I have always been alone. I have no idea how to be alone.
I went to the gym yesterday, as I do most days, and most often, I go and am alone. I walked in and saw someone I knew, there with a friend. We spoke, briefly. An exchange mostly about planned suicides, mine in particular. And birthday parties. His, in particular. And my next, which, currently, coincides with my planned suicide. Then, we went on our ways.
I was pedaling on the recumbent bike when another friend approached. I have known her since we were sixteen. Many, many years. We had a deal then, if by the age of forty, neither of us had wed, we would wed one another. She wed. I didn’t. We have gone very different paths from our meeting way back when, cast members in a production of “GODSPELL” – my first turn as Jesus.
She congratulated me on looking ten years younger. Ten years younger than what? And I told her that since I had stopped smoking I have devolved into rather serious depression. She said, “Call your doctor, tell them you just need something to get you through.”
I don’t have a doctor. I don’t have insurance. I don’t have the facility or paperwork at the moment to visit a free health clinic, and I certainly don’t have the funds to purchase psychotropic drugs to “get me through.”
Get me through? What does that mean, really? Through what? I’ve been looking for something to “get me through” since I was – well – for as long as I can remember. I always – ALWAYS thought that just around the corner would come that time where I would feel the “aha – here is where I belong.”
Never. So, instead, I managed to cobble together a life where I told stories and helped other people find “aha” – even if it was just for the length of the time I embraced them and told them they were perfect who they were.
But I, I have always been alone. In this head of mine. Looking for a way to get through. And, frankly, now, I don’t think there is a “through” – there is no other side. I take full responsibility. I am an idiot and an emotional cripple and a moron and delusional and misguided and everything I’ve done and most people I’ve loved have been mistakes. So the fuck what?
The point? There is none. So, why then, am I going to the gym again in an hour?