Psychiatrist

I go to see my psychiatrist. The appointment’s at three-thirty. It’ll be done at four. Denise will pick me up on her way home from work, so I only need to get to the clinic on my own. I ride the bus and wait at the transit center for my connection. A man with black and gray hair pulled back into a ponytail bums a smoke and a light. He sings a song and dances. He tries to tell me about his daughters, but he doesn’t remember their names. I doubt that he has any daughters. I think he’s high on something and is hanging around the bus stop begging money and cigarettes from people like me.

My bus comes and I take a seat in the back. There are only three other people: a woman with two kids. They talk and laugh and climb all over the seats. The woman tries to get them to settle down, but they’re too young to sit still for long. They play with their toys and squeal. I can’t handle the squealing. I don’t mind them having fun, but the shrieking gets under my skin. I don’t have to put up with it long though. They get off at the airport and I have the bus to myself for a while. My legs bounce and tremble. I’m in a hurry and anxious about my appointment. I need to talk to my shrink about the voices and suicidal thoughts and I’m afraid he’s going to want to put me in the hospital again. I can’t stand the hospital. I can’t smoke in the hospital. I can’t write or take naps the way I do at home.

The hospital is all about schedules. Everyone goes to group. Everyone eats when they bring the food. Everyone sleeps when the lights go out. I hate the groups. They don’t apply to me anymore. I’ve been to them so many times that they’ve started to repeat themselves. I know all about stress reduction and relaxation. I know about crisis plans, even if I don’t have one anymore. I don’t want to hear about depression and suicidal thoughts. I don’t want to hear about coping skills. I do fine on my own. I don’t need that much structure in my life. I like a little play.

Right now, though, I have too much play. All I have are the few chores I need to do daily to keep my apartment clean. All I have is writing and walking. I sleep a lot, because I’m tired of sitting in my chair waiting for something to happen. I have no one to talk to. My hallucinations get the best of me sometimes. They run my life and I need to tell my shrink about them so we can adjust my meds to deal with them. But I’m afraid.

The bus comes up to my stop and I get off. I have a half mile hike to my doctor’s clinic. I light a cigarette and cross through traffic. I’m going to be a little late. I hate being late. I was late last month too. The busses aren’t keeping to their schedules very well, so I walk at a good clip past the shopping mall and the construction site. I check in at the front desk and find a seat in the waiting area. There are kids here too, waiting for their turn with their own doctors. I read a National Geographic article about Mayan ruins. It’s boring, but better than just sitting there waiting.

My shrink comes in and calls my name. I follow him down the hall to his office. He asks how I’m doing. I say that I’m fine. He holds the door for me. I take the chair next to his desk and look at all of his diplomas on the walls. There are six or seven of them. This man is way over educated. He looks through his notes from my last visit and asks how the intrusive thoughts are going. I tell him that some days are better than others, that the real problem is the voices. I can’t stand the constant noise. He asks what the voices are saying. Sometimes I hear my name. Sometimes I get a fragment or a command. Sometimes they tell me that I need to die. He asks if I’m thinking about suicide. Sometimes, I say. But I don’t have a plan. I just think about it.

He asks how my mood is. Pretty low lately. I’m having a hard time adjusting to life without Denise. He asks how often I see her. Once a week right now, but that’ll be over soon. Water polo season is almost done and we won’t have any reason to be at the same place at the same time. I worry that I won’t get to see her at all. I don’t want to be completely cut off. He asks if there’s any hope of the two of us getting back together. I say I hope so. I say I’m working on my habits and behaviors. I say I hope this is just a break. He wishes me luck with that.

He says that we need to up the Zyprexa. It should help with the voices and the anxiety both. It should help me sleep at night. I don’t tell him that I’ve been taking it during the day to help me nap. I don’t tell him that I’m sleeping thirteen, fourteen hours a day. He asks if I have access to a gun. No, I say. Good. He says I need to call the mental health emergency line when things get too rough to handle. I tell him that I have, but there’s not a lot they can do. They always suggest I go to the hospital. I say there’s got to be a way to handle this without locking me up so much of the time. He says that the hospital is sometimes the best option. I know, but I hate it. He says I have to be safe. I do my best. I haven’t been cutting or anything, even though it’s all I think about some days. He says that’s good.

Time’s up. It’s a short appointment, just a follow up. He says to come back in a month and walks me back up the hall to reception. I make an appointment and go down stairs. Denise is waiting for me in the parking lot. I get in and we take off. She asks how it went. I tell her about the Zyprexa increase. She asks if it’s helping. Mostly, I say. I have good days and bad days. She nods. There’s nothing much left to say. I don’t want to tell her about the suicidal thoughts. I don’t want to worry her or make her think less of me. I want to her to think I’m coping well without her. She needs to know that I can stand on my own before she’ll let me back.

Fear

I sleep for three hours, but then I wake and lie in my bed trying to slip away again, only the night’s taken me and I get up, dress. I go out for a cigarette and listen to the wind blowing the rain into the trees. There’s no one in the world right now. I’m alone and sad and a little sick. My stomach is tender and sensitive.

When I finish my cigarette, I come back in, get a Diet Pepsi and sit in my chair. I try to write, but the words peter out. There’s nothing on the ‘Net. I read the news and shake my head. The whole world seems to be afraid. People are dying all over the place. I want to be remembered when I die. I want people to read my work long after I’m gone. I want to be taught in classes and memorized by poets trying to impress their friends.

