There’s a jokey story about me that still comes up in conversation occasionally.  I was with some new friends and was the lone gothy guy amongst a group of dirty metal dudes.  Someone suggested I do something–I don’t recall what–and I declined.  “Why not?”  “Because I’m too dark and tormented for that.” was the reply.  Not super funny ha-ha, really, but illustrates me fairly well.  While I’ve always been described as aloof, I’ve also always worn my emotions on my sleeve, while being to joke about them at the same time.

Something I’ve struggled with a lot lately is this weird inner churn; a darkness that feels like it composes more of me than anything else.  The weird thing is I’ve found this increased stillness and general appreciation of things I’d forgotten to appreciate in the hustle and bustle of existing and aging.  This forms a strange dichotomy in my head and heart.  As I was driving earlier I had the windows down.  I enjoyed the view, the wind over my face and arms, the beautiful and atmospheric/moody music I was playing–perfect for a stormy day.  At one point my inner monologue went something like ‘This is so beautiful..such a perfect moment.  Why does that make me so fucking sad?’  My chin quivered a bit reflexively and I breathed deep and reigned myself in.  Gotta be all manly and stuff…right?

One a side-note, my younger studies in meditation have proven invaluable lately.  Focused breathing is the only thing that kept me from losing my shit from the moment i heard ‘You’ve had a heart attack’ to the moment the sedatives hit me minutes, halls, floors later in the terrifying future-torture-lab-thing.  It keeps me together when the gym is killing me and keeps me sane when I start road-rage-ing (I’m a commuter..it happens).

The same moment struck me again not too long ago.  I walked out of my house, golden leaves parted in a light breeze, and the smell of fall hit my brain.  It’s my favorite type of moment and it was honestly quite sublime.  I filled my lungs, smiled a little half smile, took a step or two down the stairs, and was immediately and crushingly destroyed by a wave of melancholy.  But why?  The moment was perfect and I was actively enjoying it.  Nothing bad happened.  There’s no reason I should’ve experienced anything but bliss.

And yet, I did.  Quite the opposite, frankly.

I guess the point of the intro to this ramble was to explain that I’m no stranger to gloom and doom.  There’s been a shadow over me as far back as I can recall being aware of emotions.  My mom has mentioned I was a bubbly baby until I broke my femur and spent a few days in the hospital.  After that I was quiet and moody.  So I’m kind of a pro at this and over the years I’ve gotten better and better at managing it, often to the degree that it becomes almost non-existent.  I say almost because there’s always that little nag, that quiet throb in the back of your mind that serves to let you know you’re never completely in the clear.

I’m fine with all of this, really.  I’ve always let my sadness drive me, whether it’s writing, painting, music, film, etc, I’ve always been able to channel and divert.  And it works, and I wouldn’t trade that for the world.  But this feels new somehow; less driving force, more tragic loss.  And maybe that’s exactly what it is.  Maybe I’m past the confused what the fuck? why? how? phase, past the angry I just got fucked by insurance phase, and into mourning?

Sounds so ‘boo-hoo, get over it.’

But I do grieve.  I’ve lost a lot, some of it quantifiable and some not.

So is that it?  Am I just in constant lament now?  It fits the color scheme of my wardrobe, if nothing else.

I’ve also found myself gravitating toward things of comfort or solace lately.  It’s possible these things are tied to the same root.  I did yoga for the first time in a decade the other day.  While it felt like I had Parkinson’s during some of the poses, I felt undeniably great during and after.  I’m looking into adding a weekly class to my workout regimen.  Similarly, I accompanied a friend who is having some faith issues to his first buddhist temple experience.  This is something I used to do often in HS and a few years out.  Sadly, I was unimpressed by this particular experience.  It was presented in a very western-christian format…shitty hymns and all.  Nothing like the ceremonies and sessions I attended oh-so many years ago.  This motivated me to get out some of my old Zen books and try meditation a bit more seriously again.  It helps a bit, but the feeling has, thus far, been very transitory.

I started reading Kerouac again.  He’s always been my favorite and a go-to in good times–and bad.  The downside is I started with Desolation Angels, which is old, jaded and depressed Kerouac, mostly given-up and weary of the way his life ended up.  His solace–and eventual death–came from a bottle.  I don’t have that option anymore…at least not on a long-term scale.  Drinking myself to death would be a night or two process, rather than a noble, traditional, and extended end.  And I think there’s something worth saying on that note:  I’ve always been fairly heavily defined by my vices.  Over the years I’ve weaned myself from them one by one, but now with drinking off the menu, my last way of getting artificially out of my head for a time is gone.
That totally reads like something an alcoholic would say so let me be clear…I’ve never been an alcoholic.  I stopped drinking immediately after my hospital stay and had been slowly cutting back anyway.  I’ve had two (oh my god so glorious) beers and what wouldn’t even qualify as a ‘sip’ of scotch in the last five months.  That hasn’t been hard, exactly, because I didn’t ever need it.  But I sure as hell liked it.  I’m a very regulated person in my natural state and alcohol helped me let that go for a time.  It took away my anxiety, my self-consciousness, and..let’s be honest here, being drunk feels pretty awesome most of the time.  And then there’s the ambience.  Picture a scene:  The beachfront in Seattle, late summer, a picnic with a small group of friends.  Now picture the same scene and add a few bottles of wine if it’s evening, or a six of Fat Tire if the sun is beating down.  The quality of the scene has improved tenfold.

And now that whole world is closed to me.  Now I’m the gloomy guy sitting 20 yards off, writing about those jerks over there who look like they’re having soooo much fuuuunnn.

I’m going to take that trip in real life in a few weeks, and I’ve been part of that group before.  I’m going to sit on that sand and hopefully I can find something that makes me smile instead of being that gloomy gothy guy.

…Which brings me to another thing weighing on me lately.
While I was in the hospital dying, one of the many things that raced through my mind was that I was going to die having lived in Utah my entire life…something I swore I’d never do.  I’m the guy who swore he was going to move the day he turned 18…and then never did.

My life is full of a lot of those things now.  Those moments I swore I’d experience and haven’t.

I thought I’d lived a pretty fulfilled life to this point.  As it turns out there’s still so much shit that needs doing.

And here it is five months later and I haven’t done any of it.

And some of it can’t ever be done now.

Awesome.