Like Clean Sheets...
I sucked down the sweet nectar, feeling my heart race with exhilaration. What would come from this dip into the expansive depth of “drunkenness” I had been hearing about? Would it bring a sense of meaning and definitive purpose to my life, despite its rapidly disintegrating nature? Would it answer any of the burning questions that I had been trying to bury deep inside and hide from the light? It wasn’t the first time I tasted alcohol; there had been a pull off a wine cooler or two prior. It was 2003, senior year homecoming; I was with my best friends. It was supposed to be the memory of a lifetime…however, I just wanted to escape. To where? I don’t really know. Earlier in the day, before alcohol touched my lips and crashed down in waves inside, before dancing in the dressed-up school gym with sweat pouring down, before the staged photos and goofy group shots, before getting ready in the mirror…I was burying my grandmother.
I felt like I could scream all night, but I did my best to keep a smile on my face. I had been in this freeze-face position before. I was just about ready to burst when a new remedy passed through my lips and found its home in my liver. I seemed able to reach further into that dark spot, the existential chasm, with each drink I downed, perhaps closing in on some sort of answer to all my hidden questions, but a couple things started happening when I reached a certain point in my drunken state: 1) I blacked out completely and/or 2) I threw up. I kept my foot on the accelerator though, pushing MATTHEW up, down, and all around in a loose-limbed stupor, dancing through life without really touching the ground. Until, of course, I would crash down hard, waking up the next morning wondering why. Ugh…brutal…
Credit: Sia
Imagine my surprise when, one morning in college after a heavy night of drinking, I awoke to find MATTHEW was on an island of his own making. Looking around with no one else to blame, I deduced that I sweat out the alcohol while sleeping. Yeah, that’s it…So I kept drinking, trying to go as far into the darkness as I could before blacking out, hoping that I would feel something, anything, to pull me out of the spiral I was living. Instead, what resulted was just more shame, as I would wake up the next morning and find myself in a puddle of pee, trying to piece together the night before yet still avoiding consciously returning to that dark place till I was in the company of alcohol again. Spirals have a f*cked up way of working, right?
It seems like so long ago…I wish it were longer ago…those horrifying first moments upon waking; still, the shame hangs so heavily on me. My only real options are either to escape…and we already know where that leads…or to overcome. In March, I set out on the latter by polar plunging into the icy depths of Lake Michigan. I “practiced” ahead of the big day by standing directly under the shower for that first couple seconds of cold blast, growing bolder as time went on, adding twists of the faucet from H to C for a collection of numbing seconds before frantically reaching to turn it back.
I was ready, or at least as ready as I was going to be. Then, the night before the plunge, my mom called to tell me that my dad fell hard while bowling and was knocked unconscious. Sh*t…what do I do? He was “OK” in that he refused to go to the hospital after he came to, even wanting to drive the 40 minutes home. I made the decision to stay the course—he’s ok, right?—and awoke the next day, prepared to go, but then couldn’t find my car keys. More frantic reaching. Nothing…Push forward. When I arrived downtown, I couldn’t find my entry wristband to plunge. More frantic reaching. Nothing…Push forward. I had to will myself through a lot to achieve this highly-anticipated feat. Then, I was at the water’s edge, moving swiftly, but surely, toward the icy darkness. However, I noticed something immediately: the depth seemed rather, well…shallow.
Apparently, the lake was so frozen that the ice breaking crew was only able to clear shallow beds of water for the event. I continued on and in and found that the water came up to just below my knee. Now what? I stood there, confused, thinking I had to move to give others space to “plunge.” There had to be more. I barely felt anything! I did the only thing that seemed to make sense. I dipped down, below the waist, into the shallow cold, held for a second, then leaped up and out. Mission complete? Well, I can tell you one thing: I didn’t pee. Still, things felt so unresolved. The jump from the plane was such a significant turning point over the summer; why didn’t this one touch as deep? More frantic reaching. Nothing…I just keep pushing forward into the darkness, trying to find a solvent that will once and for all remove the spiral stains of my shame.
This is why we can’t have nice things…like clean sheets.
I turned 33 exactly a month and TWO DAYS ago. I’m sensitive to it because I set a goal to complete the final chapter of the “This is Why” series by the end of my birthday month. Here’s to trying…Who would have thought, after beginning this epic with talk about poop in Like Bathroom Etiquette, I end with a story about pee. You turned how old this year? I know; I still have quite a bit of growing to do. I guess that’s why I show up here, to write how my fears manifest into barriers, self-sabotage, and ultimately heartache. To grow through the expression of that deep chasm in my mind, where it looks like unfettered imagination is just within reach. The problem: just when I think I’ve caught it, that black hole swallows me up again, sweeping me away from my grounded center, spiraling down until I’m able to refocus, find some empowering memory, regain my footing, stand (semi-)confidently, and start that steady trek back toward the light. As I’ve said before, it’s like a roller coaster ride that seems to be spinning more wildly out of control the further I venture down into the darkness.
