooms of an old house still hold the mark of previous inhabitants-- like the smoke that remains after you blow out the birthday candles. The land carries an echo of the memories once made upon that particular latitude. You can hear it if you listen hard enough. A melodic waltz in the empty ballroom of an old manor house. The mournful lament that whispers through the sugar cane fields in the deep south. In Scotland, a wail of bagpipes is the soprano, while the clash of steel marks the tempo of a battle hymn.

I've spent most of my life imagining the songs of places I've never been.

Across one whole wall of my shabby rented room is a collection of images of all the places my mind has explored but feet have not. China, Russia, Ireland, Prague; every country I've admired is represented in magazine pages and prints from online. Ancient castles and museums. A house built in Europe when America was still in its infancy. A circle of stones planted when no civilization should have been capable of moving them. Houses. So many houses, of every single style and type. My favorite thing to look at, my favorite to dream on. Did the architect who designed the house live to see it completed? Were babies born in the bedrooms? Had anyone died there? Or fallen in love? My brain buzzes with questions. My hands itch with the knowledge of all the stories that nobody will ever know. 

If no one knows your story, is it like you never existed at all?

That question is what's propelling my outing today.  Time seems shorter than ever lately and the future is less and less certain. And what if this is it? What if me, and Walter and this box-sized apartment that still smells like meth and whiskey from the last tenant, is the extent of my life? It's a more depressing topic than I typically let myself dwell on but in light of recent events I need to be realistic. If I'm going to suffer anyway, I feel like I should at least suffer in pursuit of something I enjoy.