My Writing Relationship

In the morning, I always do the same things in the same sequence. One of the steps is a nice warm shower. During the shower, for no reason, I had an idea for a Christmas present for my father. At first the thought was coarse and unrefined. Write my father a letter. At the time, writing was just something I did to communicate online. I never thought about it as anything else. When struck with this gift idea, though, I knew immediately it was a great idea. But what to write about...

I mulled the idea over for several days. Christmas was about a month away, so I had plenty of time to ponder. Finally I settled upon a letter of gratification. I should thank my dad for raising me. Another great idea, but still not refined enough to really mean much. This letter had to be specific. For weeks I fell asleep while mentally writing drafts. The letter was going to be short and powerful. That much I knew.

After mentally drafting for some time, I decided to try my hand at creating it. Again I drew up draft after draft. It had to be perfect. I realized by then exactly what I was going to write about. I just needed the words.

Then, there they were. I had the letter. I knew with absolute certainty this was going to be the best gift I have ever given. This letter was going to create tears, but in a good way. I was right. Christmas came, and my father opened the envelope. He had no idea what the gift was. At first his face showed surprise and confusion, then he started reading. He concentrated a moment, and then his face pinched somewhat. Then you could see the color drain from my father's cheeks. After a moment of shock, he beckoned my mother over to him and buried his face in her puffy bath robe. He began to sob. My brother turned and looked at me, giving me a very worried look. My father handed the letter to my mother. She read the letter, and in a similar progression she began to cry. They held each other, weeping. I saw my father motion me over to him, and then he grabbed onto me powerfully. He chocked out "Thank you," a few times. To this day the letter is displayed within eye shot of his bed.

I don't recall exactly what was written, and it was several hard drives ago so I cannot retrieve it. To understand what was written, you must first understand my father's job. He worked at the post office while I grew up, and he despised it. He worked nights, and his life was a nightmare. It ruined his life for decades, and almost ripped the family apart. In summary, the letter said:

Dear Dad,

I may not be the most open person emotionally, and rarely hug or kiss you. I want you to understand that does not mean I don't care for you. I do. I just have problems showing it.

I wanted to say that I understand how much you sacrificed to raise me. I know how much it hurt you to put a roof over the families head and food on the table. I am so grateful for your sacrifice, Dad. Thank you. I love you. And I will never forget what you have done for me.

Your Son,
Dayton

Self Loathing

Like everyone, there are things about myself I hate. In this case, hate is not too strong a word. There are pieces of my personality that torture me daily and leave me angry. Tonight, the part that bothers me the most is memory.

Why, you may ask, would memory be the part I dislike? Well. Depression has done a number on my recollections. Most of my memories are tainted by a dark cloud of sadness, even the happy memories. So, when I think to the past, it is always a painful experience. Depression spreads through my retrospections like a virus, slowly changing their original feeling until there is nothing real left.

I have tried, in the past, to enact a protocol to protect my most cherished memories. I call it the Do Not Corrupt (DNC) Protocol. Essentially, any time I recall the DNC memory in any negative light I flash DNC upon the memory and immediately close it. It actually works to an extent. I have a few DNC memories that still have some of the original positive feelings attached. But I must be careful and vigilant with enforcement of DNC recollections. Too many attached to this protocol weakens the defense, and too much recall of the memory increases the chances of corruption.

The protocol was initially created because of one specifically beautiful memory. I wrote about it before; the girl from statistics dancing gorgeously during her presentation. To this day, it's probably one of the more amazing things I have witnessed. That memory was the creator and first adopter of the DNCP. And, so far so good. I still feel the good, yet bittersweet feelings when thinking about that moment.

Tonight I am recalling something that occurred only a few weeks ago. Another amazing moment with a woman. This one too private to speak about, but still entirely spectacular. I think about that moment, and enjoy the memory. Yet, I can feel my depression gnawing away at the edges. I can feel my mind mincing it into pieces.

