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Timothy Ballan
2010
Disclaimer
I refuse to use quotation marks in such a way that envelopes any
commas or periods not suggested by the quoted material. For
example, quoting a child saying the words "I don't want to go now",
I did not put the comma within the quotation marks, as the comma
is not suggested by the child's words. On the other hand, I will end
this next sentence in a different way. As someone once said, "Use
your head, not your rule book."
With a similar emphasis on clarity over convention, I also
follow dashes with commas at times. Even if preceded by a dash
as I will now demonstrate, I retain commas that retain usefulness.
Beyond just punctuation, though, I'd hope abundant clarity pervades
my writing, from word order, to sentence structure, to overall
presentation of ideas.
Chapter One
A Somewhat Symbolic Dream, Recorded in
2003
Tim walks up from his newly-remodeled basement bedroom into a
newly-remodeled tiled breakfast room, welcomed with the tightlywound screamings of his sixth-grade anorexic Greek control-freak
teacher, Ms. Kairos:
"You're late!!! We've all been waiting for you to take the test. You
can have two minutes to review your study sheet."
"What's the test on?"
Nick forcibly whispers, "It's vocablesson twenty, man! These are
hard words!"
"Nick? Am I dreaming? ...I mean ...what's Ms. Kairos doing here?
We're not in sixth grade anymore..."
"Duh... but you better start studying up! Your backpackit's over
there!"
The extreme confusion on Tim's face only grows as he slowly lifts
an unfamiliar bag onto his lap to open it. Despite confusion, he
feels led to shuffle through hundreds of crumpled papers with
escalating intensity as they spill all around him. He only recovers a
study sheet for lesson 20 vocabulary after one of his two allotted
minutes, though. At the very end of this remaining minute, Tim is
still poring over the very difficult but very similar words.
"All right... Everyone, put your papers and bags under the desk and
take out a pencil"
"NOOOO!"
dish.
"I don't know... I don't trust those."
"Oh, come on!"
"You don't know how long they've been here!"
Carrie eats one anyway, tauntingly chewing in Tim's amused but
disgusted face. They laugh. After a few moments, though, they
both joltedly sit up, alert at the sound of a distant slammed door.
Tim starts, "Was that what I think", and then realizing, "it... was."
Sighing but with an only slight undertone of upset, "Let's just wait
and see if she comes down here... We don't really have to worry
yet."
They sit stiffly enough to restrict their own breathing.
screams are heard.
Distant
"Timothy! Where are you! You better not be able to hear me! If
you're down here, I swear you'll be a dead man! I'll call the police!"
It is clear that Ms. Kairos has entered into the first corridor and is
running and while banging on and slamming doors.
Tim whispers, "There were doors up there?"
"They must have blent into the wall..."
As they hear Ms. Kairos darting closer at an extreme rate, Tim and
Carrie look in each other's eyes that begin to reflect more clearly the
desperateness of this situation. They stand up slowly but then dart
for the staircase on the far side of the room, almost tripping in their
hurry.
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scope and style, though the right side is set up like a dining area
again.
This new staircase starts out the same way as the firstwith a low
ceiling and narrow, with a wooden railing jutting from the wall.
But, after one flight, the brass railings show up again. While Ms.
Kairos's voice seems to be beginning to fade here, the two continue
down these stairs still in a mode of panicked desperation, continuing
down the flights that pass long stretches of hotel rooms identical to
those above.
Once they are forced to stop to catch their breath on one level of
hotel rooms, they notice that Ms. Kairos's voice is no longer just
faded, but it has stopped altogether. They eye each other to
communicate and reciprocate fear, relief, but then a realization of
need for caution as they quietlythough still breathing heavily
look for a place to hide.
They glance around and wordlessly mutually decide that the best
place to hide would be a hotel room. For some reason, they knock
quietly on a door before entering its empty room closest to the
stairway. They slowly and silently close the door to their unlit
room, peering through its peephole, hoping Ms. Kairos has just
given up and gone. They wait stilly but whisper to each other:
As Carrie starts, Tim half-jokingly scolds Carrie before letting her
finish a word, "Shh... You never know if she could be... right up
there," pointing, "waiting for us to make a noise, hoping we're down
here... Shh..."
Sarcastically, "Okay, okayI'm scared."
