The dynamics in my apology group are arse over tit. I call it Demons Club. I feel like Jason Bourne on a special mission every time I enter the Lion’s Den. There are people there who have been sent from the court, people trying to regain custody over their kids, people from different planets, aw dude. Everyone’s got a mask on. I have kooky dreams about the facilitators who run the show, they keep shutting me down with interruptions and disturbances. I’ll ask them, uber-politely, “What are you doing in my third eye at night playing darts on the back of my head?” They’ll reply, “Being tiny and small because we haven’t the balls to trouble you in person.” So I’ll say, like a fabled essayist, “Let me dream, you bas*tard, what kind of monster can’t abide someone else’s dreams?” Then, typically, I’ll begin to wake up. The walls will crumble and dissipate, and I’ll realize that everyone in the classroom are no longer flesh-eating zombies.
On a drug comedown, I readily admit that Demons Club would be literally terrifying. Scarier than the acid freaks and belligerent drunks are the sober voyeurs who come along to take pleasure in people ‘falling off their wagons’. Rather than a close-knit gathering of trustworthy addicts seeking solace in the supportive fellowship of each other, it seems to be a seedy underground network of fakers, fraudsters, pretenders and imposters. One was armed today. Pool ball in a sock.
Don’t worry, I’m in a friendly mood. Back to being a pacifist.
I’ve not seen Amy in a while, my old chum. She was so gifted at sharing, so eloquent. It didn’t matter if she were 1000 days clean or high in the meeting, she would give an honest account of her situation. Sometimes it was enlightening. Sometimes it was sad. I always felt acutely for her. Last time we engaged she was sat on a piece of cardboard in a doorway drinking and smoking. She reported wanting to end it.
My own standing can feel so untenable in public now and again that I get the rotten and wretched hasty impulse to suddenly kill myself too by whatever means necessary as soon as can possibly be.
This is nothing like a long-lasting suicidal ideation, which can be quite comforting, in a way. That goes something like: One day I will pass away and it will all be over. This one goes something like: I have to leave right now! I have to leave right now!
The ideation is romantic, you flirt with mortality. To give an example I find humorous, my boy Duncan, who suffers from health anxiety, once went ahead and paid for his own funeral flowers before he’d even killed himself. He bought them in the letters of his own name and took a picture of them for depression group.
The impulse is rash, untimely and inappropriate. It happens when my stalkers get close to me in person and up their harassment technique to the point whereby I find it tough to cope.
It’s also slightly embarrassing. I had no idea how hated I am, I think to myself. Why doesn’t nobody like me? Then, of course, there’s the dreaded why now? Why have you got me boxed in feeling helpless now, at my aunty’s wedding? Just drag me away to your lair and get it over with.
Psst…(they love ruining special occasions)
It’s similar to a panic attack. I’d call it a panic attack, a mortality call, a stalker skit, and a bout of pity-arse depression all rolled up into one. Fact is: It truly sucks to be me.
I nearly punched a stalker on the bridge of his nose last night. Then I remembered: ‘You shall develop a peace which surpasses all understanding,’ and blessed the useless cretin. Just stop pretending to be my pal when secretly you are planning my demise.
This peace is great, by the way. I’m untouchable with it. My stalkers are running around me all in a hissy fit, promising a bloody end when they chop my legs off. I live in the constant threat of danger, yet I can’t recall the last time I raised my voice. They crave despair and wit’s end terror. I just turn the other cheek and smile. Like Christ would do.