I try to write some more, but I’m empty. In grad school, my professors all said this would happen. They said you just have to wait for the well to refill. It’ll come. But I want it now. I worry about not writing. I worry that my last poem will be my last poem. I worry that my memoirs are too confessional, too misery focused. I’ve had a hard life, but I made it out and I’m doing okay now, even when I’ve managed to fuck everything up again.

It’s nearly four in the morning now and I want to call Denise. I want her to tell me that it’s going to be okay, but it’s not going to be okay. Not until I find a way to win her back. She’ll be getting up soon for work. She’ll get dressed and go out like a real person to her car. She’ll buy a coffee and drive. By the time she gets to her job, her coffee will have cooled and she’ll throw the last of it away. She’ll sit at her desk and go through her papers. She’ll make calls and enter data into the computer. Emergencies will crop up and she’ll handle them. At lunch, she’ll eat something before going back to her desk and diving back into the grind. When four o’clock works its way around, she’ll log off her computer and come home. The boys will be waiting for her and she’ll make dinner. They’ll eat and watch television. They’ll do chores around the house. They’ll play computer games. They’ll go to bed and sleep through the night.

All through this, I’ll sit and pace and try to find something to do. I’ll be bored and anxious and sad. I’ll eat something. I might get sick or I might not. There’s no telling. I’ll take my pills and nap, just to pass the hours. I’ll write and submit my work. I’ll worry about money and finding work, but I can’t work. I’m Disabled. I can’t hold a job like Denise holds a job. No one wants to hire me anyway. I go to interviews and try to be charming and intelligent, but my body shakes and people notice. They may or may not say anything, but they won’t hire me. No one wants to hire someone who shakes the way I do. My psychiatrist calls it part of the stigma of mental illness. He thinks the shakes come from all of the meds I’ve been on throughout my life.

I don’t call Denise though. She’s not there for this kind of thing anymore. She wants to have her own life and for me to have mine. Since the separation, we’ve stopped talking about how I’m doing, except when I miss something important. She called the other day because I missed my son’s choir concert and baccalaureate ceremony. She said she wanted to make sure I was okay. I just didn’t put the dates into my calendar and forgot all about them. It was a bonehead mistake. I told her I was fine. I felt stupid. The crowds at concerts and ceremonies stress me out, but I hate missing things. It’s the only time I get to see the boys. They don’t come visit me. I don’t visit them. When we separated Denise said I could come to dinner maybe once a week, but things haven’t worked out that way. I see them most Saturdays at water polo, but other than that, I only see them when there’s something going on. I don’t get any down time with them. Everything is in passing. We don’t talk anymore. I don’t get to hear about how their days go, or listen to them dreaming about what they’re going to do with themselves.

Five o’clock comes and goes. Six, then seven. The sun comes up bit by bit, filling my living room with gray light, chasing shadows out of the darkness. Crows cry in the trees outside my balcony door. Finches and sparrows chase each other through the sky. Clouds break up in a fresh breeze. It’s supposed to be nice today. I get my shoes and go for a walk. I go past the houses with their lights on. People come out and get in their cars on their way to work. They don’t notice me. No one notices me. I am a ghost. I smoke and move around the puddles in the sidewalk. Traffic picks up. I should go home and try to sleep some more. There’s nothing happening today to keep me out of bed, but there’s so much on my mind. I can’t settle my thoughts. I breathe and try to concentrate on my feet. Images and fragments grind against each other in my head. I am filled with noise. I can’t empty out. I have nowhere to go, so I walk down to the high school and back again.

Once home, I crawl into the shower. Hot water claps against the tub, my knees and legs, my chest and shoulders. I soak my head until the heat runs out. I take a couple of Zyprexa and hope they’ll let me sleep. I drink a Diet Pepsi and smoke a cigarette. The day’s running away without me. I have nothing to do. I try to write and grind out a poem or two and save them. I’m not really pleased with them, but I say I can come back later and save them. I surf the ‘Net and read the news. I check my email. I’m waiting for agents to get back to me about my memoir, but there’s nothing there. I listen to the radio and do a load of laundry. I fold shirts and underwear and put them in their drawers. I hang my jeans in the closet. I do the dishes sitting in my sink. I eat a peanut butter sandwich, but it comes right back up. I lie in my bed and think short, rough thoughts. I think about Denise working, about getting job, about getting a car and being able to eat again.

The sun moves through the sky and throws light through my bedroom window. I get up and go out for a smoke. I get my shoes and go for a walk. I follow the sound of doves calling. I count the number of steps I take. My legs are distant and a little weak. I sit on the curb and watch traffic. People walk past me, but no one says anything. It’s been days since I said anything to anyone. I haven’t had company or gone out in a week. I haven’t spoken on the phone to anyone. No one knows me. I am alone.

I go home where suicidal thoughts invade me. They come with pictures. Pictures of me bleeding out in the bathtub, of me drifting in my final sleep from a drug overdose. I tell myself that I won’t do it. I tell myself that it’ll pass, but I can’t help but think this is going to go on forever. I write a suicide note on my computer, delete it and write another. There’s no way for me explain my death to my family. They’ll never understand. Pain is subjective. They can’t know what it’s like to think thoughts that aren’t my own. They can’t hear the voices telling me that cutting a few years or decades off my life won’t really matter.

