My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

So, my friend, Kim, is over, all lazed out in my cushy red leather chair. Kim all pale, black hair tied back in a pony-tail, her soft blue eyes watching Fight Club with my blue-green eyes watching Fight Club just the same. She looks all languid and cozy, an angel without wings to fly away. Still, before I talk about Kim, and Fight Club, and my twenty-third tattoo, I should talk about my room.

The room’s practically a goth club, dark purple walls, doors painted black, a deep red ceiling to match the cushy leather chair. The purple walls aren’t bare though, that would be boring. They’re covered in art, some unique, some not. Cemetery photos, koi swimming in a tranquil pond, a sad looking girl sitting in a chair, pieces drawn or painted by friends with talent in such things. Sure, I have a few mass produced pieces. There’s the Brooklyn Bridge canvas from Urban Outfitters, the bridge where Henry Letham was in too much pain to stay. There’s the wrought iron IKEA mirror. People say it’s a comfortable room, dark, yet warm, inviting. Not that it was always so. The way it is now, all stylish and alluring, it reflects the me in my head. Two years back, however, it was drab, empty, with pale green walls covered in anime artwork that seemed brilliant when I was twenty-two. At twenty-six, the room reflected nothing but apathy. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t care enough to tear it apart and create something more me, something beautiful and decadent. It took a little shove to wipe away the apathy, it took a woman. This woman, I loved, the sort of love that makes a fellow happy to take a zombie bite for her. Two years ago, we were apart but still friends. Not that I didn’t want her back, not that it didn’t drive me crazy just looking at her. I wanted her with me again, in that room, tearing each other’s clothes off at night, waking together in the morning. So, when she said to me one evening, in that dull room, her sitting on the floor leaning against my bed, “look, I just don’t think I could be with a guy who has anime art on the walls,” I got clear. I forgot about the trache, and not talking, and months in the hospital. In a few weeks, I created a space that reflected the me that wanted a lover, and friends. Not that apathetic kid who spent every night alone, with only academic knowledge of what it’s like to touch a woman, naked and vulnerable, until she begs you to come inside. We did tear each other’s clothes off again, we did fall asleep warm together, waking up in the little goth lounge I created for us.

Fast forward to me two years later, to me without that woman I loved, gone for good this time. I don’t hate the room, I don’t want to burn it down. I want to bring new life into this space. Just now, I’m thinking about a woman who I want next to me in the dark, someone who’s smart, and gorgeous, and different. A woman who makes the room feel like it’s supposed to feel. I think about slowly kissing her, running the tips of my fingers under her chin, down her neck, toward the of places of her I haven’t seen.

Fast forward to me and Kim watching the end of Fight Club, to the part when the narrator says to Marla just before the whole controlled demolition thing happens, “you’ve met me at a very strange time in my life.” That line really hit me with Kim sitting there. I met Kim not too long ago, but we hang out a lot. We get along perfectly. Yet, it always strikes me that people who meet me now, post-trache, post Sara (the ex from paragraph two), don’t really know how different my life was three years ago. I was a shit writer, didn’t have assistants, didn’t leave the house without family, didn’t have any friends who weren’t online, didn’t paint my nails, didn’t have tattoos, didn’t drink, didn’t know what it was like to get high, never had a girlfriend, never had sex. In three years I’ve changed all that, and I lost the ability to talk, and almost died in the middle of everything. I lost Sara twice, the first time was bad, the second time was worse than getting trached and realizing that I’d never be able to speak again. People see me out with an assistant and think I’ve been doing it forever, but I’m still having so many new experiences, and learning, and adapting. Whenever I do something new with an assistant, or a friend does something, like, gives me a drink through my feeding tube, I get all excited. It’s not so much that I’m surprised that I have all these new experiences, it’s that I’m just astonishingly happy about them. Independence is like a drug, and the more I live the life I’ve always seen in my head, the more I know I can’t go back. The thing is, I’ve never thought like I’m disabled, I’ve never expected less for myself than a fellow who can walk. I mean, I’ve never expected to go hiking, or swimming, or to drive a car, not that I even want those things, but I’ve always expected having friends, and lovers, and autonomy. My problem was, and to a point still is, access to levels of independence that most people get without even thinking. I get really frustrated and often very depressed if I’m not moving forward, or if I feel like I’m moving backward, people don’t always understand some of the reasons why I get so down. I always want to tell people, “you’ve met me at a very strange time in my life,” and now I don’t have to say it. It’s etched into my arm.