The reason why this is so troublesome is that if I intend to create something—anything—from that deep, reflective place moving forward, I’m going to need to be able to balance myself while peering into the abyss. I can’t very well dive into every detail of my greatest fears and expect to come out of it still standing tall, right? I know my patterns by now. I will most definitely punish myself for being weak, for being different, for being small. Damned shame spirals. On the flip side, I’ve reached a point in my writing where I feel an incredible freedom, a sense of drive and purpose. I see how this series so perfectly connects to my past, present, and future; how it has served as a building block upon which I can boldly say I’ve conquered my fearfulness. It all seems ready to bloom like spring. But. This is Chicago…spring only lasts a day then is stuck in ice for the next week. I’m fed up fighting against this stuck feeling; I’m 33 now! I’ve been peering down into this chasm for what feels like forever, stuck on the edge because fear has me locked in place. It’s time I put my fearlessness where my fingers type…I’m going in.
Attention: No Diving
I’m met with a lot of initial resistance as I consciously drop into this dark head space; it’s like slowly falling down a well with all kinds of emotional triggers going off in my ears, trying to lure me away into the crevasses of the wall with promises of feeling better through addictive release. As I get a little further, angry words are being shouted, louder and louder, until I hit the bottom. I open my eyes and all I see is a thick haze of red. I hear the rush of a roller coaster but no screams. It’s a deserted place—not like tumbleweeds deserted; there’s probably dust on the roller coaster switchboard. Maybe a few webs. I wander, looking for signs of life, then hear the violent roar of metallic carnage that just as quickly dissipates into the haze. I go chasing in the direction of the noise and find the wreckage of a plane. Go figure. Peering inside, I see a boy huddled in the corner of the backseat. I reach to pull him out of the shadows, but he starts screaming and shaking hysterically. Staring deep. Unsettling my core.
I’ve met this boy before: it’s me. Duh! On many of my excursions to this dark place, whether through drunkenness or dreams, I have found my younger self stuck back here in the plane, but that gut-wrenching reaction always kept me stuck in place and/or trying to escape. I’m terrified of approaching him. Ok, ok…escape or overcome. Well, if I were to apply something I learned (knowledge is power), water has reflective properties, so perhaps I need to take a closer look at what he’s seeing to understand. And there it is, the reason for his screaming and crying: in my reflection, I see the maniacal monster from my drawings, the manipulative torturer, the devil in disguise staring back at me. AH! No wonder he has nightmares! This isn’t an M. Night Shymalan-level twist, though; all clues pointed to me being behind CHICO this entire journey. I mean, it’s all pretty obvious when it’s staring right at you.
But why do my eyes want to dart away as he glares? What am I hiding? When I stare down the depths of my pupils, into the darkness, my vision starts to get blurry and the silence crowds around me. My eyes well up with tears waiting to be released but I don’t want to break the gaze. If I hold out long enough, will I touch the other side? Can I handle whatever I reach for and finally touch?
A Deep Gaze
The eyes are the window to the soul, as they say. Who does? Well, Psychology Today for one, going deeper in their assessment by saying, “If the eye is the window into the soul, the pupil is—quite literally—an opening into the eye. The pupil acts like the aperture on a camera, dilating or contracting to regulate the amount of light coming into the eye. We all know that our pupils get smaller in the light and bigger in the dark. This is the pupillary light response.” As I travel through the hazy conditions of the chasm and gaze out into the vast darkness that hangs all around, I realize this place could really use some light. Thinking back to the lessons of Like a Snooze Button, it’s clear what I have to do: find the switch. I search around, looking everywhere—anywhere—except the backseat of the wreckage. Reluctantly, I head in that direction, certain I know what the switch is: me. Twist!
The panic ensues as I approach, my younger self scrambling to get away but again he tries to lock eyes with me as I avoid his glare. I try to grab him, but his screams stab into my heart and make my hands retreat. His eyes burn holes into me. Escape or overcome. Fine, here goes…I peer back into the dark expanses of his pupils, and his screams cut away. He holds my eyes in his. I feel like he’s checking to see if I’m ready. One last chance to bail. No looking back now…
Much like a video camera, his pupils begin reeling through an archive of memories, a collection of smiles, laughter, tears, screams, and silence. A lot of silent ones. I continue to scan through, then the tape stops on one particular moment in time: the plane crash. Who’s writing this stuff?! Hear me out; remember, in Who is a Survivor, I wrote, “Disaster is a series of painstakingly slow and drawn out emotions experienced in quick succession that severs our connection to the light by increasing our death anxiety and anger.” I still have yet to really sit down with the footage and determine what happened. So much of my anxiety is clearly based here, it’s time I look closely. When I do, I’m left staring into my father’s eyes as the plane lurches toward its collision with the ground. His eyes are holding me, and I’m sifting through the memory archive based deep in his pupils, watching his life unfold and seeing more than I could ever understand, especially at that young of an age. Those moments before death, whether actual or anticipated, are a vulnerable few; when in the presence of someone else, it can be transformative. I saw more of my dad that day than I ever had, have. He felt the end was near and let me in to see what I might be missing. It’s ok, his eyes said. Perhaps you are escaping the downward spiral that life can bring, the isolation you can feel when you lose your true voice. At least we have each other.