"It's okay...."
"It's really stuffy down here... It's hard to breathe... and it feels
really, really hot... and the air feels very dirtylike soil in the air..."
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Tim sniffs the air. "I know what you meanit's all weird."
"It's adventure at least, right?"
Laughing, but sincere, Tim responds, "Right."
They laugh quietly and continue to make nervous and whispered
chatnearly inaudibly. After a while, they decide it's safe to go.
Carrie starts going upstairs, but Tim stops her.
Calmly, but pleading out of masked fear, Tim starts, "Carrie... Let's
play it safe and just keep on exploring..."
They continue to head down the stairs. Down this far, apparently no
lamps on the walls are working, but there always seems to be some
light from nearby windows, even though there are none. Tim and
Carrie walk leisurely, still talking in low voices, but they're mostly
relaxed now. After a few minutes, they stop.
Tim starts, "Did you hear something?"
"...I"
"Ahh!! Get off me!!"
A man dressed in a white bunny suit snuck up behind Tim from
inside a hotel room and grabbed him at the waist, but Tim
defensively flips the man over his head so that he tumbles down the
stairs onto the first platform of the three in most of these types of
staircases. Tim and Carrie back up defensively, but the rabbit man
does not appear threatening now, just laughing amiably. His frame
is tall yet portly, his scruffy face and hair dark, and, holding a cigar
in his mouth, he looks somewhat like a clich of an Italian mobster.
He readjusts his bunny suit while struggling to stand up, apparently
drunk.
With somewhat of a goofy Swedish accent, the bunny man talks
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Tim and Carrie follow the rabbit man through this new room's
entrance and then to a cheap-looking honey-color-stained pinewood
door at the room's far end. Tim and Carrie wait as the rabbit man
struggles with the door's gilded but cheap-looking doorknob. When
the doorknob finally turns, though, the rabbit man heartily whips
open the door into the room of expectation.
"Here it is folks! A crowded room!"
Tim and Carrie enter shyly, stepping slowly as the rabbit man offers
an energetic and playful hug to one of the boys in a line of boys that
is ordered from youngest to oldest. There are a few frightenedlooking five- or six-year-olds followed by a group of jovial
preteens, a smug group of unkempt early adolescents, and then a
bunch of very attractive late teenagers smiling gently with looks of
sincere kindness and graciousness. They wait in this formation for a
while, some of the younger children twisting to and fro from
boredom, but most of the boys facing each other in conversation.
Much laughter is heard.
In the near left corner, there's a round table where more adults in
animal suits sitwith two of the seven or eight smoking cigars.
And, through a doorless entrance past the far-left corner, in a whitetile, pinewood-cabinet kitchen, there sit two more adults in animal
suitstwo rotund old ladies in chicken suits. Outside the kitchen,
the large room's walls resemble the honey-color-stained pinewood
of the door Tim and Carrie just walked through, and the room's
ceiling of aged sponge tiles are supported by beams here and there
each covered in an asbestos-like substance; otherwise, this room is
very similar to the previous one.
Bouncing to the front of the line of boys near the far right wall,
facing the boys, the rabbit man shouts some form of code command
as each boy straightens up significantly:
"All right, boys! What have we got today?"
17
with a frizzy blonde wig, her eyes darting about as if searching for
Tim and Carrie, but he continues to sing energetically, dramatically,
and purposely meets eyes with her. Because of Tim's prolonged
assertive look into her eyes, she begins to look rather timid, then
saddened, then angered as if from losing a game. Ms. Kairos then
leaves the room while accentuatedly stomping her feet like a twoyear-old. The song soon ends, and all the boys and everyone in the
room lift Tim up on their shoulders and start dancing.
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Chapter Two
Imagining Flying Away from High School
I awake to a dark orchestral soundtrack I left playing while I slept,
brooding requiem-esque music with tolling bells, a soft choir, and
trembling strings. I shiver a bit, torn in my mind, so afraid to lose
my religionand thus family, friends, support system, the only
belief system I have ever known, all I am used tobut so warmed
by this dream and the idea of being able to live and believe freely.
"Tim! Get in the shower! This is the third time!"
As I roll over and try to sift back into dreams, from the floor above
my room, where I hear my mom from, I hear the cacophonous
giddy laugh of Haley, who I wasn't expecting to see until I would be
late to the Academic Awards Ceremony rehearsal.
