Vortex of Dostoyevskian Agony
I dedicate this to Anastasia from Sex, Life and Frilly Bits, a dear friend and one of the first people I met since starting this blog in February, 2007. She really made my day. She hails from Australia - her writing is fearless, powerful and brilliant. You should read her work, she is simply one of the best. Thanks Ana! Though this piece is extremely disturbing, it was inspired by something we talked about several months ago. Check out her CSI idea for the popular TV series - I love it!
I read a fantastic article from Catatonic Kid entitled The Secret Garden. The final lines describe how madness and melancholy have their seasons. It’s so absolutely true. Here, I describe a deeply personal season of my own:
There remain only memories, of who I used to be. All that remains is a shell. A dehydrated husk; cracked, dried and discarded. Forgotten. On a wisp of wind, I vaguely tasted the scent of who I used to be; a man full of hope and dreams. I became lost. Millions of faces everywhere I look, yet I feel dead. I feel alone. The remnants of self identity - once my only companion - is dead. Nothing remains but the fragrance of smoke - the forgotten embers of a singular life, lost in my crypt of eternal dread.
I prayed, that if God exists, he would take my life. I prayed, that if Satan exists, he would throw me in his blistering pit of scorching fire. Neither came through. Now, I try to scrape the cobwebs and dust from my rusted soul, but I cannot find it. It seems lost, and so am I.
vortex of agony
I wrote the following poem to myself to remind me of living - to perhaps be heard by the me I no longer recognize.
If so sad
why don’t you cry?
If only I could
happy I would be
cold lonely path of desolation
my tearless heart
my empty stare
my dead dream
barren room of isolation
my endless pain
my lifeless soul
my misery
it’s all I know…
I remember when my grandmother died, I didn’t go to her funeral. I didn’t cry. I already felt so horrible, even the death of a loved one seemed so far away. I was so numb, I didn’t feel anything. I felt incinerated. I felt so dead, I didn’t even notice the pain my family went through. Have you ever been filled with such hellish agony, that no matter what happens, it cannot be heard above the screaming blackness of despair in which you already suffocate? That’s how I felt that day.
I feel something. I smell the aroma of crisp, summer breeze. I so long to feel the warmth of life and love caress my empty face. I cannot laugh. I cannot cry, I cannot die. I simply cannot. I am not there anymore. The me I used to be isn’t there to even wish for something. I still hear echoes; the tormented wretchedness of my past cries, but they fade into oblivion - forgotten by deafened ears - a dehydrated carcass of torment, anguish and endless heartache.
Nothing remains but an empirical sense of disgust and suffering. Now I sit in the corner of my dying chamber, on a rotted wooden stool - hoping to take not another breath - but still I breathe. I await the gates of Leviathan to swallow my soul, because I know, it has to be better than this.
I had a repetitive nightmare, which personified my inner pain and served as reflective allegory. I would never even consider suicide, and the following nightmare was merely my subconscious reminding me to love myself. Dreams often mean the opposite of their content. Here’s that nightmare: I placed the barrel of a shotgun beneath my chin and shot myself - brains, blood and meat blasted a splattering geyser of scarlet noodles across the floor. My dead body still sitting upright in my dying chair while I watched, floating above myself. Somehow…I am still here. Without love. Without hope. All by myself.
But I am Resilient and Strong
This describes just how severely I was depressed at one point in my life, but I pulled myself out of it. The point is, no matter how much despair or loneliness we experience, it is not impossible to overcome. I often hear stories where people look to loved ones, their spouse or friends to help them through these saturnine fusillades. What if you don’t have someone like that to turn to? What if you’re truly alone and only have yourself?
This is how I felt at one time and it made things much worse. Imagine a soldier entrenched in warfare. All his comrades talk about how getting back to their loved ones is all that keeps them going, but he has no loved ones waiting at home. He doesn’t really have a home. Imagine how much more difficult it is for him. Happiness is his eternal albatross - an insurmountable feat of impossibility. Cynicism it seems, has asphyxiated every droplet of hope. The fight to overcome the impossible becomes his reason to live. You must allow yourself to be powerful, because you are. Simply being alive, is in the most primordial sense, the reason to live!
This is where you have to love yourself, because sometimes, that’s all you have. I don’t want to feel separate from the human race, and writing helps me feel connected. As so eloquently described by Fyodor Dostoevsky in his masterpiece, Notes From the Underground, perhaps I am afflicted with the “disease of acute consciousness”.
I know this may seem an extremely depressing article, but it does have a purpose, a positive purpose. For me, this is a way to purge negativity, using the written word as a catalyst for my most dreadful emotions. It’s like the feelings inside me are splattered across this page - no longer inside of me - no longer part of me. My words are vomit stains on the pretty white walls of my blog. There is no other way to say it.
*The picture is from the Wikipedia Commons.
*Don’t forget, I am a writer and this is an example of extreme emotional expression. I am getting closer to a purely individualistic style and I’m here for the journey, not the destination. This is but an exercise in artistic articulation - my interpretation of Dostoyevskian themes.
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Whoa, excellent piece, Bobby. Absolute emotional precision - Really was a bit like looking down the barrel of a gun. I sure understand how necessarily cathartic words can be.
Thanks C.K. that means a lot to me! I must say that writing has really saved me. I think to people suffering from depression, happiness has a much different meaning. When I am happy, I ask no questions, I just enjoy it:)
I’m glad that writing has saved you. You have such a talent for it. I love how you describe things in such detail. It seems easy to see things from your point of view, if only temporarily.
Thanks Teeni! It does my heart good to know there are a few people out there that actually read what I write. It seems the more depth writing has, the less people are interested - people run from it like it’s a bomb…lol
AUCK Bobby - I am not exactly chipper Mc Happy Beaver… but what’s with all the depressing bits lately.. I have a few months before my seasonal affective kicks in and I’d rather enjoy Fall before I get sucked into the long winter duldrums. You should save this for then and I’ll be all over it …
Anyway I thought you were all conservative- but you are on my blog telling me you read BAT PORN… I can’t believe you read that book and you know what I am talking about…
Hi Michelle: Hahaha…this is meant to be an article of hope, not depression. Winter is my favorite season, mostly because we don’t have one here - it’s one long subtropical summer. If I lived in Wisconsin, I’d be a summer lover. I didn’t read Burt Ward’s entire book, I only skimmed through it while in my dentist’s waiting room (it’s his fault). You’re right though, it was quite shocking. I’m only fiscally conservative, not socially
Your dentist had that book in his waiting room???? and you let the guy work in your mouth…. ewwww.
@Michelle: Yes he did. He also had copies of Maxim and lots of liberal propaganda. The last time I went, I woke up in the chair and my belt had been loosened a few notches
That’s from a Seinfeld show… I only let Jer work in my mouth and then I post pictures of it online…ha ha
I knew this all started to sound familiar- I haven’t seen Seinfeld in ages-
haha! I knew you’d catch that. Seinfeld is my favorite comedy of all time. My favorite characters are George and his father:)