Deviation Actions
Robin Williams I'm writing this because of him. …
It made me finally face something I have not been wanting to face much less admit to.
His death as of recently for whatever odd reason hit me HARD.
To say the least.
I do not know why. I was never a fan of his, really. I liked his stand up and yes he was getting a bit in my opinion disconnected from the current world. But his jokes always made me laugh.
In my darkest times and hours, in physical illness and mental/emotional illness he made me laugh.
And this is NOT a small feat.
His comedy to me was like a drug.
A STRONG drug.
Needed to be taken in SMALL doses.
For if you got too much of it then you were screwed.
For me at least.
For me there was no comedian better than him. And if you go to your best drug all the time you become dependent and unable to get any kind of high off any other drug. For this reason I made sure to only watch him when I needed the STRONGEST shit.
And only the strongest.
When I was unable to even smile, always if I watched one of his FULL routines I'd at the very least be able to smile in the dead middle of it.
Always.
When I was in too much pain physically to ill, or too depressed to even live any longer I'd watch his stuff and I'd not only smile in the center of it, I'd actually pop or squeeze out one laugh.
Only one.
The rest of the act I'd be dead just as I was through the beginning of it, but I would laugh.
And that was what mattered.
And through that laugh I'd eventually be able to drag on and eventually live again.
Get up again and become living again.
After the end of his act.
But this is a tangent and beside the point.
What I am here to speak of pertains to this, but is in a way entirely separate from it.
It is my art.
Or lack thereof as of late.
This is something that I confessed to my Mother not long ago.
My art is my only way of connecting, having the friendship and love that I have always needed and wanted.
I am trying to draw, paint, HAVE that which I do not have.
Can not have.
Will never have.
(My fingers feeling the very love, kindness, kind caring, acceptance, understanding that does not exist for me. Touching the flesh before me as if it were real, not a page. Sculpting out of paint, pencils and paper that which was at one time alive in me,my very core. Recording on a page that which I felt, was me, my core, my being. Leaving a bit of me for the world to EXPERIENCE, FEEL, and Know. )
Because of this, doing my art has become hurtful to me.
A pain to my soul.
As if I'm stabbing out my very soul, heart, core.
This is why I have been unable to create anything as of late.
That's it.
…
Loneliness is a real thing, as physical and real as the world around us.
It as as killing, suffocating, controlling as chains.
As a belt.
Binding and refusing to let go.
I have fought long and hard against this, this killing disease,
darkness.
…
I am fading and weak.
My soul is turning to dust, or “dusting” as I call it.
That which was once binding me together, like a gel or water, blood even, is gone now. I think it was love, life, and vigor. A fire for life itself and hope.
(But hope is a four letter word, and all hope is false. This si the truth, no matter how terrible this may seem learn it. And flee from hope or it will devour you and suck the very marrow out of your bones.)
And that's the way I feel, as if some vampire is sucking the very marrow out of my deep innermost core.
My very soul.
Stopping me from physically moving ahead, or even breathing any longer. (Though I am fighting this, it, whatever this depression this loneliness disease is HARD.)
All that remains are the molecules, the grains of my very soul.
And they ache.
With a pain so sharp, so out of experience, explanation that it is literally a physical pain in my very body.
My chest physically hurt when I was young and I grew frigid in body from the terribly torturous loneliness.
It has now gone far, far beyond that.
I never thought it could get worse but as the years passed and this problem has festered it has only deepened and grown.
Far beyond mind, explanation, anything I can scarcely describe in any fashion or language as far as I know.
I have not said anything but now I am, it is shutting down my very body.
…
So if anyone tells you you can not die of emotions, (or even humiliation) you now know other wise.
If let untreated it can and does eventually kill.
Just as it does the old and ill.
I do not know how much longer I have, but know this; loneliness does, in the end at least, allow you the peace of death.
For in this one can escape the hell that is life.
At least in eternal rest know I will hopefully be at peace and will no longer be suffering, forced to fight against a disease that is killing me.
No longer will I be forced to strive against my very will, to live, to fight, to cling to life which never wanted me.
I am truly and utterly darkness and death itself.
…
And maybe it's not so bad to pass away from the living world.
Maybe it's not so bad because in death I shall finally escape all this and be truly and eternally free.
=-)
I do not want to hurt my family and worry about this.
They are rightfully worried about me, I am fading fast despite my best efforts to fight this.
I have tried to prepare them and it is inevitable, but still my Mother at least refuses to accept.
I am truly worried and do not like telling the world about this.
Do not worry for me, anyone who reads this.
I am fighting, though I am losing, I am fighting.
Against my very will to let go and just die, just relax and let it all be over with.
Disease is a funny thing, despite your best efforts it always wins.
…
(I wonder if Gregory House said that?)
