Absolutely Electrifying
By: Timothy O'Neill
Tags: Addiction, Spirituality, Life Lessons, Mental Health, Self

Absolutely Electrifying

Like a shot of adrenaline to the heart

Image by FelixMittermeier from Pixabay

When the words strike you in just the right way at just the right time they can make you forget the world around you as your attention is consumed by whatever it is that your reading. It’s not easy to capture people’s attention these days, seeing as how it is split down so many different channels. Sitting down to read a ten minute article seems primitive. But I have you in this moment and I’m determined not to let you go.

My father screamed at me once when I was trying to explain to him why I was arguing with my mother. I told him I was just trying to make my point. At the top of his lungs he hollered, ‘When are you going to realize that life isn’t about making a fucking point!’ I got up from my seat slowly. My whole body was shaking. I said very softly, ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that again. Never. On your life. I swear to God. I swear to God.’ My father was sitting and I was standing over him with my hands balled up into fists. My mother must have heard the commotion because she rushed in and put a hand in my back and began guiding me out of the room as I looked back at my father, repeating ‘I swear to God’ over and over again. My mother said that she was very frightened. She said she was relieved I let myself be led out of the room, because otherwise she would have had no choice but to call the police.

I’ve always been an angry man. You wouldn’t know it by talking to me. I come off as perfectly polite and congenial. I even asked my best friend of twenty years the other day if he’s ever seen me truly angry and he admitted that he has not. That’s astonishing really, considering how prone I am to fits of volcanic rage. When the rage takes over it’s like the detonation of a thousand nuclear warheads. The world goes up in flames. All concern for consequences goes out the window and it’s blood red wherever I look. This anger is dangerous. It’s volatile, destructive, exhausting and corrosive. I’m getting too old for temper tantrums.

You know, I could write a paradigm-shifting viral masterpiece today and I would still be underachieving. I’m not supposed to be here. If I succeed, okay, I was supposed to. I was gifted with all the advantages a citizen of the world could hope for. If I fail then I’m doubly damned. Expectations were so high and I shattered every one of them. Now if I survive the day it’s a noteworthy accomplishment. I’m so sick of this. I’m so sick of being fixated on my own specialness. I’m so sick of being the impostor. I’m so sick of not giving my best effort. You think you’ve seen my best, but you haven’t. I’m afraid of giving everything, because then the only way to go is down. I’m reticent, paranoid and superstitious. But maybe that’s my black-and-white thinking, devoid of subtlety and nuance. One piece doesn’t have to be better than the last, as long as it’s different. Authors don’t always try to make their new book better than their previous book. They understand that each one has its own distinct personality, that it is its own unique work of art. So instead of resorting to a game of creative one-upmanship maybe I can make peace with whatever I’m working on in the present. I like that idea.

Soon after my dear friend died I found myself writing a poem about him and it talked about how in the future the ice that freezes us in place would melt and our streams would cross over each other once more. I really hope that’s true. I miss him terribly. It’s been almost six years and I grieve him every day. I wish they didn’t have to leave. It’s so lonely here. I’m so lonely without you. And Fifty, you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through. I really could have used you, brother. Percy is a good dog, but Percy is not the same. He doesn’t possess your gentle spirit or your good humor. I could never use Percy as a pillow to fall asleep on. Oh Fifty, oh Ella, oh these lights of my life. It’s all so painful. I loved them with a love I could never give myself.

We might ask this question once a year, once a month or on a daily basis, but at some point we will all ask it, with rare exceptions. Have I done something to positively impact another person’s life? I know that’s in the front of my mind while I’m writing for my small audience. I want to write the piece that makes your morning, the piece that makes you smile, makes you think, lets you know you’re not alone. Why else would I be writing if not to benefit others? For my own enjoyment? That’s really not why I’m here. And trust me, I am no altruistic angel in disguise. It’s just how I’m wired. My work can’t just be my work. It has to be useful in some grounded and pragmatic way. It has to resonate with people. People have to be able to see themselves in it.

My older sister is coming by today. We’re going to sit in the backyard and chat. Also, she asked me if I would read The Trotter Sisters Meet The Vampire to her. I said I would love to. I only have a few teeth left in my head these days and my mouth is always as dry as the desert so reading can be a challenge but it feels like story time around the campfire. It feels like we are participating in an ancient tradition. And what an honor to be asked. To think that my sister actually enjoys listening to me read my work. Hard for me to believe.

And what is this? Whatever it is, I want to shut it down. This constant negativity and lack of self-belief. I’m constantly surprised someone is interested in me, surprised someone likes me, surprised someone may find something of worth in my work, surprised I’m wanted, surprised I’m needed, surprised that maybe I had to earn my way to purgatory. It’s like I have to prepare myself for when someone discovers the awful truth, that I’m a hideous person who can do nothing of merit. It’s also like I don’t care enough about myself to hold on to the well wishes, compliments and mere statements of fact. I let it go. It’s not for me. You must have the wrong number.

They say we become what we repeatedly do. I’ve become a myopic mentally ill addict with no self esteem. My thoughts are not the thoughts of a healthy person. Healthy people don’t obsess over angels, demons and death on a regular basis. Healthy people don’t demand apologies from God. Healthy people’s heads aren’t filled with mistakes and sad memories, with failure and lost faith. I had to work hard to become a tortured artist. I didn’t become a cliché because I thought it was cool. I took the hand that I was dealt and I played like a drunken blind man who never bothered to learn the rules of poker and who continues to throw good money after bad. I didn’t ask for anxiety and depression and a paralyzing personality disorder. But I did pick up that first drink and pop that first pill. I made the decision to spiral. I made the decision to rob my family. I made the decision to lie every chance I got. I made the decision to end my life. And here I am, sick to death of a self I can’t escape.

I wish I had good news. This was supposed to be an energy shot for your soul. Something to bolster your flagging spirit. I wanted to spin a tale with eloquent, elegant run on sentences that cascaded down the screen like the Niagara Falls of verbal excellence, washing away all your worries and stimulating your mind with their power to transform the mundane into the magnificent. I fell short of my goal. I made the tragic mistake of accepting the average, when I should have been shooting for greatness. I just tried to be honest. That has to count for something. And we’re not through yet.

I want to take this small space and dedicate it to my sister, Susan. I love her with my whole heart, and I don’t love easily. I trust her with my life, and I don’t trust easily. We just click. She also deals with mental health issues, namely OCD, and has lived enough of her life around me that she can truly empathize with my struggles. She never blames or shames or judges me. And she’s different than other people whose love is conditional, who love me when I know my place, who love me when I don’t stray too far from the prison we’ve trapped ourselves in, whose love stops when their interests are no longer being served. She just wants what’s best for me. It’s a selfless love and I feel undeserving of it. Two weeks ago I read her two short pieces and she asked me the question that will burnish any writer’s ego, “How do you come up with this?” She sincerely wanted to know, as a non writer, how I came up with my ideas. She was interested in the process. This was exciting. Someone who genuinely admires what I have created and who wants to know more about how the sausage gets made? That’s the best compliment I could ever receive. So thank you, Susan. You’re simply the best.

Until next time, faithful reader.

Be well,

Timothy