It strikes me still when I think about how it’s been three years since you made the request: Tell me why you’re here, and I told you why I was there, and it involved things I did with a knife.

Three years on a couch in your office; it took me months to realize that you could see a clock from where you sat; for a while, I thought you had an uncanny ability to sense how long an hour was.

Thirty six months of typing your initials into my phone to mark down the appointment; me always confirming the date and the time as I saved the meeting to my work calendar.

Last year I told you that my time on that couch, you at my one o’clock and the train tracks at my twelve, was the one time on any given week that I was honest. This concerned you.

But then, not soon after that, other things concerned you, and they concerned me, too. New love, old anxieties. New home, but the same goddamned blades opening me up, only this time, in new places.

And you’d saved my life before this summer, but this summer, holy shit, things got close, and it freaked me out, and it probably still will if I let it, but then again, it didn’t end up happening.

You tell me not to say that I almost died, that I almost killed myself, because the fact is I did not do either. The fact is I had a knife at my neck and then I looked in the mirror.

I looked in the mirror and said, maybe out loud, “Holy fucken shit,” and told myself, That’s it, Jeff, you do that, you’re gone, and maybe that was like a prayer, a request for an answer.

And I saw myself, shoulders bleeding, and then I didn’t kill myself, and this is what I am supposed to tell myself. That I stepped in and stopped that shit scene and got it together.

I can’t remember if I told you about the time, later that week, after you and I met, that I softened my head with a baseball driving home from couples’ therapy. I might have.

It seems that every year, I get better, and then I get worse, but not just worse than the baseline, I mean, holy shit, worse than before, that got out of control fast, and I am calling you distressed again.

And I am on the couch again, and you are telling me that this is the worst it’s been again, and each time you say it, it is true, and that, if I think about it, is a little bit amazing.

It was a shit summer – that’s what I tell my friends. I don’t need to tell you – you were the one that talked me out of it, that asked me questions that got me out of my animal brain.

And it makes me so goddamned happy to be able to say that things are better, and it’s more than a little frightening to suppose that things are the best that they’ve ever been.

It’s frightening because for some reason, I am expecting the crash again, I am expecting the joy’s departure, and I don’t know what would happen. I don’t think I want to think about it.

Because, fact is, I don’t know what would happen if things got worse, not just worse than the baseline, but worse than they got this shit summer. Worse than the story being that I did not die.

I hate to say the phrase “a knife at my neck,” and I hate to say it because I can say it in a way that is beautiful; I can say it in a way that is pleasing to hear, and it is not supposed to be.

It is not supposed to be a thing that I carry on my keyring, I am not supposed to be in love with the pyschic pain or the physical scars. This is supposed to be about getting better, not staying worse.

The thing is, things are better, but I can’t say I am out of the woods, and not just because no one wants a story about redemption, but also because I am not out of the woods.

But things are better, Jesus Christ, are they ever, and sometimes I think that I had to bottom out to start listening to some of the things you’ve been repeating to me for years.

Words like witnessing, and true self, and parts, and phrases like focus on your breath, and what would happen then; maybe they are more than words now; they might add up to an actual experience.

The shit summer might not be the bottom, and that’s a terrible thought, and man, does that ever put me on guard against letting myself feel anything good for any length of time.

This was supposed to be a thank you for saving my life, again, and again, and again, and again, and it still is, it is just a little more about me than I was hoping for.

I could not have told you that healing was possible. I could not have told you what it was that needed healing. So I told you why I was there. That was enough to start.

[Thank you, MD]

Dear [             ]

My name is Jeffrey David Stauch. I am a transracial adoptee who grew up in a predominantly Caucasian town in central Connecticut.

I have something to say and it is important, and it is sad, and it is painful, but you need to know that I exist, and that my experience exists in the hearts and souls of other adoptees in a way that was wholly unrepresented at your Saturday Community Conversation Series on 10 November 2012.

I am a voice that nobody heard. I am a voice that nobody wanted to hear, and I was not heard. I am a voice that could have educated an audience, but I am a voice that nobody wanted to hear.

My very best compliments to the panelists for their bravery in exposing themselves as a transracial adoptees. While we can all acknowledge that there might not be a stigma attached to transracial adoption, there is nonetheless a difficulty in being raised under these circumstances. It does take courage to get up in front of a bunch of strangers and say, “There is more to me than you even know.”

I also want to thank those responsible for putting this panel together. I applaud your efforts for bringing this topic into the public discourse, so please take what I am about to put forth as an earnest criticism whose intentions are to continue the dialogue, and, indeed, to dive further down into the subject of adoption as a emotionally difficult journey. This letter, if nothing else, is a call to action for all of you, all of us, to continue this dialogue.

It makes me uncomfortable to admit, and it probably makes you as a reader uncomfortable to know that I was quite angry during this presentation. There was a momentous educational opportunity that was completely missed. The stories that we heard with the panel on transracial adoption was first and foremost about race and then the legacy of adoption as a bland secondary topic.

I was in true shock watching the panel, and a fellow adoptee, sitting right beside me, was having an equal struggle keeping herself intact. I was watching a panel in whom I had invested much hope communicate a message that was antithetical to moving the dialogue about adoption and its emotional repercussions forward. I felt abandoned, by a panel who know at a very visceral level what it means to be abandoned.

Every adoptee there narrated his or her identity vis-a-vis race, but almost there was so little attention given to the feeling of being relinquished, the doctored up way of saying, crudely, we were abandoned by our own mothers. That topic was ignored all together, and for me, as a transracial adoptee, this is what I have not yet made with peace. Race, for me is secondary, because it is in fact an easier topic to discuss. I say that because as adoptees, we are adopted before we are assigned a race. We are adopted first, transracial second. In fact, to say we are adopted first is to skip a step: we are relinquished first, adopted second, and then, only then, are we assigned a race.

I posit that the error, while not intentional, was not innocent. The moderators asked chiefly about race, and at no point was it asked, “How does it feel to be adopted,” or, “Was your adoption open or closed, and did that matter?” There were so many amazing avenues that the dialogue could have taken, and instead, we listened to racial integration and racial self-realization as an indication that everyone on that panel had made peace with their adoptions.