"Tim! Hahahah! You're ALWAYS late!"
I cringe at her voice and laughing, and her faking through the
formality of discussion with a "friend's" parents. This is not an
unusual way for her to "show up" and pretend I like her, but I don't
really have any other friends that I do anything with; I hope this will
change.
Finally I pull to a rising position and peel the blankets from my
legs. I start the shower and relax in its bed-like warmth, but I can
still hear loud laughingnear maniacal screamsemanating from
Haley, even while she balances her giddiness with such forced
interaction with my parentsat least forced in its insincerity.
The only sincerity I've ever found in her is in her presentations of
likes and dislikes, which never involve a level of complexity
beyond that of what a young child would list. I feel I am being used
by a stupid and shallow person that adults mistake for intelligent out
of her devotion to playing the game of academics, religion, and
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22
Some students had left and then returned with a tall ladder from the
janitor's nearby office. But, as they plot amongst themselves how to
return me to what they believe is my rightful quiet place among
them, I bid them a sarcastic farewell as I push myself higher into the
air with a swift kick to their ladder that knocks it to the floor. I float
high through the auditorium toward and through its propped-open
doors and then through the propped-open doors of the high school's
front entrance. I pass over hills and valleys and houses and cities
and rivers and streams and woods, until I finally arrive at college
where I hope to at least begin a life uninhibited.
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Chapter Three
Syracuse
I meet three girls as I walk through one of the dorm halls for some
reason; they are sitting by one of their open doors, and one of them
recognizes me.
Other2: "You're on floor 11?"
Me: "No9. It's closeThey're both prime numbers, I mean both
divisible by one or the other or rather 3 or 5.5."
Other1: "Eleven and three are prime numbersbut 5.5 doesn't
count! Haha..."
Me: "Well, if you take the place of the dome and create a number
similar but for ten times the movement of because of the decimal
points, you can make 55 divisible from 11 also times ten and it is a
whole number."
Other3: "But 110 isn't 11..."
Me: "Well, that's besides the point." Motioning to "Other1", "Go
on."
...
Other3: "'Nique ta mere toi petit beur.' It means 'Fuck your
mother, you little Arab'."
Other2: "What if I wanted to say 'mother fucker'? Would that be
'mere de la nique'?"
Other3: "That would be 'mother of fuck'!"
Me: In a very low and menacing voice, "I am the mother of fuck!"
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*
I realize that "Other1's" name is "Melanie". A few weeks later we
go to the mall.
"How are you, Tim?", knocking on my open door.
"Nothing."
"Do you want to go to the movies?"
I respond like a little baby alien without words, with little short
(about half second) noises suggesting confirmation. Then, "Is this
at the mall?"
"S!"
"...Well, I don't want to pay for the concessions at the movies or buy
food at the mallI can bring stuff from here for free. Look in my
fridge, if you will."
"Here are some dates... Although, they appear to have expired
months ago."
Taking the dates, "No, these dates aren't bad", immediately and
forcefully throwing them in the trash next to me. "I'll take carrots
instead."
"...Do you play the French horn, Tim?"
"Why?"
"That case looks like a French horn."
"No, I play the clarinet, but my case is in my locker in a building on
campus... I think that case is my roommate's or something. But,
I'm going to put this ice cream you took from the freezer back into
the French horn otherwise known as the freezer."
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28
Another, very tall boy: "Actually, she's about a head shorter than
me."
Me: "She doesn't have a conventional head. Her head is where he
heart should be."
Another3: "Hahah... ...How sure are you?"
Me: "About 20 percent," said as if this is a percentage of a good
chance.
...Someone randomly comments,
Tim."
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Chapter Four
Hiatus from Syracuse
Listening to Franz Waxman for one of the first times, being
thoroughly moved and engaged in his music, having it played on a
vintage-style LP/CD/tape player in my newly rearranged room with
a new bed and stylishly bold yet delicate cherry-finished dresser, all
of it rearranged to look much neater and more manageable, allowing
for a more positive association with my room than before I went off
to school, it seems these two days I've been back that my home
world has become much more appealing than before, but I'm not
discouraged to leave; I'm invigorated in encouragement, the music
comforting me, my cat's smile giving me peace, the smell of fresh
fall air brightening the aroma of my current life aura, giving me
even more energy. And then, the feeling is lost. I'll find it again and
keep it once I regain order in my life, but I will hope for it from
time to time before then.