I go out for a cigarette and wonder about all the people in the world lying on their death beds. I think of all the people driving their cars into each other, of murders and suicides. They’re all abstract. None of it’s personal. My wife and kids are healthy and happy. They deserve a dad and husband who knows how to live. Right now I don’t. Right now all I know is that I want to cut myself. I want to add to the scars on my arms. Phantom pain itches through my wrists. I think I can handle it. I’ve handled pain before. I’ve broken bones and had stitches. I’ve had my gall bladder removed and that was real pain. It’s hard to recall exactly how much pain there was. The body is forgetful above all else. It doesn’t hold onto pain for long. I tell myself that the pain in my mind will pass too, but it seems permanent right now. It’s hard to look forward to forgetting when what you’re trying forget is so brutal.

My cigarette burns down and I drop the butt into the coffee can I keep on my balcony. I go inside and try to lie down for a while. I’m exhausted, but my mind is too full. My skin crawls over my bones. Invisible fingers run through my hair and stroke my neck. Spider and bugs clutter the walls and ceilings. There’s a man standing by the closet. He’s a shadow. He has no face, no eyes. He’s come to kill me though. Now I want to live. I’m afraid of dying. I can’t move though. If I move, he’ll see me. I tell myself none of it’s real. The man by the closet is a ghost. There’s no one there. But that’s the small part of my mind that’s always rational, even when the rest of me is insane with fear. The man turns and walks through the door and out to the living room. I sit up and watch him go. The door’s closed. He can’t see me now. I’m safer than I was a moment ago. I get up and dress. I hold my keys in my fist. Keys make a fearsome weapon if there’s nothing else at hand. They’ll cut and stab if you take them between your fingers like brass knuckles.

I open the door and step out, cautiously, slow and watchful. There’s no one in the apartment. Everything’s empty and quiet. I check the doors and windows. They’re all locked tight. I check them again. I get a beer and a knife and sit in my chair. The voices have dropped to a murmur. I go for another cigarette. I let the smoke into my lungs and feel the tension ease a little. There’s no one around. I keep the knife with me though. I feel safer with it. I draw little circles in the palm of my hand with the point. White little scratches that don’t even bleed. I can barely feel them. There’s no need to do anything dangerous. I don’t need to cut myself, but I think about it all the same. I tell myself I’m being silly. I know there was no one in the apartment. I know the voices aren’t real. But I don’t care. I can be silly if I want. Fear’s like that. It makes you do things.

Stupid Things

Euphoria fills me. Poetry spills from my fingertips onto the computer screen. I pace and talk to myself. I drink beer until my mind buzzes and I’m stumbling around my apartment. I need to get out. I get my shoes and go for a walk. It’s not raining, but it did earlier. Puddles fill the parking lot. Streams run around fallen branches in the gutters. The trees are all leaves and buds. A little wind blows in from the coast range. The radio says the rain will peter out and things will get warm for the weekend.

The college is empty except for maintenance workers and security. I smoke and move my feet. There are birds in the sky, filling the day with their voices. Cars whistle past. I make my way through campus and out the other side. I walk along Pacific Avenue, down to the grocery store. I catch a bus. I don’t know where I’m going, but I need to be out.

The bus fills up with people, but I don’t mind. They ignore me and I ignore them. I get off at the train stop and smoke another cigarette before boarding. There’s no one else on the train. I find a seat and put my feet up. The driver comes out of the building and enters the cockpit. He calls all aboard and the train begins to move. People load at each stop. A madman enters. He kneels in the aisle by the door and shouts about Jesus and the Apocalypse. I’m embarrassed for him. I wish he would just shut the hell up. I should be more charitable. He didn’t ask to be crazy. He didn’t ask for the voices in his head. But I have voices of my own and I don’t make a spectacle of myself. Maybe his are worse than mine. They obviously run his life. He gets off at Willow Creek and I’m relieved.

A girl boards in Beaverton and sits with me. A silver stud pierces her nose. A metal loop circles her lower lip. Green hair hangs straight to her shoulders. She looks at me and smiles. I smile back. She’s too young for me, barely more than a kid. We ride all the way downtown together without talking, but when we get off, I light a cigarette and she asks if she can bum one. Part of me wants to say no, but I never say no. Not unless I’m running low. Right now I have nearly a full pack and give her one. She thanks me. We walk together to Pioneer Courthouse Square. I stand on the stairs watching people move through their day. I sit on the bricks and smoke my cigarette. I get a cup of coffee from the Starbuck’s. I’m a little cold now and the heat from the cup warms my fingers. Green haired girl asks if I have a dollar. She says she’s hungry. I buy her a Danish instead. We sit together. She asks my name. Bill, I say. She says her name is Ed. She asks if I live in town. I say I live in Forest Grove. She says she lives close by. She wants to know if I want to get high. I think about it. It sounds good to me.

We walk through the crowd and over to Burnside. We walk up past Powell’s and over the freeway. We walk past Adult Fantasy porn shop to a brick building with glass doors. Ed takes me in and we climb to the third floor. She unlocks a wooden door and leads me into her little apartment. I can see Mt. Hood white and massive in the east. Daylight streams through the glass. Mold marks the wind frames. There’s a couch and a bed, a dresser and a trunk. Laundry lies on the floor. An ashtray sits on the coffee table.

Ed goes to her dresser and gets a pipe and a baggy of weed. She loads the pipe and puts the lighter to the rim. She sucks the fire into the bowl and inhales. The weed smells rich and sweet. It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled that smell. I take the flame to the weed and pull the smoke into my lungs. The first hit doesn’t do anything, but the second and third do. Pretty soon, the world pulls back. Everything is ringed with sparkling lights. Sounds echo.

