Is this just me?

Tears. Are stuck inside. As i paid my bill to a meal that I couldn’t eat, I thought the floodgates would open upon leaving. For once  my face would be kissed with tears. I was wrong. I walked to the ocean. Stared into a darkness that was only interrupted by the saliva of the waves crashing. Fought the torment. The desire to numb. Feel the pain, I plead with myself. I question, what does that mean. 

I write as I fight the path of which offers comfort. A support that I can offer myself. Requires no one. It calls my name. yet, I have been so good. So proud. The consequences swirl insignificantly to the strength of the solace, my drug.

I fight. I try to write. I sit here, in torture. With this pain, this keyboard and words that are not flowing. Words that are not healing. The sadness stuck behind these veils that are eyes. The pain, this void is inexplicable. 

This morning my tear ducts were also activated, yet also not fully employed. But the catalyst was happiness. A fragment of a dream. A passion felt. A plan. It still breathes, but my heart is suffocated, constrained and I wonder how it continues to beat. I hurt.

I am on the brink of something that awakens me, the me that has long been asleep. So close to finding a feeling that I forgot how to feel. Passion. Yet within the same day, now I sit, hollow. Lonely. I think of the players in my life, the cast of which I write. I think of the texts that fill my phone. And the texts that escape it. I breathe, move and live with a void. The highs, the dreams, the excitements I have felt only emphasize that I am not whole. That there is no companion, family or friend with whom to share. That when i need, suddenly no one is there. 

 . . . And the pain that this is me. And it will be, always.

Armed

I hear one of the company’s partners hitting his desk, his ritual when he erupts in laughter or anger, but the banging strengthens, closing in from all directions. Construction perhaps? Perplexed and indifferent, I am too intent on satisfying my afternoon coffee cravings. 

“Attainingme, Attainingme …..get….. get out here.” My colleague’s sputtered screams. The words spit, distraught, terrified, fumes coming out of a broken muffler. Simultaneously, the building shook. The banging besieging our banal office. Chaos. An altercation, a fight? Between who?

I turn the corner from the dark server room that doubles as a faux kitchen– a safe serves as the table for splenda, sugar and that horrible powdered milk constantly hardened by San Juan’s humidity. His hands are up. He staggers backward. Unmistakable aggression in unintelligible words. My steps lead me and I expect to see two strangers pummeling each other on the ground of our second floor foyer.

 One more step. And no one is on the ground.

One more step and the hallway’s surprise awaits me. The barrels shine. Three guns point at me. The closest, within a foot.Two remain pointed at my colleagues. I hate that hallway.

“Who else is in the building??” the five of them demand. “No . . one. No one,” we stammer.

Our hands up. My coffee, left somewhere … I don’t recall.

Confusion. Death. Moments. They are all fleeting. I am no stranger to guns. Yet, I have never been confronted with one three staring at me with intention. In moments like these, an aesthetic detail to focus on doesn’t exist. The chambers, the barrel, a small dark one way tunnel–a game of chicken, with no competition. The bullet wins.

Theses moments are chaos. Dreamlike images only remain. A blur. I don’t remember much. The American in the red finally said to put our hands down. I looked to my right and noticed my hands  in surrender position. Embarrassed, I was. Their vests, continued action and commotion. The building reverberated as they attempted to clear the five floors. Dismayed to find just us. As if the closed streets, helmuts, two federal agencies were not so carefully orchestrated to find an empty building with four employees.

The fifth floor is locked. Their excitement mounts as they demand the keys… Which none of us have. We reach for our phones, our blackberries. Drop them. We are sequestered to a couch. The air conditioner does not breathe. And we sit. They run our ID’s. Our socials. Local and Federal. Where is the search warrant? “With the case agent,” said the one who later pulled it out.

Fear. Uncertainity. 

Tactics. Procedure. Intimidation. 

Blanket consent. 

Venezuela was safer. 

A circus. Agents everywhere as I peer through the second floor windows. 

Three hours. Jokes. Laughter for what else can you do. “You are strippers right?” It was our receptionist birthday. No such luck. 

“Thank you for providing some entertainment,” the very attractive, earlier dictator, commented as he checked my laptop, clearing me to finally leave, finally have water. Wahoo. Not quite. He walked me down to my car. I don’t give him my number. It is not the time. It is not the day. I am sure he can find me should he want. He is an agent, right?

Adrenaline. These moments. They linger. Your blood changes directions. Your cells change shapes. Something remains. Even should it be nothing, you are now different. Knocks. Bangs. Hallways. Take a different light. 

My body. My mind. Caffeinated. Drugged without substance. 

The evening was later drowned in Margaritas. We laughed. A company happy hour, we never have. The laughs are forced. There is a fear. A concern. 

I search my phone. My address book stares at me blankly. I send a text to Caballito. It goes unreturned. 

That morning, I had noted my gratitude for my drug’s week quiescence. But, the late hours of the evening stretch. My thoughts turn to anger as I notice  Caballito’s evasion. I comfort myself. With the only way I know how.

I hope you don’t stay

I lay in my bed. Perpendicular. Every which way. My body, immobile. Unable to get up. It has returned. Clouds of indifference. A thick fog over motivation. I was asked about this unmentionable the other week. I happily noted, dormant. I suppose I said so too soon.

It has returned. With increasing attendance. The voice in my head to escape, a devil on my shoulder. I forgot how powerful he was. Its habits, seemed long removed. But, now they are here again. Sunday and Today. I dealt with the consequences. I fear that this voice will grow louder if I don’t stop it now. But, how?

Why am I so sad that I must escape? Why can’t I logically recall in those moments that the short escape has far worse consequences.

Addiction. It’s a curious thing. The fuel behind it is often not the chosen escape, be it drugs, alcohol, food, sex, etc. The addiction lies in the decision. The decision provides one with control, when life seems to be offering none. An addict is calmed before they reach their drug. Soothed by the option- the voice speaks and they imagine their acquiescence. The drug is support. Self-provided. You need not be vulnerable to someone else..

An ability to mute thoughts. Stand at the helm. 

Numb. Escape. Control. 

 

I think I would prefer tears.

Why I started this blog

I lay here on the beach, the sun although masked by clouds, is glaring in my peripheral. The desire to shut my eyes and escape is much like my normal tendencies. I am typically hyperactive and one who when the activities come to a halt (most often at night when I should be crawling into bed) numbs myself from my subconscious- much like an alcoholic, however my chosen drug is not alcohol. More to share about that later.

My desire to start this blog is from the introspective dialog that plays in my mind and from the realization that this dialog is much healthier than the numbed mind produced by my “drug”. So, this blog is my therapy, my purging of my suppressed emotions. You are who I trust. You are my therapist and if you become my friend, it will be an unconditional one as this blog will not be written with filters.

As all things in life that we devote inordinate amounts of time to, there should be a mutual and societal benefit. You are my cure. I offer you whatever may come from reading my musings. I make no promises, but this blog may inadvertantly result in perspective, learned empathy, lessons in love, sex, money, confidence, and a visceral experience of my life as the unconventional learning how to happily chase the unattainable.

— Now, sandy, salty and sun-kissed me

“As evolving human beings, we are inherently imperfect and we’re not capable of reaching perfection, because we are in a constant state of development. But the path to evolutionary enlightenment is paradoxical, because I have found that the most appropriateposture for consistent higher development is one of ceaselesslyreaching for perfection while knowing full well that we’ll never be able to achieve it. Only reaching toward that which is absolute—ever striving to attain the unattainable—puts the self in a position to consistently evolve. ” – Andrew Cohen