Clinging

I feel like today is an exercise in trying to hang on. No, nothing is specifically wrong. The sky is blue and the breeze is blowing.

Something's just not quite right.

I cracked open a new book today, entitled "A Million Little Pieces," by James Frey. It is his account of 6 weeks in rehab. He checked in after he awoke on a plane that he didn't put himself on, with a hole in his cheek, a broken nose, various bodily fluids collecting on his clothes, and sans four front teeth.

I have been steadily turning the pages, getting more and more ill. I know nothing of pain or suffering. The night my parents stayed up waiting for me to return after an adventure that kept me out until 4 AM is nothing compared to what this dude's parents saw.

Sweet Jesus, I hope DJ doesn't end up like this guy.

For the past few days, I have only been keeping a half-step ahead of the anxiety and sadness. Every once in a while, it makes a move and threatens to disturb me. I am tormented by thoughts of him, and what it is actually going to take to get him to straighten up and be the man he could have been. At this point, I'd like for him to have slightly better-than-average odds of staying alive. That's all I'm asking.

I don't know what it's like to be addicted to something they put you in a hospital for--I've discussed this. What will be his moment? Will he end up with dental work and a missing chunk of time from his life? Or will he just end up dead?

In a perfect world, I could get him to stop just by sending him the lyrics of our favorite Billy Joel song with a small note saying, "It doesn't have to be like this." Maybe, in a ballsy move, I could send him this novel and write the same thing on the inside cover. He would frown, read the inscription, and re-read it. He might throw the book across the room, or crumple up the lyrics. Then, he would sit on his bed, in his purple room, and hold his head in his hands. He would remember how much fun we had when life was all about watching movies, eating as much Chick-Fil-A as we could handle, and fucking around in his basement. Suddenly, he would slam his fist into his palm and want to reclaim his life.

He would check in to a magical rehab clinic, where his desire to self-medicate would be quelled and his meds would kick in. He would pick up his guitar and write a chart-topping song. And, on the day that he walked out of those doors, he would understand that the sun was shining in celebration of his triumph.

...And the metaphorical hammer comes out and smashes this dream to pieces....

Because life rarely works out like this. Sandra Bullock really mislead us in "28 Days." Rarely do addicts see success early on. Just ask Augusten Burroughs. Jesus, just ask anyone. Who can stop cramming their faces full of hamburgers and coca colas? Who stops shopping? Which one of the holier-than-thou motherfuckers wandering this Earth can say that they tackled their dirty little secret the first fucking time they tried?

Even I'm not that high and mighty.

So, my darlings, this weighs heavily on my mind. It's hard to appreciate wonderful weather and all the amazing things life has to offer when someone you love is slowly killing themselves.

I guess eventually this will not be such a hot topic. I will soon accept the inevitable, and continue taking my digestive supplements and working out. I will chase health and weath and enlightenment, and soon he will be a distant memory. How depressing.

sunshine. g