Ed leans back on the couch and closes her eyes. She asks what I’m doing in the city. I tell her I just needed to get out.

I light a cigarette and stand in the window watching traffic. Ed comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. She says I’m awfully cute. I put my hands on her wrists and hold them for a second before pulling them apart. It’s nice being touched again, but I don’t know this girl. I don’t know what she’s into. I’m not looking for sex.

She asks if she did something wrong. I say no, but I’m married. She asks where my ring is. I dig it out my key chain and show it to her. She asks why I don’t wear it. I took it off one day and couldn’t get back on. My fingers had gotten too fat. She says I’m not fat. I say I’m fatter than I used to be. She says I must have been a stick. I was. I was all bone and muscle. Now, I have a little bit of a gut. Meat hangs from my skeleton.

Ed goes back to the couch. She says there’s beer in the refrigerator if I want one. I get one and open it. It’s only Corona, but it could be worse. It beats Miller or Coors.

I drink my beer and Ed and I talk about what we do for a living. Ed’s out of work, but she’s thinking she’s going to audition to be a stripper. Strippers make good money. I tell her that I’m on Disability, but I write. She asks what’s wrong with me. I tell her I’m bi-polar. She asks if that’s why I shake. I say no. She asks what I write. Poetry mostly, and memoirs. I tell her about being an addict and being locked up in psychiatric hospitals when I was a kid. I tell her about being homeless. She says she was homeless for a couple of months once. Her grandparents finally bailed her out. That’s how she got this place. Her grandparents pay the rent.

I sit with her on the couch and drink my beer. I get a second and swallow it down. I get another and it goes to my head. My face is all tingly and hot. I’m dizzy. I set the beer on the coffee table and lean back on the couch. I close my eyes and feel the room swing around me. Ed asks if I’m okay. I tell her I’m fine, just a little light headed. I’m going to be sick soon. I go into the bathroom and force myself to throw up. When I’m done, I feel a lot more grounded. I can still feel the alcohol, but it’s not so bad. I come out and tell Ed that I need to get home. She asks if I’m going to be okay. She says I can sleep on her couch if I want, but it’s the middle of the day and I want my own bed.

Walking back downtown, I’m a little unsteady, but I manage not to fall. I catch the train and doze with my head against the window. My stop’s the last one on the line, so I’m not worried about missing it. Once I make it into Hillsboro, I’m feeling better. My face is still hot, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

I have a ten minute wait for the bus into Forest Grove and there’s a crowd. I sit with my back against the shelter and smoke a cigarette. Rain comes in, a simple mist. It feels good on my face. I wonder if anyone notices that I’m half drunk. No one says anything. It doesn’t matter if they do notice. I’m not being a bother. I tell myself that I’ll be fine. No one cares.

The bus comes and I board. There are no seats. This could be a problem. I’m pretty weak on my feet and the rocking of the bus throws me into the people around me. I apologize and try to steady myself. The ride home seems longer than the ride out. All I want is to lie down. Once home, I lie down on my bed. It sways and my stomach’s sour, but I’m not going to be sick again. I feel a little silly. I should’ve known better than mix weed and beer. Sometimes I do stupid things.

April’s Separation

April calls me in tears and says she needs to talk. Can I meet her someplace? I ask her what’s wrong. She says she’s kicked her husband out, that she needs someone to lean on. I tell her she can meet me at My Place. I give her directions and tell her I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

My Place is a dive down the street from my apartment with lopsided pool tables and a jukebox full of country music and old rock songs. I used to go in a lot when I was in college. It’s been a year or more since I’ve been in. It’s still grungy and dark. Drunks still huddle over their drinks at the bar talking politics and sports. I order a beer and find a table in the back, away from everyone. From the way things sounded on the phone, April’s going to need some privacy.

April enters and blinks in the darkness, looking around for me. I get up and wave. She comes straight to me and we hug. She thanks me for coming. I tell her it’s not a problem. She says she needs a beer and goes to the bar. She orders and waits. She pays and brings a pint of something back to the table. I ask her how things are going. She says she finally got the guts to ask her husband to leave. He called her all kinds of names, but he packed up and moved out. She doesn’t know where he went. She doesn’t care as long as it’s away from her.

April’s husband is mean and makes fun of her. He calls her names and says she’s fat, even when she’s not. April’s been thinking of leaving him for a while, but she didn’t because she was afraid of what he’d do. He’d never hit her, but she thought he might if she kicked him out. She was afraid of his temper. And she didn’t know what she would tell her kids. She still doesn’t.

We go out for a cigarette and sit at the tables on the sidewalk. She says she’s just so tired of the drama. She says she’s ready for her life to settle down. I tell her it’ll take a while, but things will get better. She asks me how long it took me to get over separating from my wife. I tell her I haven’t yet. Not completely. I don’t know that I ever will. I want to get back together with Denise so badly, that I still cry about it sometimes. I have panic attacks and wonder how I’m ever going to make it without her, but then it passes and I’m fine for a while. It comes and goes. April says I’m lucky to still love Denise. I don’t know about that. Things would be a lot easier for me if I didn’t want her so badly. I wouldn’t have to worry about what she thought of me all of the time. I wouldn’t have to work so hard on my habits. I could just live my life.