These were all stories of redemption. Stories of resolution. As a transracial adoptee, I have trouble believing them. I really do. Not because I think that the panelists were lying, at least not consciously or intentionally. Rather, I think as adoptees we are taught, not by ill-will, but rather, by means of under-educated parenting, not to bring it up unless we’re asked. We are not taught to be curious about our origins. We’re taught that it is no big deal at all, that we’re loved by our adoptive family, as though it is an exact substitute, but it is not. It is not, it is not, and I beg you to realize this truth. Being adopted is not nearly as easy as the impressions one might have gleaned from this panel.

There were two particularly offensive moments in the panel, or at least two moments where I took great offense (perhaps I am alone!). When the panelists discussed how they answer the question “Where are you from,” no one took the opportunity to say, “I have no idea.” Do you know how downright terrifying it is not to know? Dear reader, can you imagine what it would feel like if every family portrait featured you and a group of faceless bodies? Can you imagine trying to conjure up an image of the woman who bore you and failing at that for decades?

Where am I from? I came via C-section from a New Jersey Filipina in a Manhattan hospital. I have siblings that I’ll never meet. I know nothing of my birth father. He was not present at my birth. Worth repeating: I have siblings, which means that I was not kept whereas they were. Now look, I know we can rationalize and say, “She knew you would have a better life being adopted,” or “Of course she loves you as much as she loves your siblings.” And even beyond rationalizing, we can accept it as truth. But that is not a substitute for being raised by the parents from whom you biologically came. You see, just because my adoptive family loves me does not mean that I don’t need the love of my birth family. You can’t just swap it out like a pair of jeans. It is not that simple.

There are tradeoffs, yes, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am to have grown up under the circumstances that I did. But my life is a tradeoff nonetheless. I got to be raised in relative comfort and affluence at the cost of being unable to answer the question of where I am from.

Where am I from? I am enraged and despondent every time I am asked this. Because my answer is nothing more than words with which I have only the most abstract associations. This is not an easy truth to stomach. We adoptees: we are desert plants – emotional survivors with roots that don’t go deep.

To expound briefly on my continuing trouble with this question, and my disappointment in the panelists’ answers, it was puzzling when each panelist identified as a Vermonter. This saddened me, and here is why: you put any one of those panelists in the supermarket, at the local church, or right on Main Street, I can say with near certainty that almost zero percent of native, Caucasian Vermonters would even think for a second that the panelists were Vermonters. And this matters. The labels we apply to ourselves are one thing, but the labels applied by others is another. The labels of others might be inaccurate, but they do matter, because we have all spent a lifetime being classified as something other than what we consider ourselves to be. Do you know how tiring that becomes? To answer the question, “Where are you from,” for several iterations, because my response of “Middlebury,” invokes the reaction, “No, really.”

It is heartening to know that they identify as Vermonters, but this comes off as placating to the public, their way of saying, “I don’t feel out of place.” Weigh this against the fact that whenever someone asks them the ever-troubling question of their origins, they are in fact made to feel out of place by the questioner. The questioner, in asking this question, is telling the panelist, “I don’t see you as a Vermonter.” And this matters. It’s a moment for both parties to learn.

The other moment where I took offense, and even murmured to my adoptee friend by my side, “That is a gross assumption” was when one of the moderators asked about how the panelist found ways to integrate. To assume that we are all able to integrate is dangerously misinformed. This ties back to the complexity of the question “Where are you from,” and the slight dishonesty in any adoptee when they have an answer. We never say, “A faceless mother who gave me away.”

More than one panelist mentioned that the ethnic ties ended at cuisine, and one mentioned specifically that she felt an acute need to assimilate. I don’t think I was the only one in the room that took that as more than a passing comment. I know what she means, having felt that same need, but I look back now, and see that assimilation put greater value in others’ opinions of me than my own opinion of me, or, even more importantly, my own self-knowledge and awareness. Play soccer to blend in. Be as Caucasian you possibly can. But that only takes things so far. Even after you do that, you are still different, and you still have no one to tell, no peer off of whom you can bounce those ideas, or with whom you can share the struggle.

Some further thoughts, again, to be taken as criticism, yes, but not with the rage I felt at the panel. Rather, I continue to share these thoughts in the hopes that this continues the dialogue, rather than stops it. The argument put forth that anyone can have a child, but a family has to work really hard to adopt is a cop-out. I am just going to say it. It covers up the fact that being relinquished is a deeply formative experience, one that even we as adoptees have trouble expressing, and one, I would argue, that we are not encouraged to articulate, or even to attempt to articulate.

No one took a negative view on the adoption experience. So no one left the panel today thinking of the complications that arise in an adoptive family. I have to guess that so much of this was sugar-coating, a general aversion to wanting to stir up controversy, a desperate need to show the audience that everything is okay, that I am strong, and put together, and have processed the challenges endemic to being relinquished.

This might be an innocent mistake, but the takeaway from the panel has serious implications – no one in the audience was challenged by the panelists to think about how difficult it is not to know those who bore you. How heavy the weight of relinquishment truly is.

In short, the moderators asked questions that didn’t invite robust discussion on the complexities of adoption, and as a result, the panelists did not have the need to stand up and say, “Being adopted can really suck sometimes.” Because that’s the truth. Or at least it is my truth, and the truth of a number of other adoptees that I know.

It is a difficult existence that we are taught to believe isn’t difficult. And so we convince ourselves at an intellectual level that there are no emotional issues stemming from adoption, even though we carry a weight for which we have no words for many years. Then, later on in life, we realize, I’m in my mid-twenties, all of my relationships have failed and I’m depressed, because there is a gaping hole in my life created by not knowing where I’m from. Not knowing my biological provenance. Of not having anyone to tell that to. Of not even having a vocabulary for it.