And then, we crashed down. I realize, as I’m staring into my younger self’s eyes, my lips are moving. I’m barely whispering, but the words I’m saying are clear: “you shouldn’t be alive.” That moment with my father is my most cherished memory ever; I will never forget the depth of vulnerability, love, shame, and loss that I saw in his eyes. It haunts me considering that we have never found that perfection again. In fact, with all the disagreements, toxic masculinity, posturing, and demoralizing “no’s” in our history together, that beautiful moment never seemed so far away, so impossible to reach. Over time, to protect my heart, I blocked out that connective experience, darkened the edges so I couldn’t see clearly what was driving my depression and loneliness. The depth kept calling out to me, though; it wouldn’t be forgotten. This caused me to lash out toward the haze, screaming drunkenly at it to cut through the suffocating silence, turning me into the monstrous clown that continued to traumatize my younger self well into adulthood. A snarling smile with devouring eyes, spiraling red.
Drop it Like Its Hot
Denial. It’s like a drug. I inhale deep, hold it, then puff it out into some twisted form of art. I’ve used a lot of denial to light (rather, darken) my path to no place in particular rather than trust the course I’m on. When I force myself to come face to face with it, to look directly at my level of denial, words cannot describe the inner struggle that attempts to pull me away from this blog, this “hobby,” this life. Overcome. What did these lessons the past year (and a half) teach me? What did I find buried deep in the chasm?
My corpse. That’s right, I died in the plane crash. I have been buried beneath the earth for decades now. The bodily figure you see lumbering around like a madman? An imposture, a soul-stealing zombie. I’ve escaped sharing my vulnerabilities, my deepest denials, because I’m still waiting for someone to dig me up. To pull me from the dirt and set me free. Little did I know it would be me—go figure!—who is having to do the heavy lifting to pull MATTHEW up and out of the grave.
In the least noteworthy twist since The Village (I guessed the end within the first 15 minutes!), this whole process has been about digging up my body from the place I wish I had died. It has been about healing the deepest scars, the ones that struck fear in my soul, by seeing the patterns that left me chasing back to be in the grave. By doing so, I allow my younger self to stand up and walk away from the wreckage; then, my integrated self can be actualized, using creative expression to fully process any and all trauma. MATTHEW can fearlessly emerge from the cocoon as WHO: the Whole-Hearted, Harmonious Organism, the being I rediscovered in the wild. Everything fits into place: we reached an answer! Hooray! It’s tied up with a bow, allowing my perfectionist mind some relief…
Then, my heart begins to seize up as I consider the work that lies ahead; the number of times I will need to spin down into the depths of the spout to unearth some long-hidden truth. To overcome the shame spiral of death. Immediately, the lure of addiction comes crashing down in waves on the inside, and the silence closes in to finish me off. With no other option, I look back into my eyes for an answer, trusting they will show me what I need. Sure enough, I see one person—me—trying to make sense of what he sees now. Wait…what? My eyes peer in for more answers, for more truth, but I land right back in this same place—the present moment—staring back into eyes that are growing brighter. This has been a long and twisting chapter of my journey, one that—to be honest—has scared the living piss out of me. But it’s been a ride of a lifetime, one I won’t soon forget.
However, what’s to say I won’t forget? I mean, it’s taken me over 2 years to complete the “Where’d You Go?” series; the trip Southwest seems like a lifetime ago now. As I reflect back, though, on the time and tears spent delving into the complexities of my fears through this series, I see how crucial it was for me to reach this point of understanding. No longer am I buried by my fears; no longer do I need to spiral back into the darkness to punish myself for not being good enough, smart enough, masculine enough, handsome enough, funny enough…(you get the idea).
So what will the next year look like? What’s the new goal? Well, I need to finish the “Where’d You Go?” series first and foremost with this new understanding of my whole-hearted, harmonious self restored; simultaneously, I’ll continue exploring intersections of life through the lens of 72 Names of God in “What’s in a Name?” The next test though—maturity—will bring to light many new challenges, truths, and opportunities to overcome the call of addiction. It will be an uphill battle, for sure, so I will be launching a new series of writing that will include a mix of lyrics, poetry, articles, comedy, and even erotica to express/chronicle my attachment to (and, hopefully, control over) drugs, sex, alcohol, sugar, TV, and work. It should be a fun time. Right?!?!
What I’m most thankful for through this process though is you; I so appreciate this chance to share in this chapter of my life. Through all the crazy ups and downs, you’ve supported me with your wisdom, kindness, and strength, allowing me the space and freedom to grow my web fearlessly. And now, as a result, I finally know, understand, and accept: I can have nice things!
Credit: Sia