April says it’s going to be hard not having her husband around. Even when he was being mean, he was there. She’s gotten used to having a man around. I say she has her kids though. I don’t have that. Not that Denise is keeping the boys from me, but they’re so busy and we don’t have much in common. Ethan will be going to college in the fall and Jake is starting high school. Nate’s already gone and I never hear from him. I worry that I’ll not have a relationship with them after they’re grown. I don’t have anything to do with either of my parents. They’re toxic. I don’t want my kids to fall into the habit of not talking to me. They’re already closer to Denise than me. Denise makes all of the decisions. She does all of the parenting. The kids turn to her for help and support. I’m just a body that happens to be their father. I want to be more active in their lives, but I don’t know how. I have so little to offer.

I tell April she has to stay in her kids’ lives, that she can’t just let things happen. Kids stray when you do that. I say she needs to let her husband stay in their lives too. He has a right to be an active parent too, no matter what’s happening between the two of them. She says she knows, but right now she just wants to get away from him. She wants to be on her own for a while before having to think about the kids or her husband. I tell her that she might not have time. I tell her that holding the kids back from their father could get to be a habit. It’ll be easier to live without him in their lives at all, but she can’t afford to take it easy. She says she knows. She says it’s just so hard. I say I’m sorry. She cries a little and dabs at her eyes. I want to hold her hand, hug her, something, but I don’t know how.

A Weird Proposition

I wake and go out for a cigarette. The smoke rises off me like a string, twisted and frayed. Cars go by on the street. A robin shits not more than a foot away. Squirrels run through the trees looking for food. It’s dry now, but the rains will come. The sky is gray and black with water.

Inside, I get a Diet Pepsi and check my bank account. I’m low on cash and need a pack of cigarettes. Denise is supposed to deposit my Disability check today. I have bills to pay. I need the money. I don’t want to nag her though. She said she’d get it done and she does. There’s eight hundred some dollars in my account. Half of it goes to rent, but the rest of it is mine. I need to save a couple hundred for the trip to Virginia to see my son. Nate’s in the Navy and stationed in Norfolk. We’re all going out to see him for a long weekend. We were going to head up to Washington, D.C., but Nate couldn’t get a pass that would let him go that far, so we’ll stay close, visit the beach, maybe go see Williamsburg.

I walk up the street to the convenience store and buy a pack of cigarettes and more Diet. A friend of mine from grad school calls. I haven’t heard from Butch Girl in months. She was supposed to invite me to her wedding a while back, but I never got the invitation. Used to be, we hung out once or twice a week, drinking beer and smoking and talking poetry. She fell off the face of the earth though. She met a girl and settled down. She even likes the new girl’s kid.

Now she calls and asks if I want to get together. I don’t know what’s made her call me now, but I’m lonely. Hanging out sounds good to me. I tell her I don’t have a car though. She says she’ll drive out to see me. We’ll meet at the Grand Lodge for drinks at three.

I have a couple of hours to go before meeting Butch Girl, so I clean some and write some. I submit some poetry. I check my email. Nothing. I’m looking forward to getting out, even if I can’t really afford it. I need to be more social. My therapist will be happy.

At two-thirty, I change into a clean t-shirt and get my shoes. I walk through town. The Grand Lodge is a couple miles away. I don’t mind though. I’m feeling good today. Stable. No voices or shadows. No paranoia or anxiety. I feel human. I walk and smoke and think. I start a poem in my head. The first line comes to me out of nowhere. They do that. I don’t need to get out and do things to write anymore. I just make shit up as I go. I can taste the rhythm of the poem as I walk. I hope I can remember it later when I have a chance to write it down.

The Grand Lodge is a big brick building. It used to belong to the Masons. It was a nursing home for years. Now it’s a hostel, bar and restaurant. People sit on the porch smoking. I go in and find a table in the bar. I order a Diet Pepsi and wait. Butch Girl shows up a few minutes later. We hug and she orders a beer.

She asks how I’m doing. I tell her about Denise and me separating. I tell her about getting my habits under control. She nods like she knows what I’m talking about. She says she and her wife are doing good. She says she likes being a step-mom, that the kid is smart and independent. She doesn’t have to do much parenting.

I ask if she’s been writing. She says she hasn’t had much time. Sometimes a poem comes to her complete and she writes it down, but she’s not submitting. She says she feels bad about that. Grad school was all about getting published and now she’s not even trying. I tell her it’s okay. Some things take precedence. She nods.

After a bit she says she has something she has to ask me. She says she and her wife want another baby. She wonders if I would be willing to be a sperm donor. I don’t know what to say to that. Butch Girl says I’m the smartest guy she knows and talented. She wants to know who the father is. I say I don’t know. I would have to think about it. But what is there to think about? Having a baby with another woman would ruin any chance of getting back together with Denise. I’d have to tell her. You can’t keep things like that secret. Denise would hate me. I don’t say no though. Even with kids of my own in their twenties, the thought of another baby is exciting. I like being a dad, even if I’m not that good at it.

Butch Girl says I wouldn’t have to have sex with anyone. Everything would be done artificially. She says I wouldn’t have to have any parenting to do. I wouldn’t have to be a dad. I’d just go to a sperm bank, donate and go home. I’d be free to live my life, but I can’t imagine having a baby in the world and not being part of its life. I’d want to visit. I’d want to watch it grow up. Butch Girl says maybe we could work something out. I say I’m not sure I would be the right guy. I’m crazy and poor. Butch Girl says she’s not worried about that. She says they just want a baby, come what may.