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Chapter Five
Anti-Religiousness
"Mel, why do I even continue talking to Haley? ...She's IM'ing me
and I want to just cut her off once and for all."
"Because it's easy."
"I need to end this. I can't just let her walk all over me, especially if
I want to be true to myself and my beliefs. She only talks critically
about her roommates, family, church members, schoolmates, me...
And her criticism really often centers around her silly religion."
"But people are religious and not necessarily critical..."
"I know! And I still believe in something... some god... -ness...
definitely something greater at least, something greater than
humans."
"I don't know; I just know that Christianity is mostly pointless."
"I guess I know what you mean... It's ritual or just self-comfort, but
these could be found in actually meaningful activitieslike real
love. Were you ever religious?"
"Not really, but I was dragged to church here and there."
"...I wrote a poem recently about my last two years before college,
if you want to read it"
The Attempted Brain-Washing of an Intellectual Youth
I see no wonder in their blank yet angry eyes
even in their songs to an infinitely magical creator.
In my helpless cage I sit in silence,
seeing the chandeliers crashing through their skin,
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Chapter Six
Texan Desert
June 7, 2004 Journal Entry:
As I watch this desert morning's silent lightning on this bus to
Denver from Dallas, I see such beauty, but I see the envisioned goal
of this tripfunded by my parents, who don't know my intentions
for this tripfading away. So far, none of the men I met online
seem at all like the savior I was hoping for, someone to take me in
and away from my parents who, because of my inability to hold a
job or stay in school at the moment, I would otherwise be trapped
with (who don't know that I'm not only gay but non-religiousor
not only non-religious but gay). I also feel that, in general, the life I
imagined I'd be living by now is slipping away.
While I don't regret breaking from the trajectory of my childhood
(in terms of religion and otherwise), things are currently really only
barely tolerable and while not necessarily promising to calm,
stabilize, or even offer some future payoff. As I search for some
consistency preferable to my former religion or my present lack of
any footing, I can feel myself becoming more and more disquieted.
Yet, continuing forward in the only way I feel able to, at least there
is the possibility of more fully realizing the stark new wonders I've
glimpsed in breaking freefrom majestic desert storms to euphoric
trains of thought to genuine, intimate friendships. Even though I
once considered myself saved, it does not compare to what I
imagine as possible, if I could just re-stabilize.
Although, the longer I search, the more my mind anxiously spins,
and the more I feel need to search. I'm sure this is an expected
reaction to the loss of a lifelong religion, but the extent to which I
am feeling pulled and confused I'm sure is linked to my OCD and
anxious personalityand situations made further and further
precarious because of them. And, as usual, the centerpiece of my
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displayed OCD involves perfecting and recording musical or nonmusical ideasthough now almost exclusively (cacophonously)
non-musical philosophical thoughts.
I still find writing pleasurable, a great outlet and way to record,
communicate, and develop my imagination and ideas. But I often
feel unable to control the frequency of important-feeling and thus
sensed-transcription-worthy thoughtsespecially when they
involve philosophy or religion. At this point, I have amassed bags
and bags of likely thousands of papers with half-finished ideas
written out on them that can testify to this. And this struggle with
writing has kept me from following through in finishing even one
recent essay, or story, or compilation of poems I've written, or a
piece of musiceven while I've nearly finished so much. (And
thus I am also distracted from other goalsfrom school to work.)
But I can't really let myself think more on this right now. My
present sense of clarity is unusual, but I feel that soon I'll just start
spinning again.
But I don't think I can or should stop philosophizing and journaling.
It's the only way I could discover something to base my life on
again. ...Though it has been keeping me awake long into the night,
keeping me from being on time to anything, keeping me asleep at
odd hours when not wanting to face another day of having to think,
keeping me from finishing projects or even what it is I am thinking
about at a given moment.
Things are really not good. I'm crying right now. I wanted to jump
out of my high-rise dorm window when my PDA erased all I wrote
in it for several months. ...And then there's the issue of where I'm
going to live. This is all too much to let myself think more about
now, though.