I acknowledge that I cannot speak for every adoptee out there, nor do I think that I am doing so with this letter. This said, I felt the need to let you know, courteously but firmly, that there is an entire chorus of voices that you did not see represented at the panel today, and that this carries with it consequences. It perpetuates the general opinion that adoption can be a normalized experience just like race. It can be, but to wrap up adoption in a dialogue of race and equate the two is to do a great disservice to all adoptees, transracial or otherwise.

It is not easy to admit that things are not easy. But they are not, and it is saddening to know that the audience at the Saturday Community Conversation today saw only a very narrow view of the adoption experience as lived by the children.

There is plenty more to say, but I will stop here. I do hope that you do not take offense to the tone or content of this letter. I write to you with the sincerest of intentions. I felt a deep need exiting that panel to make sure that my voice was heard, as a way to give voice to others whom I know feel likewise. I would welcome the chance to speak with you or the appropriate colleagues; indeed, I would be delighted to have the opportunity to engage with anyone of you on the subject of adoption. I do applaud your efforts in bringing the topic into the public sphere, and this letter is written with the sincerest hope that my own experience and reactions might help to improve upon future iterations of this conversation. Many, many heartfelt thanks for your attention.

Most sincerely,

Jeffrey David Stauch

Who I am:

28 year old male

Filipino American

Child of a Closed Adoption

Raised in Avon, Connecticut

Resident of Middlebury, Vermont

From a place I cannot even fathom

See, and that’s the thing.  We all make sense to ourselves, and since that’s true, we rarely explain our actions, and rarely feel the need to.  Why would we?  This makes total sense.  Fucken duh I was going to do that.  Figure it out for your goddamned self.

I read a friend’s account of a recent prolonged visit with her mother, and the sewage of memories which were in turn dredged up.

We find ourselves baffled by paradox:  something pleasant here, something less so here.  An apocalyptic fuck up here, another one here.  I mean, there’s no question which way the scales slide in this narrative.

But maybe what I’m surprised by more than anything is the normalization that we children do, the fucken rationalization that we do when we trace back.  We need it to make sense, we need all these tragedies to fit neatly in a box.  And that’s why we write about them.  Because we care about them, and we want to think that there was some higher purpose, some bigger reason, as to why we suffered at the hands of our mothers.  We become their apologists in the hopes of it all making sense.  If the pain of years ago is today meticulously arranged, we think, it will hurt less.

And it does make sense, in a way, but maybe not the way we think it might, or should.  Because to them, they raised us, and got us out of the fucken house, and boom, end of story.  And they were goddamned right to be mad about her girlfriend, or justified in hitting me when she found a box of condoms.  This all made sense to them.

I raised you, you didn’t die, you seem sane enough where I don’t need to worry more.  I did a good job, leave me the fuck alone.

What they will probably never think:  I am sorry for the lack of emotional nurturing.

What they will probably never say:  I made some serious errors.

What we wish they would:  Tell me about the times I hurt you.

What we wish they would:  A child should not have been treated like I treated you.

What they might say:  I did my goddamned best.

What they might say:  Your father, don’t even get me fucken started.

What they have said:  I don’t think you’ve been a good child to me.

What they still say:  Drive carefully on your way home. 

Could you take some of your stuff with you next time you visit? 

We grow up, it’s true, we race on ahead to check things off the list, and these childhood memories become tiny people with big voices and discomforting strength, and they live inside of us, and then they take over when we are adults, and we find ourselves distressed, and in the case of my friend, and in the case of me, this can take on unsavory habits.

In the writing trade, you’re taught to let the audience get mad for you.  Don’t get mad or be bitter on the page.  It flattens things out.

So I can’t say, You fucken bitch, do you have any idea? 

So I shouldn’t say, The less I talk to you, the happier I am.

But there is fucken rage, and it lives on, and I tell my therapist that it isn’t just rage, it’s a desire for action, to throttle the direct object of my anger, to bludgeon it until it sees what I want it to see.

Take a look, asshole – that crying child is your handiwork.

And:  I’m glad I fucken hurt you.  I’m glad I broke you, too.

Because the rage is a cover up for the sadness, the pain, the vulnerable little shits that we once were, and therefore still are today.  Secondary emotion is what the social workers call it.

And it lives on, but it stays clamped down until it doesn’t, and then man, there are fireworks.  It’s a drunken Thanksgiving with all of us yelling, or me reading a book in the adjoining room while my parents still threaten a divorce that they haven’t followed through on for almost 20 years, me nearly crying about it later.

So fine, we’re not angry, we’re telling you calmly.  My friend, in her rendition, is not angry.  There is confusion, yes, the gropings and attempts to extract some higher meaning out of the ether, something more satisfying than She just fucked up, and fucked up big.  And there probably is some meaning in there.  There’s the story of her mother.  Because her mother was rational unto herself.  Still is as she makes her husband work three jobs as she lives a life lavish beyond her means; still as she blames her newer children.  Still, as she stays in a hotel room to visit her daughter.  That’s the story.  Or another story.  Either way, the answers lie down that path, and as a child of that story, it’s a fucken scary route to want to take.  Digging up the past is rarely a fun and easy thing to do.  Especially when it deals in the business of rearing kin.

It all makes sense to her mother, and that’s my friend’s struggle – to make sense of that shit.

It’s my fucken struggle, too.

It’s what we’re left with.  I don’t think they’d remember the things that left the marks.  Or at least not remember them the way we did.  Or at least not feel the need to defend.

My friend isn’t angry, at least not on the page; the detached voice, the quiet, uncertain analysis, has the intended effect of unsettling me.  You put up with that shit? I asked her in my head.

Problems of the first world, yes, but problems nonetheless.  The impulsive decisions of my friend’s mother, the gross neglect, the social conservatism of my own mother, and her absolute need for control – these are things we are left figuring out, because they couldn’t do it for their goddamned selves.