I shake my head. I tell her I’m flattered, but I don’t think it would be a good idea. I tell her that I can’t just make a baby. I tell her that Denise would never forgive that. Babies are life changing and my life has changed enough already. She nods. She says she understands. She says she had to ask. I say I’m sorry. She says it’s okay. Things get quiet and awkward between us for a while. She finishes her drink and says she needs a cigarette. We go out to the porch and light up. I ask what she’s going to do now. She says they have some options. She says I was her first choice. It’s nice to know that people think I’m smart and talented, but this is a bit much. I don’t know what to say.

I wonder what kind of parent Butch Girl would be. She drinks too much. She’s sloppy and messed up. Before meeting her wife, she went home with a new girl every night. Even when I was there, she was cornering women in bars. She didn’t bother to hide her habits.

If Butch Girl’s judgment hasn’t improved, then she’s going to ruin her kid’s life and I don’t want to be part of that. I’m crazy. I smoke far too many cigarettes and generally indulge myself in every way possible, but when it comes to kids, I’m pretty conservative. Kids don’t pick their parents and it’s a parent’s job to make sure a kid’s not fucked up. I raised three pretty normal kids by hiding my habits from them as much as possible. I tried to keep a level head and a fair hand with my sons. They’re good boys and are doing well in the world. I worry that Butch Girl’s making a mistake having a baby. She doesn’t have a clue what it’s like raising babies. No one does, but Butch Girl’s impulsive and self-indulgent. She puts herself first always. You can’t do that with kids. You have to step back and let them take over your life and I don’t think Butch Girl can do that.

We go in out of the rain and order another beer. We talk about work and writing. Butch Girl asks what happened with Denise. I say I let my habits get the best of me. I tell her I was drinking too much, stealing money and lying. I tell her that Denise couldn’t take it anymore and asked me to move out. I tell her that I’m working on myself and trying to get back together with Denise, but I’m not sure how it’s going to turn out. She says maybe it’s good that we’re taking a break. Maybe we need time apart to appreciate the time we have together. She says she’s sure things will work out. I hope she’s right, but I’m not so sure. I’m miserable without Denise. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t feel like I have any reason to go on living. Butch Girl asks if I’m suicidal. Sometimes, I say. Most of the time, I’m just in a funk. I don’t know how to live like this. She says I seem fine. I tell her I try to be normal, but most days I just wander around my apartment waiting for someone to talk to me and there’s no one there. Denise doesn’t come home at the end of the day. The boys aren’t around to distract me.

Butch Girl says she wouldn’t know what to do without her wife. She says she loves being in love, even if there’s no more running around or excitement from catching new girls. She says it’s hard not to cheat sometimes, but then she remembers her vows and the impulse passes. I’m glad she’s happy and settled. I worried about her for a while, but now she seems truly content. I wish I was content again. I wish I hadn’t ruined it. Suddenly, I want to be alone. I want to sit in my apartment with a beer and have no one bother me. I finish my Diet Pepsi and say I need to go. Butch Girl looks a little put out, but she doesn’t say anything. She offers me a ride home. I take her up on it. We talk about our wives some more all the way to my place. I would invite her up, but I don’t. I want to be alone. Maybe I’ll take a nap.

I say thanks for the ride and that I’ll see her around. She says she’ll call me. She says we need to hangout more. I say sure. Call me. When she’s gone, I climb the stairs to my apartment and go out to my balcony and smoke a cigarette. There’s so much noise inside of me. I don’t know what to do. I shake and worry that I’m losing my mind. The voices start in. Shadows come and crowd me. Everyone stares at me. They know my secrets. I am wide open and everyone knows how weak I really am. They’re just waiting for me to let my guard down before pouncing. They’re going to take me out and there’s nothing I can do about it. I finish my cigarette and lock all the doors and windows. I pull the drapes and sit in my chair with a knife. I count the number of breaths I take. I count my heartbeats. I would go online and try to pass the time that way, but they can track me through the ‘Net. They know what I’m doing. They know what I write, what I read.

I need another cigarette, but I can’t go outside. People watch me when I’m outside. They have rifles and scopes. They can take me out without my even seeing them. I wouldn’t even know what hit me. I try to lie down. I put the knife under my pillow and lie on my belly with my hand wrapped around the handle. I close my eyes and try to empty my mind, but the voices are jagged and sharp. They cut through me, leaving me raw and exhausted. I take four Zyprexa and wait for them to push the world away. Things will be okay, soon. The pills always help.

Graduation

I get ready and I sweat. I shake and worry. My middle son’s graduating and I have to go. There are going to be a lot of people though: five hundred students and their families. I’m not looking forward to it.

Denise and my youngest knock on my door. They’re early. They’re going to go over and get good seats. I’ll wait for my in-laws. We’ll walk over together. I only have a few minutes until they show up so I stand on my balcony smoking. My mother-in-law calls. They’re lost. They’ve only been to my new place once. I talk them in and go down to the parking lot when they arrive.

My mother-in-law hugs me and asks how I’m doing. She smiles and we talk about the stress of being alone again. She says I look good, that I’ve lost some weight. I don’t tell her it’s because I haven’t been eating. Making meals for just myself is hard. I don’t get hungry and when I do, I go for junk food instead of making something good. It’s easy with the convenience store just down the street and the real grocery store is clear across town. I spend my food stamps too quickly, then, at the end of the month, I go days without eating. I lose weight. I look good.