I don't want to lose this memory. Oh, how I wish to keep it beautiful...

Recreational Writing

There is a man on the corner of South and 3rd. He is there 12 hours a day, every day. He smells like a mixture of urine, trash, and vomit and has a long, dirty beard. He looks much thicker than he really is, the many layers of clothing obscuring his jutting ribs and emaciated stomach. He holds a weathered cardboard sign reading "Please Help." He long since stopped trying to write witticisms or jokes. On a good day this man can purchase a can of food or find a shelter that will give him a meal. On a good day, someone throws him a quarter and smiles at him. Most people simply pass him by, ignoring his existence entirely. A few tell him to get a job.

You may ask yourself, "what's wrong with him?" Well. Inversely to some people's assumptions, he is not crazy, or a drunk, or a drug addict. He once had a lucrative career, a family, a daughter, and a dog. His house was enormous, as was his bank account. This man had a life, and was truly happy. He woke up in the morning smelling a freshly cooked breakfast by a woman who loved him. He fell asleep with his arm wrapped around her waist and smelling her faint smells. They were his world. But, as everything does, it ended. In his case, with a car accident. Decades ago, this man and his family were on a vacation. They laughed, and played, and swam in the ocean. He watched with a smile as his wife laid on the sand, tanning and enjoying the sun. He helped his little daughter build her first ocean side sand castle. They all watched the castle wash away. They loved each other so much. On the journey back home the man fell asleep at the wheel, and drifted into oncoming traffic. The wife was killed on impact. The daughter was not so lucky. For days she lay dying in the hospital. The man was... lucky... enough to only have most of his major bones broken. He was not able to be by his daughters side as she slowly succumbed to internal bleeding. As you can imagine, he blames himself for their deaths. Blames himself for not being there for his daughter's last moments.

There is a man on the corner of South and 3rd. He is there 12 hours a day, every day, and he torments himself. He sits motionless and imagines the faces of the people he lost and wishes he was still capable of crying. He wishes he could kill himself. He wishes he could scream.

Ninth Grade

A memory.

During the year I attended 9th grade, I was in unstoppable agony. And every day it got worse. As a present for graduating 8th grade, I received food poisoning during a graduation outing. The gift shredded my digestive system and left it irrevocably damaged. At first I was only a little sick, but as time drew on the pain intensified. By the end of my 9th grade year, I was in so much pain that I had to maintain consciousness through sheer will power. I went to so many doctors for so many years...

The tests I endured ranged from uncomfortable, to disgusting, to torturous. During one particularly bad test, I came closer to passing out than I can describe. The pain was exquisite. My entire body went numb and stars filled my vision. I was forced to stand up, making wakefulness nearly impossible. The entire test I am essentially naked, and my father is nearly crying as he is forced to watch me writhe and moan in torment. I have no idea how long the test actually lasted, but I do know the pain did not end with the conclusion of the test. For at least an hour afterward my insides were on fire. Even so, I put on my clothes and slowly walked out of the hospital and to the family car.

The results of the test came back negative. Knowing that I endured the terribleness of the test for no diagnosis made the situation that much worse. In science you are taught that a false result is still useful data. I understood that even back then. Still... the pain endured continues to haunt me to this day. I cannot bring myself to say it helped.

Ninth grade... Most teenagers in that grade are trying to shape their personality and become their own people. Most teenagers are trying to fit in, have fun, and get through their studies. I was trying to survive being tortured.

Sadly, things just got worse as the years past.

Loneliness in Numbers

People in the past have told me that they feel more connected while being out and about. They enjoyed going to coffee shops, or walking around town. They felt a part of the human race. That's something I have never understood. Whenever I am a face in a crowd, I feel more alone than sitting here in my little place and writing to nobody.

Maybe those crowd-connectors can relate more easily with others. A simple gesture exchange and they feel like they passed some type of social quanta between them. Hm. Sounds like data packet passing, or electron exchange. Humans: The macro-atoms. That would mean that these people can more easily pass along social data, and enjoy the process. These people are more conductive than me. Maybe that's my problem. I'm not conductive enough!