We’re picking up the shattered vases of our youth.  We’re tending to our younger selves.  We piece it all back together, but we can see the fault lines, the cracks, the fragments that got lost.  And that’s fine, there’s nothing wrong with it, really.  Just goddamn, I wish there were less work to do.  It didn’t have to be this way.  But it is this way, and while there isn’t redemption at the end (there never is, there shouldn’t be, who wants to read about a happy fucken ending?), there’s solace, and there’s finally calm, as we leave them behind, and give at last ourselves the love that we wish we had gotten back then.  Filling the deficit daily.  It’s exhausting.  And it’s shitty to admit that getting angry doesn’t help one fucken bit.  So I don’t.  Instead, I administer a spoonful of self-acceptance, and hope that my friend might be doing the same.

To AH

I wrote to you that year, too. Once, a poem, I called you the king of the pocket beasts, and at the time, that meant something, and it still does, I just can’t recall what. That’s what happens when we get older. Things that meant something escape us. Or rather, the thing doesn’t, but the meaning does.

But see, M, I still have these memories of you, and I feel a need to keep them, not to myself, but as alive as possible. You were joy, and you were rage. I am assuming that you still are. You hung up the phone on loan collectors, you looked for other work; you had a head hunter.

You had a leather jacket and the best fucken giggle that turned to a laugh. You turned red when you were angry, and we were amazed that you came to work without a bag or backpack. This seemed mystical to us, that you could leave work and take nothing with you.

Then I was gone and you were gone and I kept raising money and you made delicious food for beautiful people. I am imagining, at least, that they are beautiful. They might not be. I hope that they are, if only because the photos of your dishes are, too. It only seems fair.

And then a funeral brought us all together again, as they tend to do. And I saw you and I embraced you, and we were fighting tears that we then stopped fighting, because she was a friend of ours, a former colleague, but a friend, and she died, and we felt responsible, all of us, at some level.

It was my birthday, and that was ironic, and I started anti-depressants that morning, which was, too, and then we were all there in Boston, three and a half years later; you and I had not seen most of our colleagues since we both left, and here we were, embracing, and crying, and looking at our shoes.

Then we carried the flowers from the church to the pub where we all drank and watched slides of our friend who was dead, and we were smiling again, and we looked and got quiet when the photos showed us why she died, and then we got more to drink.

But you weren’t there for this part, and I get it. You wanted a private sadness that was sad. You didn’t want to have to smile in a room of people you only kind of knew, and hadn’t thought about, I’m guessing, until we all got the phone calls from our former colleagues about an untimely death.

So I didn’t see you for that part, or the part where we went to the dive afterwards and I continued to hit on one of the VPs. Or the part where I decided on the spot that I was going to drive four hours back to Vermont, so I said goodbye to everyone, ate Korean food, drank tea, and drove home.

And I haven’t seen you since, and if I let it, that makes me sad, but only because you were warmth and fire, and an energy uncorked that I find in few people. But isn’t a deep sadness, more of a missing, saudade in Portuguese, one of my favorite words. It’s just that I love you, as friends and men do.

Your art arrived in the mail this week; I was away, and I came home to the peach colored slip letting me know you had shipped the painting, so I turned right back around and got a large box at the post office, and I carried it home and I looked at it, and I loved it, and I still do.

I screwed in mounting hooks, and tied wire, and now it is hanging from my bedroom wall, looking at me when I wake up. It’s an assurance – an artist’s soul, yours, on the canvas, greeting me, you saying, “I am vulnerable when I tell someone I love them,” and me saying back, “Tell me about it.”

There’s a halo and a brain you could scoop right out if you wanted to; wings and eyes and the bold, bounding energy that I told you I see as fire, and it’s warmth in the air, that moment when you step outside the theater in the afternoon and it’s impossibly bright for a moment.

You call it Chapter One, and this is correct – there’s a page painted on the right of the canvas, that reveals the title, and I recall the poem I wrote for you then, and I recall the ball point and legal size series of words and illustrations that you made for me in response.

And then, well, I think about how when we say “I understand,” we rarely do, how that’s a load of shit, how what we should say is “I want to understand,” which is a scary thing to say because it’s the truth, and the storyteller can say no, can say, “I already told you,” or “There’s nothing more to understand.”

But M, you see, the story isn’t ever over, it’s always just life, it’s today, and sometimes there really isn’t anything more to understand, we’re just a catalogue of moments which we hope amount to something, to some grander narrative; it’s the difference between chasing a butterfly and catching one.

Because it’s the strength, the discipline, of just showing up for the sake of showing up, of painting or writing because it’s painting or writing, and that is sacred enough, to say to the world, “This is a story, if you want to listen,” and making peace with the fact that sometimes it doesn’t.

You exist mostly as a series of images now, or qualities, or instants. I don’t say this as a bad thing. I’m a preservationist; I protect the rare collections, I keep them alive by telling you all of this, by replaying the scenes as I remember them, even if that’s not how it might have happened.

You in a leather jacket. You with your laugh and your wide, wide grin. You and your Connecticut roots. You in a church years later. You, an emotional man. You, knowing that that made us friends. You covered in paint, which you know more than most to be an expression of love.

To MDR

This was in response to something I said toward the end of the session. I told her I’m still freaked out. I guess I haven’t gotten over the fact that I almost died this summer.

She would later say, I’m glad that this part came up, and we should talk about this next time.

But what she said immediately after I said almost died was Okay, wait, stop right there. Which is exactly what I did. I stopped, and I waited, right there, on the couch where for three years going I’d sat once a week.

That isn’t true. You didn’t almost die. You didn’t die. Let’s stick with the facts. You didn’t die. Let’s walk through what actually happened.

So I tell her what I told her in July, the week after the entire shitty thing happened: I cut a lot into my arms. Then I put the knife against my neck. Then I looked up and I saw myself in the mirror, and I thought to myself, holy fucken shit. You have a fucken knife at your fucken neck. If you do that, that’s it, that will actually kill you. You can’t undo that one. That’s good night.

She said, Right. You did not want to die. Looking in the mirror, and being able to say that to yourself, that was your true self, that was you drawing upon your infinite resources.

I did not die. I did not almost die. This was not how I viewed things, but she was asking me to change that.