Walking over to the commencement, we talk of traffic and the crowds. People mill around the parking lot, smoking, talking, laughing. Graduates walk around in their caps and gowns. Excitement makes everything clear and sharp. The line of people is ridiculous. It runs from the parking lot, down the hall and back again before emptying out into the gym. I don’t know how they plan to get everyone in. There has to be a couple of thousand people here. Fire code has to have something to say about it.

People push and brush past me. Everyone keeps touching me. I cringe and breathe. I tell myself that I’ll be fine. No one wants to hurt me. But I can’t help the anxiety. I keep my eyes on as many people as possible. I plan my escape. There are doors along the hall. Maybe one of them is unlocked. Maybe I can hide behind one if something goes bad. I ball my fists and try not to push people out of my way. I just want this to be over.

We get to the gym and they take our tickets. Denise is in the front close to a door. She and Jake stand and wave. My mother-in-law sees them first and points them out. We make our way through the crowd. Denise is smiling. She looks good when she smiles. I miss seeing her like this. I miss her all of the time. I feel awkward. I want to hold her hand, let her comfort me, but she doesn’t do that anymore.

We talk about Ethan. He’s a valedictorian, an honor student and an athlete. He’s going to college with two full ride scholarships: one from Denise’s work and one from the Navy. He’s going to be an engineer. I took forward to seeing him. He’s been so busy; he hasn’t had time for me.

Even with his honors, he’s been putting everything off to the last minute. It’s Denise Lorraine nuts. It worries me. I can’t procrastinate. I obsess until I’m done with whatever chore I have to do. I obsess on what people around me need to do. I can’t control them, but I want to. I nag sometimes. I push people until they either do what they need to do or get crazy mad at me. I can’t help it though. I don’t want to let people down. I worry what others would think if I failed. Most of the time, I keep my life simple. I don’t get involved in time sensitive activities.

We talk about a family camping trip coming up in a couple of weeks. We’re all looking forward to it. It’ll be nice to be around people I trust again. I just don’t know how we’re going to work out the sleeping arrangements. Denise has a tent big enough for the two of us, but does she expect me to share the air mattress with her? Or am I going to sleep on the ground? I would like to sleep with Denise again. Just sleep, no sex. I just want to hold her until I feel like sleeping. I miss having her in bed with me. I tell myself that it’s no different than when I would nap in the middle of the day while she was at work, but it is different. It’s harder. I feel so vulnerable without her in bed with me. I don’t have anyone to hold me when the nightmares come. I have no one to tell me that I’m going to be okay. I spent twenty years in the same bed as Denise and now I’m alone again. It’ll take some getting used to.

The graduation starts ten minutes late. They have to close the door on the last bit of the line. People fill every seat. They stand in the aisles. Everyone stands when the graduates come in. They file through the crowd, snaking up and down every aisle so everyone gets a chance to snap pictures. By the time they get to their seats, my knees are quivering. I feel weak, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want my family to think me a pansy.

When the graduates are in their seats, the speeches begin. They move along nicely, but it’s still a long time to be sitting on the folding chairs they’ve provided for us. When the speeches are done, they hand out the diplomas. This is the biggest class the school has ever had, so it takes time. My butt goes numb. Cramps threaten to knot up my back. After Ethan gets his diploma I step out for a cigarette. I need to move. I need to be away from the crowd. I need some air.

A few people stand out in the night with their cigarettes. I stand near them. One of the women keeps sneaking peeks at me. She asks if my name is Jim. I tell her no, I’m Bill. She says I look just like someone she used to know. I get that sometimes. I have a pretty generic face. People sometimes mistake me for someone else. I’d like to be more individual, but you can’t change your face.

I finish my smoke and work my way back into the crowd. I step around people, trying not to touch them. Touching makes the anxiety spike and I need to get back to Lorraine. I make it with only a little contact. I take my seat and watch the last of the students get their diplomas. There’s one more speech, but it’s short and to the point. It’s entertaining. When it’s done the students file out and the crowd begins to break up. Getting out of the building is difficult. There are no lines now. Everyone crowds into the hallway, pushing and jostling. My stomach bunches. Sweat runs down my back. I shake. Pretty soon, we’re out though. Ethan’s waiting for us. It’s started to rain some. Denise takes a picture of Ethan with his grandparents and they take a picture of him with us. We all start walking back to my place. Ethan runs into some friends and walks with them since they’re going our way.

Back at my place, Ethan changes out of his shirt and tie into shorts and a t-shirt. The school’s having the senior party at an athletic center in Tigard. He needs to get to the high school to catch a bus. We all say our goodbyes and everyone takes off. I stand in the parking lot and smoke a cigarette. I don’t want to go up to my apartment. There’s no one and nothing for me there.

Voices, again

The voices are pretty bad this morning. I wake with them, just a whisper at first like listening through a thin wall to a room full of people all talking at once. I lie in bed trying to go back to sleep. I don’t have anything to do. My writing’s not working. All I get is ideas and false starts. My apartment is clean and the dishes are done. There’s laundry, but I won’t have the money to do that for another couple of days.

The noise in my head grows louder the longer I lie there. I can make out fragments and words now, mostly my name and snickering. My voices don’t like me. When sentences starting coming through, they tell me I’m going to die, that I shouldn’t fight it. They tell me that I’m useless and ugly. They tell me that no matter what I do, nothing good’s going to come of it.