I haven’t written anything in so long… I’m starting to forget how it works.

She has gorgeous brown eyes, warm and alluring. The first time you saw them, her eyes smiling at you, you knew you were gone. You knew you’d do anything for those eyes.

Her inviting brown eyes say everything, one look and you know she’s brilliant, you know she’s kind, you know you want her.

You do want her, you want to know her, to know what makes her happy, what makes her sad. You can talk with her for hours, and it feels like minutes, it’s as easy as breathing, just as natural. You know her so well, yet not enough, never enough. You want her eyes to always reflect happy, you want to protect them from sad. Her brown eyes make you want to hold her close, to touch her soft skin, to gently run the tips of your fingers down her cheek, around her lips.

Her eyes lead to her smile, lead to her to her lips, lead you to a kiss. Her kiss is beautiful oblivion, makes a whisper out of so much noise. Still, it’s her seductive brown eyes that make you want that kiss, a kiss more intoxicating than any liquor, any drug.

You wonder what your eyes tell her, if they say, “I love you,” when words aren’t there.

You do love her, and you’re afraid to say. You’re afraid, but you want her to know just the same.

I’m going to write again, really.

So, I have another tattoo, my twenty-second tattoo. Usually, I’d write all about why I got it, what it means. Usually, I’d post a picture. Usually, I’m totally transparent, but not this time. I don’t think I want to share this particular tattoo with the Internets. I think it’s my most important tattoo, a tattoo about letting something go, but I don’t know if I want to say more. So, for right now, unless you regularly get to see me without a shirt, you won’t get to see this tattoo.

In the morning, I get another fresh trache. I’m definitely not nervous, and for a change. I’m definitely not depressed. The drugs are going to hit me, and I’ll fall asleep happy.

I’ll fall asleep thinking about friends who have helped me feel like my old self again. I’ll fall asleep thinking about a woman with gorgeous brown eyes, thinking about the way she looks at me, how much I really do love her. Her, so smart, so beautiful. Her kiss, something better than any drug I’ll get in the morning.

So, I’ve been pretty depressed for a solid year, with very few bright spots. For the last few weeks, I haven’t been able to write, or think straight, or anything. Living in my head hasn’t been a good scene. I’ve hated myself for so long, ever since Sara (the ex) left. I blamed myself entirely for losing her, and that sort of guilt felt like a rock on my chest. I quit being me, I quit moving forward. I just wanted to go back, back to when I was happy, back to waking up next to her in the morning. I felt like I would never be whole again. Fortunately, that feeling has passed.

I’ve recently had a change of thought, I honesty feel like my old self again. I don’t blame myself for what happened, I’ve let it all go. I see a good future again, I don’t feel lost and broken. I finally feel right again.

I was mad, but now I’m not. It’s time to move on, it feels good to let go…

I don’t think this song needs any explanation.

There are a few writers I really admire, they’ve made me better through their craft. They’ve not only helped make me the writer I am today, but they’ve helped me feel better about life during some times when bleeding out seemed like a really good idea. So, if any of these people need anything, ever, I’m always down to help.

Catherynne M. Valente is one of these people. She’s written some of the most hauntingly gorgeous things I’ve ever read, The Labyrinth, Apocrypha, Palimpsest, all brilliant. Unfortunately, this economy absolutely fucking sucks, and getting published doesn’t necessarily make a writer rich. Bills start piling up, cash doesn’t come in like we planned, and really bad things start happening. It’s obviously not just a writer problem, it could happen to anyone. It’s happened to me. When life sucks, I think it’s important that we help each other out. The person you look out for today could be the person who looks out for you tomorrow.

Right now, Cat Valente is having a really rough go of things, and she could really use a hand. She needs help to stay afloat in the middle of a flood, and she has a fantastic idea for doing so. Let’s not let Cat drown, she’s too awesome. If you’ve never read her, definitely pick up a few of her books. Like I said, they’re brilliant.