See, Jeff, the thing is, you did not want to die. Remember that the cutting is not because you want to die. The cutting for you is a painkiller, a way to slow things down, to stop the hurting, whether it’s the anxiety of being abandoned, and she didn’t finish the sentence, I don’t think, or maybe I wasn’t listening anymore, because I was still replaying the scene, struggling to reconcile in my own mind how having a knife at my neck while self-mutilating didn’t constitute coming close.

And so you cut your arms, and that wasn’t enough, so you went for your neck, but then your true self stepped in. You took control, and stopped letting these parts of you handle it. She mentioned the word leadership somewhere, but I can’t remember when.

The brain can create stories that aren’t actually true, she said. I fucken know that, I want to say, but don’t. Not in an angry way, just in a resigned way. So it’s important for us sometimes, in cases like this one, to remember what actually happened. You cut yourself, you had a knife at your neck, but then you looked in the mirror and stopped. That’s it. That is what happened. I think she was repeating herself to beat it into my head; she probably knew that I was having trouble believing this. Do you see the difference?

I tell her that I do, at one level, at a theoretical, intellectual level. But that I don’t believe it at a felt level yet. I’ll have to tell myself repeatedly. She nodded.

I did not die. I did not almost die. Those are the same thing. They are different from I almost died, but didn’t.

But what about the blood lust? What about the gory visions I had, the fetishization of unzipping my stomach? I don’t ask her, but I think it, and this doesn’t make me happy.

Maybe I want to be worse than I am. Maybe my identity is wrapped up in the suffering. Maybe I want to be a martyr for an unknown cause.

Let’s stick to the facts.

The goddamned facts. Even the facts aren’t pretty. Even the facts involve blood.

I don’t say any of this, of course. Instead, I get up, and make an appointment for next week.

I am driving back from a session with our couples therapist. A good session, all in all. We made it from the office to the street before I said something wrong, before we threw our hands up again.

Why did I just not say I wanted to go to dinner in the first place. She wants to know this, and I want to know this, too.

It is because like any addict, I’m going through withdrawals, from not carving myself up. I used up every bit of fight I had not to down a cocktail of pills, not to drive into a pole or my fellow man, not to push the blade into my neck. So good responses are beyond me.

I am not thinking clearly; I say so. The question remains: why I just didn’t say yes in the first place.

We leave in our separate cars. I don’t have a knife so I dig a key into my forearm; it leaves scrape that swells. When I see it, I am glad that it was a key and not a knife, because I traversed at least one vein.

Then I am driving and I am screaming Fuck repeatedly, and I am punching the steering wheel, and I think about the corkscrew in the glove compartment.

But I do not use the corkscrew; eyes on the road at all times. Instead, I reach for the baseball, which I normally use to massage my shoulders and my legs on long drives.

One hand always on the wheel. One hand always with the baseball. The baseball is pitched repeatedly at my head. The baseball hits its target for the twenty minute drive.

I prefer to administer the pain. I prefer the headache to the shame.  I prefer the headache to the rage.

There is the institution of the knife. This institution, these knives, they exist in my life. And they sing, they talk, they scream, they yell. The butterfly knife, the throwing knife, the kitchen knife, the santoku knife. There’s a straight razor, too. They all have something to say, and they talk in a way that is slow, and calm, and clear, and sure. It’s something to the effect of this feels better than feeling nothing. I know that you’ll agree. They’re right – those blades gliding across and into me, the scrapes and slices: they’re the only thing, when things get this bad, that let me know I’m alive. They either convert pain into numbness, or, recently, they bring me out of the numbness and back to life. When they speak, they speak clearly. When they speak, I listen.

In times like this, when it’s all shit and misery, everything is flat and gray. There’s a burnt out quality to everything. Fuck the routine; fuck discipline; fuck the social norms; I’m just trying to stay in one piece here.

Unpunctured, I drift, I float lifeless throughout my day – the desk job with e-mails that all say blah, blah, blah, and colleagues in meetings who say blah, blah, blah. Friends who care about me and want me to stop, to get help, to sound the alarm, and still, all I hear is blah, blah, blah.

When my current lover tells me that I have done her a great wrong, and that I have lied to her, and that this is hurtful, and that I am defending a former lover, and that this is not building trust, I hear blah, blah, blah.

But then, here, in this case, something else happens. It’s no longer a muted droning. I start to hear the other voices, familiar ones. They tell me that I’ve been hearing this for days, and that it’s hurting way too fucking much, and that there is so much shame, and that the shame is miserable, and that I need that fucken feeling to stop, and I need it to stop now, not in fucken five minutes, because it’s too goddamned loud, and I want a gun, and a drink, and bottle of pills. Because that’s the only way to make things quiet, to shut things the fuck up. But these voices.

It’s like this: it’s as though instead of hearing static between radio stations as you slowly turn that dial, you hear everything playing on the radio all at once, and it’s too much, it’s too much to listen to, and then when you finally get a handle on it, and you can filter out the background noise, all you hear is what a fucken shitbag you really are. Newsflash – you suck; this just in, everything she’s saying about you is dead right, and here’s a breaking story, that you are fucken terrible, really, though, a real fucked up case, and that it’s time to go, time to turn out the lights, time to create a scene that no one’s watching, time to have someone else clean up the mess.

Time to walk out onto the road at night in front of a truck. Time to get the bat from the shed and break yourself. Time to jump off the porch and through the windshield of my car. Time to get that imaginary gun, and that imaginary bottle of pills and empty the bottle into my mouth before I empty the chamber into my temple. But I don’t have the courage to take that jump, to confront that oncoming car; I don’t have the gun or the pills. All I have is a stockpile of knives. I take them out and I look at them. I say hello by running my finger across the blade, testing the sharpness. They respond by shaving off a bit of my fingernail. I am listening close.

They say: We can give you what you want. We can’t make you happy, but we can make it better.

We’re the only ones who know what you need. We’re the only voice in the room that isn’t judging you. We’re mercenaries, we’re on your side.

We can’t make you happy.

But we can make it better.