After a bit, I get up and dress. I go out for a cigarette and watch the squirrels and birds in the trees. It’s still cool but it’s supposed to warm up. The sky is clear and going from the dark gray of night to a soft pearl colored dawn. There’s still no one about except for a few cars on their way to work.

The voices are getting angry now, commanding. They tell me straight out that I should kill myself. I try to not listen, but it’s hard. They shout and scream. There’s laughter there too, nasty and bitter. I start planning. I don’t have any razors in the apartment since I don’t shave, but I have knives that would do the job. I have pills too. I don’t know if they’d do the job, but they’d knock me out long enough to get through the tough part of suicide: the waiting. I’d take a fistful of Zyprexa and Depakote and run the knife through the tendons in my wrists. I’d run a hot bath and sit with the water getting more and more bloody until I passed out. By the time anyone found me, I’d be long dead. But I don’t really want to die. It’s the voices that make me suicidal. I’d do just about anything to make the voices go away.

Instead of killing myself, I get a Diet Pepsi and call my shrink and leave a message. He never picks up. Most of the time he’s with another patient, but this time I really need his help. I call the crisis line and talk to a man there. I tell him about the voices and the plan. He asks if I need to go to the hospital. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I can’t smoke in the hospital and there are crazy people there. Crazy people make me crazy. They talk and shout. They walk and rock. Mixing the noise from the psych ward with the noise from my head is toxic. I get jittery and anxious and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The guy on the phone says he can send an ambulance to take me in, but I say it’s not that bad. I just wanted someone to talk to. He asks if I’ve contacted my doctor. I tell him I left a message. He’s asks if I can wait for the doctor to call back. I say I’ll stay safe, because that’s what he wants to hear. I don’t want him sending the cops out. I don’t want to have to explain to a normal why I feel like dying. The guy says to call again if the voices don’t get better or if I feel like there’s no way to stay safe. I say I will, but I won’t. These people don’t know me. They don’t understand what it’s like to hear things. They act like they care, but they don’t. Not really. After I’m dead or locked up or whatever, they’ll be home with their families, telling my story to everyone they meet. I don’t want to be conversation fodder. Calling for help was a bad idea.

I hang up and sit in my chair and drink my Diet Pepsi. I surf the ‘Net looking for something to kick start a poem, but there’s nothing, but doggerel and crap. I watch Buffy episodes on the computer. I can’t focus on it. I skip between it and an essay I’m working on. I write and delete it and start over again after a few words. I can’t believe it’s this hard to put together a piece. Most of the time the words just flow. I don’t know where I’m going when I start, but I always know the ending when I get there.

My shrink calls back and asks how I’m doing. I tell him about the voices and the plan. He says I should go to the emergency room. I tell him I can’t. I tell him I have no way of getting there. I ask if there’s anything we can do without me going to the hospital. He says I can take a few of the Zyprexa. He says it might be a good idea to up the dose if I’m having problems. I ask how many I can take. He says to take two extras for now and to up the dose to one and a half every night. He says to call him if things don’t get better soon. I say I will and hang up. I take four instead of two Zyprexas and sit in my chair again, trying to write, but there’s still nothing in me. It’s been over a week since I’ve written anything worth keeping. I try to go with stream of consciousness, but it peters out after a few hundred words. I have to think too hard and the words bunch up like garbage gathered in a corner.

It only takes a little bit for the Zyprexa to hit. The day narrows down. The sunlight falling through my balcony door becomes fuzzy. I can count the dust motes floating there. The voices retreat to whispers again. My eyes get heavy and I’m tired. I get another beer. I go out for another smoke. The noise of the day is muted and distant. The people moving on the sidewalk are surreal, nearly artificial. I notice the way they swing their legs from their hips when they walk. I notice how they hold their arms. Details stand out.

I go in and lock my front door. I finish my beer and undress in my room and lie on my bed. The blankets are heavy and hot. I kick my feet free and lie on my belly with my eyes closed. I don’t know how it happens, but when I look at the alarm clock again, three hours have passed easy as a river in its bed. I don’t want to get up just yet because I’m not looking forward to the rest of the day, but I need to use the bathroom and smoke a cigarette. So I dress and use the bathroom and get a Diet Pepsi and go out to my balcony. The sun’s high in the sky now, throwing down warm light. I stand in the sunshine and smoke and wonder how I’m going pass the rest of the day. I don’t worry too much about it. Something’ll come up.

At least the voices are still whispers in the background and the shadows have stopped jumping at me. Now all I have to do is make it through the boredom. I sit in my chair and surf the ‘Net. I check my emails, hoping to hear back from agents and publishers. There’s nothing there, but junk. I read some, but I can’t concentrate. I get through a few pages and my mind starts to wonder. I put the book down and try to write. The words come easier. I tell myself that I’ll keep whatever comes. I write an essay about suicide. I write out the plan and the things the voices say. I write about the shadows and the ease with which I could just end it all. It turns into a kind of last note.

I fantasize of making money from my writing. I make lists of things I would wish if I got three wishes. I would be able to control every atom of my body. I would have unlimited spending power. I’d be the most commercially and critically successful writer in the history of the English language. When I finally manage to drop off, I dream, but I don’t remember what. I get up once to use the bathroom, but go right back to bed. No nightmares haunt me. My body is gentle and swaying with sleep. When the sun comes up, I start all over again.