34 | Bipolar | Student
March. 2012. Muncie. Indiana. I am in bed and I notice:
I am thirty-four years old—my walls—cinderblocks painted like biscuits.
You used to have a beautiful home—walls made of pine—turquoise stone.
I am sweating—and the temperature outside—in the low to mid sixties.
You sweat in the eighties—the seventies now and then— if the air is shut off.
I smell a film—sweat from my body—a mild scent of burnt chocolate.
You haven’t showered in days—your excuse—a drain blocked with body hair.
I feel my arms and legs—twitching and shaking—more than ordinary.
Your breakdown in ’07—the shaking—it reminds you of the time you lost control.
I cover my stomach—my rubber ball filled with carbonation—it hurts.
You have the instruments—the tools—to bring relief if you allow them.
Still. March. 2012. Muncie. Indiana. I am at my computer and I see:
Photos—all at least four years old—I don’t want new pictures of me right now.
You’re a rotten fuck—that’s what you are now—with a looming gut and hairy back.
Photos—muscular—lean, ripped, two hundred pounds, rigid biceps, cut shoulders.
Women desired you—your strength and capacity—the elements of attraction.
Photos—smiles of joy and gratitude—filled with ambition, hope and promise.
It’s how you felt at the time—back in your twenties—your mainstream of youth.
Photos—eyes gleaming white and radiant blue—gazing at the world with adoration.
Today your eyes are shaded umber—hopeless—departed with vascular tension.
Photos—arms wrapped around and hugging friends—actual people in real life.
They’re gone—all that’s left—counselors and psychiatrists doing their jobs.
Every. Day. 2012. Muncie. Indiana. I am on campus and I watch:
Girls—too much skin for me to handle—tight denim shorts do no good.
You’re deviant—wanting to fuck them all—why can’t you fear God instead?
Professors—full of hugs and kisses—I prefer discipline to affection.
You need a curb-bite kick to the skull—to be gassed with pepper—to be broken.
Classmates—it’s hard to call them peers—all so young and sometimes stupid.
You try to remember—you’re too old to understand them—but still.
Kids—they walk in groups—four or five at a time or coupled at least.
You walk alone—nobody wants to be seen with you—you’re old and embarrassing.
Girls—my eyes fill with lust again and I can’t help it—so many girls wearing so little.
Get over it, sicko—they’d never fuck you anyhow—even if you had money.
Every. Day. 2012. Muncie. Indiana. I am in counseling and I think:
Nostalgia—Nostos + Algos—Nostos: to long for the past. Algos: to bring misery.
You miss all that you had—a career, money, self-esteem, friends—they’re gone.
A career—making music with others—my dreams realized in a hard-pressed world.
You were respected in your field—but it’s too late to go back—you’re a bygone.
Money—I had a good financial standing—I had no debt and I did not borrow.
You were able to buy—all that you wanted—now you can’t afford a goddam thing.
Self-esteem—I was proud and accomplished—happy with what I made of myself.
You loathe yourself—it’s all gone to shit—all you have left is a false hope for progress.
Friends—I had so many—I wasn’t alone unless I wanted to be.
You have few remaining—in Denver and Nashville—phone calls aren’t enough.
Often. 2009. 2010. 2011. 2012. Indiana. I sit and I reflect:
Nashville, Tennessee. The time I lived in a house with pine walls and highlights of turquoise—a place with no biscuit-colored cinderblocks—a place to escape (just for a moment) all the good in my life: friends, career, workouts, gatherings—a place where I could choose to be alone if I wanted—a place with no half-naked girls to distract me—a place with no media, no internet, no cable—a place filled with books, guitars, canvas and paint—a place for rest and simplicity—a place I didn’t need to converse with myself—the place I left to enter the world I now call nostalgia.
Photo Source: The Full Moxie
© 2012 Jay Scott. All rights reserved.