My eighth grade science teacher described what happened when a river ran into a lake:

It goes like this: whoosh, ahhh, she said, and she spread out her arms, leaned forward as though to fly, and blew air out of her puffed cheeks. It looked like the breast stroke. She clarified, saying that when the river meets the lake, that the water slowed down, because it was flowing into such a large space. She said that the sediment would settle near the mouth. Things got calmer. The ripples get smaller and smaller. I learned the word diluvial that year.

If my body were this science lesson: there is the skin opening at the beck of one of these blades. It is the river of overwhelming voices, or the stream of staggering numbness that meets the lake, and I can listen, I can hear the whoosh, I hear the ahhh, and those voices settle like the sediment, and there’s calm, there’s quiet, and there’s me, the fucken bottomless body of water, standing in the mirror with bloody arms and bloody stomach.

There’s a moment when I observe the damage, the new construction. I want to know: did I break the skin? In those areas where it’s little more than a scrape, I return with the knife, and try again, calmly, and go harder this time, and breathe through the pain that initially prevents me from going any deeper. It is not a good thing, but a thing nonetheless, that I am figuring out the most efficient ways to draw blood.

Push into the wall with your hand. Take up the slack by pushing into the wall. Position the knife on the extended arm. Draw in a deep breath. Double check the position on the knife. Make sure that the trajectory is known. Simultaneously breathe out sharply, quickly, and fully, as you make your cut, hard, fast and straight.

I am looking at myself, sometimes at myself in the mirror, sometimes at my actual body, which has recently gained ten pounds, and for that reason, it feels even better in moments like these, when I am abusing it. You fat fuck, bleed.

Each new cut is a place I’ve been – a landmark or an exit sign. The cuts becomes an interstate network of my depression, here an intersection, there a dead end, here the old exit 58. The highways on my stomach and the country roads on my upper arms. The historic markers on my right forearm and hand. Each new cut is an act of encouragement – it’s okay, do more, go further, try the thigh, go deeper into that shoulder.

There are places I have not yet gone, but I can see the road from here. After all, I have started tracing the paths to get there.

I am imagining the mess, beckoning my entrails to spill onto the floor; there’s a lust to it. Let’s drain the tub, let’s irrigate this mother fucker dry.

I think of how the blood goes from slippery to sticky once it’s been exposed to the air and rubbed between your fingers long enough.

Then, though, there are still those moments of fear – That’s pointed at an artery. That might actually kill me.

And still, this is what I see, when I see my ten-pound heavier body reflecting back at me, suit jackets and cardigans in the background, and mountains of t-shirts folded and piled above: A knife against my neck. A blade tip of pointed at my heart. Two hands with a strong grip on a pair of opened scissors, ready to rip my stomach open.

Arrows on a map.

Arrows suggesting that there are undiscovered pathways to other rivers, bigger mouths, lakes, small seas and blue holes.

Each waterway, every possible path: you can either find it on me, or you can carve it into me.

The lines on my body: directions to a costume ball. A history of troubled loves. Scribbled over several times. Rewritten, revised, again and again, the original obscured but never erased.

I am sitting at my desk, wanting to cry tears that have been stored for years. I am sitting at my desk. Wanting to jump out the goddamned window. Wanting to sleep a night undisturbed. I am sitting, thinking of how I hold on too much to too many things. I am thinking of song lyrics from a band that no longer is: dad would dream of all the different ways to die / each one a little more than we could dare to try.

I am thinking of what I’ve written before about this – describing my sadness as a quarry in coastal Maine. Not bottomless, but way deeper than our minds can grasp as they first start descending, thinking, I must be able to touch the bottom, right? They just carved some rocks out of here, no big deal. The signs about the drowning deaths, ignored, or acknowledged, then dismissed. The panic, walls closing in – all this happens on the way up, after they know they’ve made the mistake. Things are just about to get better, they’re about to breach, to get that breath – and lights out. I’m up top, I’m treading water (or am I the water), wondering where they’ve gone, unaware of how far down I’ve dragged them. I don’t have that oh shit moment when they realize that two hundred feet down really is quite deep, and they might have gone too far, that the ear-popping should have been heeded more closely. I just seem them float up, blue and lifeless. They were alive on the way down; they died on the way back up. My relationships, my loves, seem to take this course, to die the same, wet, recovering death.

I rub my stomach, and feel soft. I haven’t run much recently due to a sprain, and I imagine that I’m ballooning, even though I know that this has no base in reality. I am rubbing it, sometimes scratching it. The scabs from where I cut lines into my abdomen are falling off, and they itch like hell sometimes. I am wondering if there will be scar tissue, and how much.

I am at my desk. I am listening to two songs on repeat with near constancy. “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind, a song I didn’t discover until after it was relevant, and “Change the Sheets” by Kathleen Edwards. They’re giving me solace, but I’m worried that the continued playing of the songs might not be healthy, like any other drug. Maybe hearing Kathleen Edwards sing about margaritas and sleeping pills or listening to Stephen Jenkins scream right before the guitar riff kicks it up a notch is rotting my brain or carving dangerous neural pathways. I don’t know. The worst side effect that I can notice immediately is a precipitous drop-off in my productivity at work.

The drop-off, though, could also be my brain just being fried from recent panic attacks, sustained, heightened anxiety, and a high number of blows to the skull from hands, door frames, and other hard objects. Burnout, exhaustion, the energetic cost of healing.
Jumper. Interesting song. A few days ago, I tell my therapist that I think that I was suicidal on the evening in question. That it wasn’t a strong urge, but it was there. That I wanted to go to the third floor deck and jump off, crashing through the windshield of my car.

This was after I told her about my temples, the door frame, the dent in the wall, the knife and my stomach.

After I told her about the temples, the door frame, the dent, the knife, she had asked if during this situation I had had suicidal thoughts. I told her yes, that I did.

Were you looking for ways to do it? Did you have a plan?

That was when I told her about the porch, the roof.

That’s an interesting method.

I told her that the logic was that the fall probably wouldn’t be high enough, so crashing through the windshield would cut me open enough so that I would bleed to death. I think she looked markedly more concerned when I said this. Maybe it was because she heard me say that there was a logic to it; that there was a vision.

