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ceraphin-blog · 6 years

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Anergetic Warmonger

I was traveling by plane and landing in my favorite state (which happens to be Washington state). I love the smell of the rainforest which somehow makes me feel even more connected to myself. I had a 5-month-old baby girl, my first and currently only child and my now ex-girlfriend. We were going to be miles apart and I knew that this time would be stressful for her. I did worry but I knew I needed this. A retreat into the depths of the Puget Sound. Compared to my prior high desert living this place felt so alive! I was breathing deeply for the first time. The air that wraps like a blanket across chilled skin, the sky that now reflected my soul, and the greenery to show my lust for hope. All things made new, I think to myself. On the flip side my greatest distaste is revealed when I look around. I’m confronted by the cars and traffic that make the highway feel like reserve street at 5pm. My cab driver is a local and seems down to earth, full of life, young and upward bound. I vicariously soak up his vibes and resolutely turn my back on all worries. I foolishly think that this kid must have no stressors compared to what I have. This predisposition was probably wrong, but I’ll never truly know and maybe I’ll never learn. We drive down the road talking about his successes, hopes, and dreams. I bounce back with words of dishonesty. His joy drags me out of the mire, at least for now. I’ll keep focusing on where I am and not where I was because nothing else seems to be working. We drive what should have been 30 minutes for another hour and 15 minutes. We begin to pull up to the grounds, the grounds where I’d still find myself barred.

Most of my stories seem dismal but that isn’t who I am, it’s just how I was made. When I arrive to the office; to which the name of the place I’ve still omitted, I feel like I’m back in Virginia. The cultural diversity was real, and I felt like I was about to get issued a uniform. Thank God, none of that happened as I have a mental sigh of relief. I feel down to my packed bag full of clothes that would help me blend. I’ve always been a plain guy. There are a lot of people at this ‘resort’ of sorts. They all have different backgrounds some more intimidating than others. Little did I know that I would meet some of the most profound people in my life. I get to my shared room and try to find a bed with enough privacy to feel secluded. I don’t want confrontation or feelings, I just want freedom. It’s funny when we say the sun brings joy but why is it that depression just feeds dopamine when the skies are grey? The weight of the sky, the blanket of those staggering trees that look like they could lift you like feather. It’s mysticism, a realm of my childhood perhaps. I believe its true that men are supposed to be adventurers and something about getting lost inspires me. “Get Lost!” is more of a warm welcome than a deliberate provocation in my experience. When I finally settle down I put at least some of my things in their spot, not wanting to appear a slob around others. I pull out my 2011 MacBook Pro and, in my futility, spend hours trying to install a ported version of Skyrim on my laptop. As someone I overheard has said, Skyrim is the depressed persons dream, and I don’t think he was wrong. I had few passions left and all were quite selfish in hindsight; I still avoid this person from time to time as he comes back to rudely take the seat. I get a phone call and answer it, my ex was checking in. I wearily respond with great disinterest, and I hated that about me. I tell her I’m fine, wish the best, and sporadically inquire about how things are, knowing they hadn’t changed much in a days’ time. We say our goodbyes and I look around the room. I decide it’s time to meander to find something to eat.

The food they served was good and since we were on the west coast the fish was pretty good. Most others were complaining about how they could do better initiating the memories of my middle school life. Kids would poke and prod at their food and say the cafeteria food sucks and bluntly throw out everything except the main course. I laugh looking back because the main course was what they had complained most about. I grew up very thankful, we had very little then. My mother was my sole supporter, and to this day a couple of my brothers and sisters are those little kids she still cares for. I’m turning 27 in a couple months and I’m the youngest, if that means something. After taking in this memory most of which I had spent by myself trying to ignore the groups of people that walked past, I realized I had finished my food and began my short walk back to the dom. We had a group meeting led by the others in our group who had been there longer. They would talk about how we need to keep better care of ourselves and others. They also had a chant which Thank God, I’ve put out of my mind. As the reader you may have presupposed where I am, or maybe not. I call it therapy, or simply where the crazy people go and I’m not crazy. I don’t belong. Days would go by at this place and I would go to therapy groups to learn about depression, anxiety, or PTSD. Therapists seemed to have learned something because they seemed to understand that although they direct the group they shouldn’t be the leaders. They would ask a question and either everyone fired off wanting to put their two cents in or we’d sit there staring at each other afraid, or even unwilling to respond. A simple question can be so daunting or even unfair and I didn’t fit. Anger isn’t an emotion, it’s a reaction. When I would see people put up these defenses I became cautious. I am quick to make judgements, perhaps too quick, a fatal flaw of mine. I just knew one thing, I didn’t belong.