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Chapter Seven
Anti-Gay Pamphlet
I read these words from a pamphlet called, "When Someone You
Love Is Gay; How to Deal with This Devastating Situation" (by
Anita Worthen and Bob Davies through Intervarsity Press), which I
find and take from my parents' church. I plan to use these words in
some type of story. It opens:
Chris MacKenzie can vividly recall the day, 16 years ago, when she
found out about her oldest son's homosexual involvement.
As a young adult, Damon had moved from the family home in
Illinois to Florida. "Damon and I had always been close," this
single mom says, "so it was difficult to see him go, but I knew he
had to live his own life." Several months later, Chris received a
long letter from him.
Damon shared some exciting news: "I found someone that I care
deeply about and I'm in a relationship that is completely fulfilling."
As Chris read further, however, her stomach lurched and she could
hardly swallow. Damon confessed that this relationship involved
another man. "I have had these strong feelings of attraction to men
for as long as I can remember," he wrote, "and I've always tried to
hide them." Now he was "coming out of the closet" and living as he
believed God intended.
Chris was completely devastated. "I screamed, I ranted, I cried. I
felt like I was bleeding deep inside, and there was no way to stop
the gaping wound in my soul."
Whether the confession comes from a son or daughter, spouse or
close friend, the admission of homosexuality hits like a bombshell,
especially in the Christian home.
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Chapter Eight
Parental Backlash
It's September and I've been stuck at home for three months, failing
to have saved enough money to get my own apartment. I've had
two restaurant jobs but was fired from both for being frequently
late, absent, and/or distracted, very similar to why I felt unable to
stay in school. I am starting to feel desperately claustrophobic.
Riding with my dad on an errand trip, after I think he and/or my
mom noticed on my desk a left-open good-natured joke Valentine's
card from my friend Diana that mentioned I was gay, he says, "I just
wanted to say something... I think you have some struggles... I
think you have some struggles with your sexuality..." I'm in shock
and shake a little.
Though my mom just hugged me the other night when I confirmed
my "struggles" to Dad, and though Dad seemed very loving in his
reaction to this, my parents take me to a restaurant to discuss
"issues" they're having with me, the same place we always held gettogethers with church friends and family.
Dad starts, "Timwe need to talk"
I feel as if I may be dissociating. I've never had this kind of
confrontation with my parents, and I've never felt so fragile.
After words have blown by and we all have ended up in poorly
hidden sad and angry tears, Dad offers, "Tim, the thing isyou
don't have to embrace this... We'll support you financially as long as
you don't. I'll write up an agreement, and if you agree to it, we'll
support you."
*
I mostly falsely agree to the following that my dad types up once we
get home:
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41
Defensively, "I just said I'd agree to this and, actually, I prayed for
God to take this from me for years and I prayed for him to show me
that Christianity was trueand these were SEPARATE issues to
me. He did neither and then I realized my prayers weren't being
answered... because NO ONE was listening..."
Increasingly peeved, "...So this is what all your writing is about,
trying to find answers apart from God..."
"...Well, I don't feel like I'm always in control of that... but, I know
what I believe... I just"
"You just don't want to believe in God."
"...Here's an example of the kind of thing that told me I needed to
look elsewhere for truth: When I started to doubt Christianity, I was
only able to avoid this doubt by suppressing any thoughts that
questioned Christianity and by saying that such thoughts were from
Satan, and that it was God's will for me not to entertain thoughts
questioning Christianity. But I just wanted to confirm whether or
not what I'd been taught growing up was true... But neither critical
thinking nor its results ended up jiving with what I'd been taught."
"...I'd LOVE to set all those bags of writing scraps of yours on fire
and have a big bonfire celebration. I know you have your struggles
and your OCD, but, under it all I think is a spiritual issue."
I go into the bathroom and cry, looking into the mirror and say,
"What have I done...", starting to cry harder.
I make up my mind that I will go to a new school; my parents don't
want to fund Syracuse without my music scholarship, and I feel that
my obsessing would worsen with a return to the intensive music
program there. This is okayat least I'll get out of here, and state
schools aren't all bad.
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Chapter Nine
Matt
"So I told my doctor I couldn't sleep; she started me on two generic
sleep-aid pills. After the first night, I woke up covered in Reese's
Pieces and surrounded by pee trailed to and from the bathroom.
