August 12th, 2024 - Clay

Dear TNY,

I survived this week, barely, and “Clay” was this Monday’s offering.

At least it was interesting.  I don’t know if I was supposed to achieve transcendence, if that was the purpose.  But the writing was visceral and the tension was on point.  The phone scene was exceptional in its choice of details (the cord!).  Overall, it wasn’t a bad read.  I think I missed “the point” but, at this particular moment, I can’t blame the story for that.  This story, and many stories, probably don’t get a fair read from me right now.

I flew home on Wednesday after saying goodbye to my kids.  I don’t know when I’ll see them again.  They are happy, of course.  School year starting soon.  Clubs.  Girlfriends.  Jobs.  Lives.  Stability.  I walked into the Walla Walla house, knowing full well what I needed to do.  It’s time to leave this place. Move on.  But each time I opened a cupboard or turned on a light in a room to grab my belongings or tried to clean something…I couldn’t.  Here’s why:

-       Next to the couch is a small glass bottle with lavender in it, almost completely dried, little now-grey bits of flowers about its base, the remaining water in the bottle a greenish-brown.

-       The white pillow cases I put into the washing machine had small stains of red and yellow, remnants of acne that had opened in the night without my son’s knowledge.

-       Behind the tub, just below the black smudge on the wall, is a pile of ashes that were knocked off a joint.

-       Next to the lavender there is a metallic, turquoise-colored crochet hook.

-       The guitar is out of the case, wedged between the blanket box and the couch, right next to where he played it, the blankets used as packing to hold it up, having remained unfolded since the time one was left in the yard.

-       The jar of peanut butter, uneaten, my oldest having called to let me know he forgot to eat it.

-       The peach ringz vape under my pillow and the little, rubber condom to cover the tip on the nightstand.

-       The astronaut who makes the universe silently watching my every move from the table in the corner.

-       The tan glovebox lid from the Jetta, mangled from rapid disassembly, sitting on the workbench in the toolshed.

-       Another pile of ashes, this one on the tiled pony wall between the upstairs shower and toilet.

-       The 2x spicy bowl of ramen in the pantry.

-       The pint of milk in the jug left behind in the fridge.

-       The brown hair tie on the floor next to the chair in the room I’ve been staying in.

-       The rice paper, also in the pantry.

-       The green gator-pit Kinder toy that finally made it from the UK.

-       The sycamore pod beneath the TV in the main room.

-       The hair, my God the hair, that haunts every room.

There’s more evidence.  It’s everywhere.  And if it isn’t directly from them, it’s associated with something I did with them.  Who are they?  Well guys, for a very brief and fractured time, I had a family again.  And I don’t know why, but here I am packing up a house alone again, no family in sight. An act that has become far too frequent.

I say I don’t know why.  I know some of why.  But here is the one that has me the most worried right now:  I’m scared.

Something isn’t right in my brain.  The chemistry is out of hand now.  The panic attacks.  Nausea.  Gagging.  Tourette’s level outbursts.  Mania.  The urging toward the dark place even as I plead that I do not want to go.

I’ve reached out for help.  Got desperate.  The therapists both cancelled this week, strangely.  The drugs-for-drugs doc is unreachable as well.  The drugs I have don’t work anymore.  Hell, I reached out to the Ayahuasca group (I never deleted the conversation, you see, because I know I need help I just didn’t know when it was time) and they said, when told, “my brain is actively trying to kill me,” that, “I don’t think this is a good fit for you at this time.”  And I reached out to friends, sure.  All of which showed up on my phone to tell me I’m beautiful and the world needs me in it and hold on and…it doesn’t work.

J,

I could type 800 words.  80,000.  Eight million.  These, though, are the eight that matter:  I love you, I’m sorry, please come Home.

I need your help.  As I type from inside a brain that appears to be failing, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore.  I believe this is real and I don’t believe this is manipulation, but my brain is no longer telling me the truth; rather, it’s telling me a variety of truths that oppose each other.  I don’t have a high level of trust with myself.  I cannot explain why I changed for you when friends, family, and partners could not pull this off before, other than that you are magic.  I see now that my house needs remodeling. My dryer is broken.  The trash pile that was buried in an old pond in my front yard needs excavating.  The darkest parts of me, they need flowers grown in them.  Again, I can’t explain why, because it makes absolutely no sense to me, but it’s you.  The secret ingredient.  You’re magic.

I have to go now.  I feel pathetic.  Weak.  Incapable of basic human function.  Today is the last whole day here.  And there’s a lot to do.

Love,

Nick