I could sheath myself in some type of fake conductive layer. A social Faraday cage, if you will. The social interactive quanta would flow around me without my help. Nobody would know the difference. Emulation of normal social interaction may suffice. Or possibly some type of medication can accomplish that task. Many possibilities.

But, all of this would do nothing to change me. I would be the same old me, just hidden under yet another layer of fakery. The thought makes me cringe. No. I don't think I will do any of this.

I will just be my same old insulating self; I am stuck being the most alone when surrounded by others.

Damaged Circuitry

It may or may not be apparent that I describe much of myself in technological terms. Growing up around computers and electronics made it easier to identify with machines over humanity. I think, tonight, I will continue the pattern.

To visualize my emotional construct, first imagine a circuit board. Now imagine taking that circuit board and firing a few bullets though it. Then douse the board in an acidic solution. The end result will be cracked, broken, full of holes, and warped. That is an accurate description of my emotions. Somehow they still function, but the connections are random and nonsensical. I suppose a few examples are in order.

I just completed an episode of a random, stupid television show. The plot was dumb and the acting pathetic. However, during the episode I saw a woman smile. The way the little wrinkles formed around her mouth reminded me of someone. Immediately I wished I could cry. Sadly, that section of my emotional circuit board was hit by a bullet. It has been a long time since I could cry.

Other times electrical jolts fire through me. Some people think I am simply itching, or trying to pop a vertebrae. Unfortunately, the cause is not skeletal or dermatological. Sometimes I get a... feeling or thought that is so bloody intense that I twitch from the pain. It's like being hit by lightning, only it happens several times a day. A short in my circuits throwing amps into incorrect places.

Any positive emotion has been obliterated. Maybe obliteration is not the correct term. Through the years they have atrophied to the point of uselessness. So now I must suffer through my days and nights without feeling anything but negative and painful emotions. But... it is to be expected given the damaged nature of my emotions.

I suppose this post has no point. I'm just venting because it is night, and as always I am alone and depressed.

The Chains That Bind Me

Well. Yesterday I got the chain tattoos on my wrists. I'm still somewhat amazed that I did it, but very glad that I did.

Not the highest quality picture and the color is tweaked beyond reality, but you get the point.

So why did I decide to get them? Well. The answer isn't straight forward. I didn't get them for looks, or for attention, or even because I like tattoos. The main reasons I got them: they are a symbol, and they mark a need for change.

Symbols are powerful. They can convey incredible amounts of information and evoke very basic emotions. For me, these chains symbolize a great many things. In Bioshock, they convey the chains that bind the character, and player's will. To me, each chain is a single word. "A man chooses. A slave obeys." Although these words are powerful, they are not the primary symbolic meaning. They mark the chains that I work every day to maintain, and simultaneously break. Through sheer willpower I keep myself together. "Strength through fire", another of my mottos. The chains bind me. The chains keep me in one piece. They keep me in check.

At the same time, I wish to change. Desperately. I want to become a man that a woman can call their boyfriend, or lover, or husband. A man that someone can be proud of and feel safe and comfortable when around me. Personally, I think I possess these traits already. Unfortunately others cannot see that. At least not initially. I have been doing various things to change, but it never seems to be enough. Maybe the new ink will be another step in the right direction. One can hope.

The week before going under the needle I was asked by told by multiple people "Make sure you will want the tattoos in 20 years." This is great advice, but impossible in practice. Nobody knows who they will be in 20 years. Or even in 5. Things always change. My reply to these statements, "I can't possibly answer that. What I can tell you is that I need to change, and these tattoos are a step in the right direction." People seem to understand that this is the truth.

Now I have chains on my wrists, and I like them. They are cool, nerdy, simple, and not too obtrusive.

Yesterday I changed my appearance effectively forever. Maybe that means that today I am a slightly different person. Again. One can hope.