Then I asked her to lower the dosage, and, after the next night on
one pill, I woke up smeared with chocolate and surrounded by
Snickers wrappers. After another lowering of the dose, I woke up
clean but very irritableapparently I was furious that I couldn't get
my midnight chocolate fix."
I laugh hysterically throughout this story, with tears at times.
"Matt, should we go into Target now?"
"Well, I just met you..."
"We've known each other for at least three weeks."
Matt and I linked almost immediately upon meeting and, while
we're both gay, we're just friends, though our sexuality is one of the
very many levels we relate on.
At the counter for the fitting room, Matt hits me with a catalog filled
with coupons and says, "HereRead this!"
I throw it across the aisle behind me and say, "I can't read!"
Laughing, picking up the catalog several yards away, pointing to
one of the coupons, Matt says, "If I ever got something at that low a
price, I'd throw it at the cashier and demand it for free."
"Your phone is ringing."
Handing it to me, "Answer it"
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"Wha"
"It's a blocked numbermake sure it's Ally and not my crazy
neighbor."
Answering it, "Are you crazy?"
Ally laughs and answers, "Yes. I'm in Target now."
"So we! Sowwy! Sorry." To Matt now, I say, "I need to go make
sure Ally knows where we are."
"She's fine."
As I start walking away, I pivot and respond, "She's fine."
Ally very soon finds us and as I'm pouring a huge pocket-full of
change on the counter to count.
Feigning embarrassment, Matt comments to the woman behind the
counter, "SorryHe's crazy."
"I'm just more distracted recently", I say as I pull out a pen and a
small worn piece of paper already filled with crowded writing. "I
have to write this down to use in a story." I explain to the woman
behind the counter, who has said very little so far, that I'm told I
have "hypergraphia" that's just gotten worse recently, but I also
intend to use much of what I write for stories, essays, pieces of
music, and books of poetry.
Ally comments how she saw a cute boy walking past us. I say, "I
knowhe's from my high school, but I didn't talk to him because I
wasn't proud of myself."
Ally laughs and then asks, "What should we do now?"
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Chapter Ten
Suicidal Ideation
December 15, 2005 Journal Entry:
Things have only gotten worse. I wish I could make sense of all in
my mind. I have so many thoughts that they all run into each other
and I can't finish attending to even one recently; I only get confused.
I have found some poems in looking back through my bags and
bags of collected scraps that better articulate than I can now at least
some of what I am feeling.
I sit here researching painless and easy ways to commit suicide
while the heat has been turned off in my on-campus apartment for a
few days after most students have left for break. I don't care. I
hope someone finds this and at least understands what happened to
me. I want this to stop so I can feel okay again; but if I can't, then I
shouldn't do anything. I'm not sure if that's rational, but then that
only goes to show how irrational I am recently; and, I'd rather die
than be this way. But then I feel this writing doesn't represent
myself accurately anywayas nothing can, and as nothing is
certain, and as I'm screwed up.
Psychotic Entanglement
I am trapped in a maze of mazes,
using a faulty mind to distinguish confused thoughts from sane
ones,
all the while wanting to communicate some sense of deep beauty,
only to bewilder or be misunderstood.
Retreat of the Mind
I hide in the shadow patterns
within vortexed labyrinths
and am safe, yet think myself to sleep.
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Psychotic Burden
It is sad that I can neither share exactly the way that I experience
nor allow myself to just enjoy thoughts and feelings I find intensely
meaningful.
It Shines Through
whatever it is you do
it is the sadness that shines through
Sleep Now
Sleep now, child, for day is waking
and all that was is not forsaken.
That thou hast lost in battle strong
is but a weary eye in evening song.
A morning star will rise again:
You will sleep,
but soon will wake,
for you some unseen form will take.
(All this, you know, is ill-lived brattle;
silent thoughts, once spoke, unravel.
Just imagine as you die
that something's worth it,
something lasts.)
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Chapter Eleven
Hospitalization
How odd for my parents of all people to rescue me. Or maybe not
that odd. I want to go to Minnesota to start college and life in a new
place, but they tell me that only exemplifies why I need to seek
professional help.
*
I write ferociously on a bleakly snowy ride down to the Yale-New
Haven Hospital, trying exhaustively to wrack my brain for any way
to end my suffering without hospitalizationany conclusion that
will finally end this cycle of searching, spinning, and searching, as
I've sought for nearly three years.
