Eyes of Inadequacy

Eyes of Inadequacy

Everywhere eyes; cold fish eyes stared at the nothing I was doing about what I should’ve and could’ve done, but hadn’t and wasn’t. Unbelievable guilt, shame and pain combined in exponentiating torment. Eyes, thousands of them; just looking at me, in me, through me, but far worse – silently judging me. And behind each one was Him.

I didn’t know what they wanted from me; not that I knew what I wanted from myself either. All I knew was that I didn’t want them looking at me anymore. I knew I was no good and had amounted to nothing, but they didn’t have to rub it in. I tried poking them out, but incredible sorrow from the unknown depths of my being was unbearable. It wasn’t their fault. They were just following orders, the innocent instruments of perception for Him. It wasn’t right; I didn’t have the right. He was the one behind the scenes, the Puppet Master, judging me from some safe distance. I couldn’t reach Him. I wanted to, but I didn’t know how. Even if I could’ve I would’ve kicked Him in His Balls.

I unraveled, but no one could help me because I’d mastered the art of coming undone secretly and silently. Whenever I asked for help it wasn’t enough. Not that there was anything wrong with their answers, they just didn’t apply to my needs. Although my needs were different, I’d lost sight of them trying to accommodate others’.  So I hungered day by day, wanting, waiting and hoping to be told that I was alright, yet distrustful all the while. Without trust I had no choice but to go it alone and find my own truth that worked for me and not necessarily anyone else. Trying to play catch-up, I let others lead the way, fine-tuning their experiences to fit me. It was safer that way, slipping through life unnoticed, bypassing the worst of it. Naturally, I resented being dependent on others and learned things irrelevant to my purpose. Such was the bane of the fearful intellectual mind.

Engulfed in brightness, the inner complexity of my paranoia suddenly came to light. It’s simple state blossomed into an intricate web of secrecy, vulnerability and overall dependency interwoven by the emotional thread of pride. I longed to be looked on lovingly and proudly to feel proud about myself too. I’d gone to school, listened, done my homework, paid homage to you and for what? For the fruitless opportunities to perhaps one day be useful to someone so they could profit from me. I didn’t understand why my life and usefulness had to be tethered to the existence of other people at all, but it was. In a theme right out of The Body Snatchers, people pointed and wailed in unearthly tones signaling my independence. Welcome to my life, my hell.

My mind turned inside out. Emotion, body and thought, felt and moved as one. Scared and disoriented, I fell into a pit of vertigo. My past banged on the door of the present, but I wouldn’t let it in; I couldn’t. But I wanted to know what I was keeping out. I couldn’t run forever, but why did that day have to be today? In the past I used paranoia as an indicator of what not to do so that I didn’t have to keep on running and be paranoid anymore. It’s fractal like methodology worked for a while, but it took so much energy to be on guard all the time. And who knew what else lay in the hellish depths of my monstrous Mandelbrot lake?

My entire being heaved and shrieked in one unified chorus. Everything became cold, dark and heavy, skin felt clammy as I was slowly poisoned. A dark, heavy door opened summoning the Dark Lord. Even I knew I couldn’t do battle with him in my present state – if at all. I tucked my head into my shoulders and looked from side to side. “Time for some medicine,” I justified, not knowing how else to cope.

I smoked a little and let the drug work its magic. How insidious to be the reward for its own problem! The voices chattered: ‘If I can’t do crystal, what else am I going to do?’ ‘Find a place to live.’ ‘But I can do that on crystal.’ ‘No you can’t.’ ‘Yes I can only not as effectively.’ ‘It’s impairing your ability to think straight.’ ‘Crystal wouldn’t do that to me; it’s my friend, it’s trying to help me. It’s the only friend I have at the moment.’ ‘It’s only a substance, a thing. I’m doing it to me, no one else. Why blame a thing and others?’

A part of me fled screaming for its very life. They hadn’t talked about that stuff in treatment, but then again I hadn’t been allowed to talk about sex or being HIV either. What else hadn’t they told us? “You can’t treat just part of a disease,” I screamed out loud at their stupid rules. I fell apart into a million pieces. Forced to fend for themselves, they cried in their loneliness for the ‘I’, the captain, to return to the helm, but without knowing who that was saw no hope of that happening in the near or distant future.

 

© Michael J. Varma, The Gong Show, 2011 –

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