As if asking her not to be too concerned, I told her that I didn’t think about it too much, and that it wasn’t like I was up on the third floor deck staring down at the car, shimmying my way to align myself with the glass.

And I wasn’t on the third floor. I was on the second, and if I had jumped, and cleared the deck sufficiently, I would have gone through. I’m pretty sure of that. I did look down at the car for a while. It was after nine at this point, getting cold. I think if I had been startled, I could have accidentally fallen. I was not startled, though. I got too cold, and went inside.

Did you ever think to call me?

I told her that I did, that I knew that I should, that part of me was telling me, even as I held the knife that was about to cut across my stomach, that calling her was the wiser thing to do. But then: part of me tells me that I’ve already call her once today already for an emergency call about hitting myself repeatedly in the car until I heard bells ringing. I couldn’t bring myself to call her again, because at that point, I was afraid I was a nuisance.

The other truth, though, was that the beast in me that wanted blood was bent on getting it, and it had been caged up for way too long for anything to stop it until it got its way. In a way, the breakdown of my defenses had started earlier that day, when I did first hit myself several times in the temples. I was in my car, on the way to work. I pulled the car over and proceeded to give myself a headache.

And here I was, a workday and a few hours later, with a swollen skull, a bleeding stomach, and an urge to rush upstairs and hurl myself down three flights through tinted glass.

It’s a flood I had tried to hold back for two years; all the sadness, all the self-directed rage, it was in check. It told me that it understood; it told me I could be in charge. It put the knife down. It put the pots and pans back where they should have gone, and stopped wailing on my skull. It lets things slide off more easily. And then things happen; a near crash here, a change in drugs there. A euphoria from a new love I am convinced will last. A stumble here, a stumble there, and then the thoughts return. They know they haven’t been indulged in years, and they know that I am still afraid of them. They know they can run wild now since I have an dyke of antidepressants holding them back.

But it builds, and it builds, and it’s nature taking over. Fuck calling it a pressure cooker, fuck the need for a steam valve – this is a fucking big-ass predator we thought was extinct, but it is not, it is pissed, and it is a superior species. It will get what it wants, and it wants silence, it wants quiet, it wants all of this at the cost of life if that is the cost of calming damn.

I will tell my therapist that this scared me. That the ease with which it overpowered me scared me. That I felt no pain after several long cuts across my stomach scared me. That if someone else were not in the apartment, I was likely to have kept going scared me.

In the session, we focus on short term goals: seeing my doctor, discussing a new drug, trying to find a fucken psychiatrist in this state that is still accepting new patients. In the session, she addresses the part of me that is freaked out, the part of me that plays with pots and fists and knives, that stops pain with pain. She wants me to forgive them, to tell them that they are okay. That, in their own way, they serve their utility, and that we need to acknowledge their intentions.

I know this; we have discussed this before. But I had gone two and a half years without bleeding on purpose. Two and a half years since a self-induced concussion.

She reminds me that for now, that’s okay. That I’ve already beaten myself up. So I don’t need to continue to do so.

It gets better. It takes years, but it gets better. It does, and then, all of sudden, it doesn’t. It doesn’t anymore; it crashes in an instant, or what you think is an instant, and you look up at the mirror and you’re bleeding from your stomach. You’re holding up your shirt, you’re seeing the reflection of the knife. Your brow, your swollen, ringing brow, your furious, furious brow that is still calling for more. You’re staring at the love handles you’ve learned to hate, you get back to the bloody lines that are spreading out; you call yourself ugly, you call yourself terrible, and lord, when you say it, you say it with a sense of fucking conviction.

It was interesting that my skull broke through the wall so easily. One clean strike, leaving no mark on my body; hello big hole, good-bye, security deposit. Normally, that should have been enough to stop me, to make me think about what was going on, to think about how to repair that so that my lover would not notice. But I guess it was not enough.

The swelling on my forehead did not come from breaking the wall. The swelling on my forehead came from rapid, repeated contact with the door frame. The bump on the back of my skull is from slamming it repeatedly against a support beam as I sat in our closet. I continued to do this after my lover got home; she was searching the house for me; I hit my temples with the heel of my hand, and then with a closed first. I stopped when I heard her coming down the stairs to the bedroom. There are other bumps; I get to those.

Here was the scene. I had called her several times. I apologized in a voice mail and via text messaging. My calls went to voice mail; my texts went unanswered. I apologized repeatedly. I apologized into the night, into the morning, even after she came home. I apologized. I never was entirely sure what I did wrong, but she left, and it was after I said something, so I assumed that it was something I did. So I said I’m sorry, and I’d take it all back, that I would do whatever it took to bring her back home.

I rarely use the word crazy when speaking with my therapist, but that was the word I used when I spoke to her earlier that day. I rarely use the word because I rarely feel fucken crazy. I feel sad, furious, bewildered and bitter, but not crazy. But today, I felt it, and I said it, and it alarmed me. It was a different type of discomfort, one I did not know, one I did not know how to deal with. Crazy, losing my mind. Running in circles. Repeating myself, and never having the words make sense. The strange sensation that you’ve been convicted of a crime you know you haven’t committed.

This panic started after I watered the garden. That was the first time I tried calling her, and the first of dozens of calls that she would put straight through to voice mail. Fucken Christ, I was desperate, I was freaked, I was asking her not to leave me, I used the word ‘begging.’

The one message she sent back said that I had made her do a lot of thinking, and that she needed to recollect herself, and that she didn’t want to discuss over the phone. No words of assurance, nothing to suggest that she wasn’t leaving forever. Not that it was her responsibility to; it wasn’t; it isn’t. But fuck, that was a moment when I needed to know where things stood. From this, I assumed the worst; in my own history, to make someone do a lot of thinking was a prelude to bad news, to a breakup.

I tried calling again after that message, and again, it went straight to voice mail. It was at this point, or shortly there after, that I guess I lost my shit. I screamed ‘fuck’ over and over again; it was a nice, honest scream. I threw my phone at a window; it came apart in three pieces, and the window did not break. The blinds got bent.

