August 26th, 2024 - The Narayans

Dear TNY,

Monday.  “The Narayans.”  Shit.

There are two positives about this story.  The first is the tiny scene with Mr. in the car, smoking cigarettes, with the shower cap on because he was dying his hair.  The second is that this story is 3400 words long.

That’s it.  I could not care less for any of these characters. 

I’m having a hard time caring about anything other than one thing these days.  You can see that I’m still on Earth, which people say is good.  After last week’s letter I got really, really low and went to a pub I used to go to when I lived on the Olympic Peninsula.  I submitted stories for publication.  The drugs had me.  And I listened to “What Was I Made For?” on loop for an hour or so (I’m listening to it now).  I got a strange phone call.  I know people are concerned.  But are they (I can tell you that when you really are in the dark place, people kind of avoid you because they don’t know how to help)? At the end of that night I saw that I was beautiful once more and I went to bed.  The next two days brought complete apathy because of the meds.  I kept trying to remember what I was so fucking sad about.  Why was I this wrapped up about a girl?  Why did I ever get sad about my kids?  Why is my father’s death a shitty thing?  And my brother died and I blew up a marriage and no matter what I do, none of these relationships work, and so what?  I walked down to see a friend and on the way down I had a mini epiphany.  These drugs are a lie.  They are lying to me about what’s important and what’s not.  And those voices in my head in Walla Walla that started all this?  They are a lie too.  I don’t want to die, even though they are asking me to.  They are just a response to the amount of pain I’m in.  Like, can you imagine?  The pain is so great in my soul that the only way the brain can process getting past it is death.  Fucking death.  So I’m living lies instead of in-between lies.

Oh, today I lost a belt hole. I’m so down in weight. Probably 20 lbs.

I talked to the therapist about how I felt nothing.  We talked about the weather because my problems weren’t problems at that minute.  We talked about his life.  It was nice.  And then the next day the doom was right back at the edges.  This undulating monster was writhing around my existence, ready to pounce.  And I tried to keep it at bay, but as I was hitting new depths she texted about exactly what I asked for and didn’t want:  Money.  And I got super fucking sad again and my heart starting beating hard.  Not an increased cadence, but beating so hard I could hear it. Loudly.  And I was stuck in a miles-long line of cars waiting for the goddamn Hood Canal Bridge to lower because some jackass wanted out on a Friday morning.  I had three panic attacks on a three-hour drive.  I gagged the whole way. 

Guys, I miss her so fucking much.  I love her so fucking much.  And it’s eating me alive.

Fuck, I just started writing a list of shit I love about her. Deleted. Trust me, it was, like her, breathtaking.

I’m fucking dying. I can feel it.

Anyway, I made my way to Tacoma again and I couldn’t play pinball anymore.  Then I talked to a friend about all this and I’ll save you the long of it, but the gist is that I wasn’t ready for that relationship and she wasn’t ready either.  We got what we wanted but we both stuck to our own shit such that we blew each other apart.  I have work to do.  I see now why neglect is the worst abuse that someone can perpetrate on me and why everything hurt so bad.  I need to develop some tools to keep me from destroying myself and my relationships when neglect is happening.  I need to focus on patience.  And I need to get a better & faster grasp on how to articulate that to a partner in a softer way.  I have shit to do for sure.  But at the same time I deserve someone who shows up for me. Chooses me. I need to articulate that too.

So there we have it.  I still believe 100% that it’s her, guys.  More so than ever before, actually.  My mind, at this point, has beaten the drugs.  I cry again.  I miss her constantly.  I’m in agony.  But that’s par for the course.  I choose the wrench.  This is what I was made for. 

Today I walked in the ocean and caught gigantic crabs.  I listened to the water.  I took a short nap in the sand.  Yesterday my son called me on his drive home from work to bitch about his manager.  And I told a story to my sister in line for the ferry today about how my ex and I drove through a herd of bison deep in the Rocky Mountains on the way to Alaska when we moved there in 2007.  I have lived an exceptional story.  It doesn’t have to be over.  I want it to.  Because I can’t imagine living without her.  And I’ve already done what I wanted to besides that.  But everyone says I should keep going so I’m going to do that, I guess.  For now.

This shit is so weak.  Pathetic.  I am not in control.  But you know what?  That’s how I know it’s real.  I’ve beaten everything.  I can’t beat this.  Love wins again.  Like a fucking champ.

Oh man.  The doom is fucking everywhere.  Time to get sucked back into it.  Sorry.

Nick

P.S. I want to tell you about all the signs, the owls in the Childs’ sense of things, the amount of reminders that she is it and I need to stay the course and do the work and Zoltar and songs and energy rivers and insanity and madness and Love, like the goddamn Mississippi flowing through all of this and the seams of existence are bending and stretching and I’m getting a peek at what all this about through this experience, but you’d have me committed. So I won’t tell you. But guys, this is transcendental.