*
After all, it's not so bad herebut some days it feels prison-like,
when one of the doctors isn't in, for example, and I just feel trapped,
rather than in the middle of progress. At least I get passes to walk
around the building... Next week I may be approved to get "home
passes"or it doesn't necessarily have to be a visit to home; it could
be to see Matt and/or Mel.
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Chapter Twelve
Respite from the Hospital
I feel like this is the first ounce of freedom I've had in my life. I
ride a bus to Pittsfield, where Matt and Ally are waiting for me, on
my first "home pass". I'll see my parents toosomething I
seemingly oddly look forward to. But, for now, this is near-ecstasy.
*
"So Ally had to go where?"
"I don't know...to Boston, to look at a cup."
"Hahah... What does that mean?"
Matt does a little dance to answer me and, as we are on hard
pavement at the bus station, I intensely scream, "I'm afraid you're
gonna fall and KILL yourself!"
Matt and I decided to go to the local Mall, and we catch up while he
drives.
"I hope you are happy to know that I told the people at my work
in the meeting I was inthat I had to excuse myself to go on 'a very
important adventure'. The group leader was amused but very
confused, so I said that I had to visit my friend from a mental
institution. ...I didn't leave it at that, though; and, they understood
and let me go."
"That was nice of them."
...
"So, Tom came to have dinner with me at my new apartment."
"Did he eat more?"
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message:
"Hi, I was wondering if maybe you'd want to rent and watch a video
of 'Lamb Chops's Play-a-long' with me? We could drive to Iowa
City to a video store there, and if we don't have a TV, we could buy
one there and plug it into a telephone pole wire in a field somewhere
to watch it there. But also, we should get candy maybe at a gas
station on the way somewheremaybe Pennsylvania. And, if we
don't have any money for these things, maybe we could find a way
to sell our bodies in order to afford the candy and/or video and/or
gas and/or TV, and then we could watch 'Lamb Chops's Play-aLong' in that field."
"That was a beautiful story."
...
After the sun has started to rise and we start passing through beach
towns, we notice a lady jogging with three ferocious-looking dogs
on leashes. Matt comments, "Are those wolves?"
"No, they're dogs." I flip them off as we drive by.
"Did you just flip them off?"
Angrily, "Yeah, I hate wolves."
We soon reach the beach. As we park, I semi-excitedly comment,
"We can go look at the tidal poolsthere are crabs there."
"I want crabs."
"Remember when I had crabs? I had them then tried to get rid of
them but they didn't go away but then I got rid of them."
"Ohthat's the best story that anyone's ever told."
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Chapter Thirteen
Hermitic Retreat
I'm sitting in the dimly-lit kitchen area of my new studio apartment
subsidized as part of a program for mentally ill young adults. I am
staring at my laptop's screen on this short, round table after scrolling
through nearly a hundred pages of a single-spaced and paragraphfree word document. I look past the screen to a candle I lit behind it
meant to replace the blown ceiling lamp bulb. The light begins to
cause my eyes to water, but then I start to cry, turning away from
the screen as if it would judge me. I tighten and curl my body and
features to steady my pulsating frame. I catch myself letting out the
beginnings of a scream.
Noticing the snow falling strikingly fully but silently outside the
windows, I soon collect myself. I shut my laptop and begin to
approach the right of my two windows. I open the window and
stretch my arm out into the cold opaqueness, collecting a handful of
snowflakes. Bringing my arm back inside, I stare at the crystals and
examine them as they melt. Though my arm is soon only wet and
my hand holds only water, I keep it cupped as if it holds more. I
close my eyes and tilt my head back. Though tears crawl down my
cheeks and with more intensity than before, a soft smile begins to
form on my face.
I return to the table with my laptop and open an envelope addressed
from my parents that sits on top of a host of other unopened mail on
the edge of the table and on the floor.
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Chapter Fourteen
Brotherly Advice
"Joe?"
"Hey, Tim."
"How are you?"
"I'm doing well, you?"
"Actually pretty well too... I'm feeling better recently."
"That's good to hear."