I like to believe I am well rounded, and I make connections to experiences like any other human. I mean just look at an advisor’s office, when you see all those little toys or momentous they do serve a purpose. Those trinkets serve to jog your memories and hopefully to make association. Comfort is found in the eyes of a good first impression and my impression of those around me is very mixed. In the rough stratification in our social groups some lead, and others are left to believe they are wanted. It seems the group really drew to me trying to connect with our very different experiences. At least until I started hearing of another who knew displacement, Adam Posadas the ‘Anergetic Warmonger’. Never had I felt so dim compared to another. When we met we had some free time upstairs. Another acquaintance who became a friend Nancy a mother of four always said she never felt free and happy as she did around me and thanked me many times. The traits I often miss about myself are the youthful and explorative side of me. When trying to think of positive experiences I’ve made it’s like I’ve hit a brick wall or better yet a devoid space. For some reason others will see it and I’ll accept the praise, but I’m confused the whole time. We talked for some time and he gladly showed me how a tesseract worked on a white board to which I was still confused by the end. All I knew was that one point was always moving. He also sang for us while playing cards later that evening to which I was very impressed that he was so operatic. When he caught wind of Nancy and I’s praise his mood shifted and he quickly left the room as if irritated by our response. I thought that was weird and way brash, but I was accepting. Besides, I still hardly knew the guy. Why turn away praise when you deserve it?

As time unfolded I began to share my experiences with others in the groups to which some of the most deserving affirmed my seemingly tedious trauma. I started to feel better about who I was though that would never change or take away the pain that I dealt with. Adam like me had PTSD, we struggled from similar events, and both of us had far reaching negative internal beliefs cemented in our souls. It was no wonder we connected so quickly as the days went by. We both knew what it was to feel hopeless and without belonging. We both had done things to disable our lives going forward. Hopelessness and longing are best friends with depression. I was only to be at this dom for 30 days and my time to leave was coming up. I had met Adam just 7 days in. We spent a lot time talking about things and trying to reaffirm each other in hopes that we would become better people. Adam as I had later learned had developed romantic feelings for me past my chosen barrier. I would often try to show that I cared deeply about him as a person but that I just didn’t feel that way.

This didn’t constrict our last days of conversation on my end but for him it would turn our conversations into an uncomfortable grey area. I eventually left the facility to return to Montana and found that I had lost much more than I had gained, much more than I have space for here. I grew so much in this sheltered place to realize I didn’t have the capacity to practice my new tools with the real world, but with what I returned to who would? For a time, I lost contact with Adam which led to a horrific end. Adam got out shortly after I left and like me he came home in Seattle to find that he lost everything. His boyfriend was sleeping with another man. He tried to reach out to me, but I didn’t have iMessage turned on, our only form of communication at the time. He had sat on a bridge all through the night and eventually threw himself off, and in his misery wrote one of his last letters to me. Today I live with the realization that I could have helped him if I knew. I occasionally read his last messages. He was a professional writer and had a lot to say. He became the biggest inspiration in my endeavor to writing. I keep looking back hoping to find a new piece to find what he would say now. I just wonder why he felt so alone, yet like him, I don’t. I know exactly what that feels like. Just maybe I do have belonging and perhaps if he had just waited a little longer he would also know that.

As an excerpt I’d like to take time to include a writing that he had made. Given that he mostly wrote children’s books they wouldn’t be as personal but his blog had much more to say. This is an early writing (January 7th, 2011, “It begins with blood”, Adam Posadas)

What is the price of things as they used to be? A single phrase. A single gesture. Even just a single drop of blood. That is all I need to know that magic hasn’t deserted me.

This late at night, desert heat still fills my place. I squat in an unfinished basement unit of a condemned apartment building. The air conditioner pumps in air that is only slightly less hot; it just makes my sweat-soaked shirt heavier. Three days have gone by since the moon was full. Every night as the moon grew I lit the candles and held the image in my mind: I stand tall and confident and I glow with inner radiance. In that vision I am powerful, and I am not afraid. Every morning since I started that visualization I wake with the dread knowledge that it didn’t work, that it’s still gone. It should’ve been better by last night. I should be better right now. Magic as I have always known it can’t be lost to me forever.

Source

https://adamposadas.livejournal.com/ Adam Posadas January 7th 2011 “It begins with blood”

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