"I know I'll always have ups and downs, but I think it's really helped
to try and get out more and stay in better contact with peopleeven
just to ask for help. And realizing this was an epiphany that also
tackled my writing; I think whatever philosophy I come up with has
to center around the need for relationships. I feel like I finally
actually have some direction now."
"That's really great, Tim. And I would agree that any philosophy of
worth has to emphasize others. That actually loosely relates to what
I'm studying now."
"What is this now?"
"LevinasI've talked to you about him before, I think."
"Yeah! I like him... I think I need to get a little more stable before
delving into a lot of reading though; it's still kind of hard to focus on
much when I'm so drawn to think my own thoughts about
everything."
"That's okayand I actually get that way too."
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Chapter Fifteen
Dream-Inspired Writing
June 25, 2008 "Dream Journal" Entry:
I had this dream where these creatures in space calling themselves
my mentors revealed to me that space, time, and size are finite yet
circular or, rather, "spherical". Traveling in one direction long
enough brings one back to the same space, time loops, and looking
in a microscope deep enough brings you to the largest perspective
of things but eventually back to where you were first looking
while a telescope does the same thing but with the smallest
perspective of things, but "smallest" and "largest" really
synonymous. These creatures had resplendently white deer skulls
and called themselves the Eklohn and the Elkohn, and they spoke of
"Oracles" who knew even more than they, and then of the "Terror"
above the Oracles that no one knew thoroughly about. I traveled
through far depths of space and saw blue and pinkish lights swim
through slowly shifting metal spokes that were somehow "stars".
This prompted me to research about time and space circularity, or
"sphericalness", and led to the beginning of an article devoted to
this topic. And I think now I know how to best proceed with my
other article, which I hope to be part of a book of essays. I plan to
preface the book with the following:
"Through years of mental spinning due to unchecked ObsessiveCompulsive Disorder, I could barely finish a given thought of the
hundreds of philosophical ideas that ran through my head each day.
However, I was able to gradually build on the ones I did finish and,
though more slowly than I would have liked, I redeveloped a
seemingly coherent worldview after losing my childhood religion at
the age of eighteen. This was aided by relationships, medication,
and therapy and yet also provided therapy in and of itself, providing
some felt wholeness to my mind for once in about six years. Since
2009, I have felt able to think and write clearly about established
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Chapter Sixteen
A Summative Poem
What is more miraculous,
for belief to arise from honestly-sensed mere possibility
or that one wittingly to not deludes themselves
for some hope of heaven or fear of hell?
What is less miraculous
is that sensed in honesty more probable,
what can in honesty be held.
There may be a spirit world
in the true form of things
I can only approach
and only seemingly.
Yet I tremblingly desire this form
and am thus forced to revere
unavoidable methods of thought
used even by the deluded
in all but what they've wished into their heads.
Whatever path of some consistency,
we find that self is not the way to peace.
But more peace is found in honest look within that self.
*
A gaseous thing on Jupiter
mirrors my galavanting
as a form of carbon.
Between one person's thoughts about the past,
and ink on woven wood or singing waves in space,
Between a guess about something,
and messages in hands or eyes,
Maybe a pattern similar to that of particles and their movements
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Chapter Seventeen
To Practice Social Effectiveness
October 30, 2009 Journal Entry:
I'm literally covered and surrounded by crumpled paper sitting on
my bed in my new shared apartment's small room; I finally went
through my scraps, much less thoroughly than I envisioned long
ago, but thoroughly enough to gather and type up writings I had
labeled as "journal entries", ideas for stories, poem drafts, and
musical ideas. Over the next few weeks, I will start organizing
these writings into personal and also potentially publishable
documents.
But I realize now that, after all this work and anticipation in
finishing my article, a book of essays, and now unburdening myself
from these scraps, I've kind of let myself down. But I know what I
have to do. Though I plan to always journal, think, and create, I
have to get out of myself. I must focus on helping others like I've
been helped.
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Chapter Eighteen
Getting Out of Myself
I sit with my parents at a familiar restaurant, laughingly conversing,
sharing ideas, often disagreeing, but retaining mutual respect and
even interest and openness. I talk of three recent musical
compositions of mine: two chamber pieces entitled "Funeral for
Religion" and "A Lonely Night in Rural Central New York", and a
choral piece entitled "A Part of You". I go to the bathroom and look
in the mirror just to see myself rather content, though I don't smile.
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