Then I put my head through the wall in our bedroom; an evenly shaped oval dent. And then I made contact with the door frame. There was pain, but not the concussive force I used to get when I pounded the shit out of my temples until I fell over. In those moments, I kept going until I couldn’t walk straight.

This was rage, this was fury, this was directed right back at me, and the pain, the dull ringing, the slight blurriness immediately after a strike, couldn’t slow it down. It was this: a furred beast clamped down so tight that we think it’s in check. Clamped so tight that there’s no backup plan for if those chains break. He’s just going to do what he wants until he is satisfied.

And he was not satisfied even after I caused swelling on my forehead. And this is why I went for the crutches. Their original purpose was to support my right ankle, which was recovering from a severe sprain. Currently, one of them was striking the top and the sides of my head repeatedly, harder each time. With each strike, I would either hiss or yell ‘fuck’ again. I then threw that crutch on the ground, and picked up the other. For some reason, I wanted to use both. Call it fairness. Again, strike, hiss, strike, cuss, there’s ringing, there’s some clinking within the crutch from a loose part, there is my grimacing face. I threw that crutch on the ground and I screamed again, tensing my forearms; the image in my mind is a soccer player who has just scored a goal. Except that my screaming is not from some joyous thing; it is pain leaving my stomach; a sound so loud to make things silent. I ran my fingers across my head. There was pain, there were bumps sprouting up all over. I wonder if it looked like I had just gotten the shit beaten out of me. It kind of felt like it, and I did not know what to make of that.

I then sat in the closet, where I remained until she came home. I had a knife poking my forearm, then pointed at my stomach, then pointed at my heart. I was breathing heavily, and that was the only sound. Well, that isn’t true. There was ringing and pulsing in my head. Passing cars on the road outside our house were muted, audible whispers. A scratching sound if I dragged the exposed blade lightly across my skin.

I closed the knife, and opened it several times. I’ve already said it, but I was hitting the back of my head against the supporting beam.

She came home. I hid the knife as I heard the door open. We needed to talk. We talked. She got up to go to the bathroom. I asked her if she was leaving me. She repeated that she was going to the bathroom.

I heard the shower start. I took the knife back out, and sliced away at my abdomen. Nothing too deep, but no slash that didn’t break the skin. A little blood, a little swelling, lots of jagged lines. It looked messy, unplanned. None of the slices hurt as I cut myself open, and that was a surprise, a disappointment. Red intersections at all angles. I was looking at them in the mirror, wondering if I should keep going.

I put my shirt back on. I went upstairs. I sat on the deck. We talked again. I wanted to cut again. She cried. We slept. My head hurt. It still did in the morning. I was still apologizing, still unsure of why I was apologizing.

A crutch across the skull. Slashes on the stomach. The only way to slow things down. The shittiest painkiller, the most steadfast companion. The worst regression in two and a half years.

At the office, I have to wonder if my colleagues can see the abnormalities on my head, if they can see the burnt-out distress in my eyes, the fatigue from fighting, the sadness of having no force left inside. I brush my hand across my head repeatedly, just to make sure it still hurts. I treat it as though the bumps, the soon-to-be scars on my stomach are some way of gauging time. No more fights until the my skull is smooth again; no more shutdowns until the scabs fall off my stomach. An hourglass that takes days for all the sand to sink.

These contusions, they go away; the body forgets that they happened. The effects of blunt trauma to my head won’t show up until later; the cuts stop stinging in the shower, become scars, and are then ignored. The body refreshes itself. The body forgets. But my mind remembers the release, the surge, the way that pain creates the silence. It’s the mind that beckoned the blade. It’s the mind that grabbed the crutch. It’s the mind that brought it crashing across the skull.

You saw a lesser version of me last night into this morning; I didn’t mean to get freaked to shit, but I did.

I’m trying to tell you that it’s nothing you’re doing, and that’s the goddamned truth.  You’ve done fuck-all for me to be thinking the thoughts that I’m thinking.  I’m afraid, darling, that you’re me two years ago, or that you’re me six months ago.  Moral compass broken, or just pointing always towards flesh.

You’re the one with the squeaky clean history; you’re the one that hasn’t transgressed.  And yet here I am, thinking that everyone is like me, that everyone is tired of making sacrifices, that everyone will take what they can get if they can get away with it.  That we’re all looking to commit the perfect crime.

It’s not a fun way to think about the world:  that we’d all speed if there were no tickets, that we’d all fucken steal in the absence of law.

So much of my life is lived in terror, darling, and that’s a shite state of affairs.  If you could see this part of me, the one that slapped that blank stare on my face last night, the one that made my heart race like I was gonna fucken die, I don’t know what you’d do.  This kid is young and this kid fucken freaks out.

Imagine this image:

A small, young version of me; he can walk, but he wobbles; it’s still a new thing for him.  When he grabs my leg, he barely clears my knee.  And baby, he fucken loses it when his world shifts, when the things he knows as safe and secure are going away.  He’s asking if you’ll ever come back.  He’s asking when he’ll see you again.  He wants to go with you, he wants to sob his fucken soul out now that you’re gone.  A fucken toddler lives inside me, love, and I’m sorry.

This is the kid that shuts me down.  This is the kid that you saw staring at you while you were half-naked, packing.  This is the kid that almost made me vomit last night, that was ready to call in for reinforcements to stop the pain, and love, I never want to go there again.  This is the kid who’s in so much fucken pain that a knife to the hand or a gash in my thigh is the only relief.

I’ve described the sensation before, to a therapist sitting across the room.  It feels like someone has grabbed my heart and squeezing it in their fist to kill me.  I’ve read that this is one of the ways that they kill goats inMongolia– they squeeze the heart of the goat and it dies.  I think it’s supposed to be excruciatingly painful.

This time, my therapist asks me to find the edges of my heart, and to soften them.  And there I am, on the goddamned couch, making invisible spheres with my hands.  But it works and I don’t know how and I’m fucken thankful as shit, because darling, I hate being this psycho.

Of course, you and I both know that I’m not like this all the time.  But fuck, if it scares me, it can’t feel good for you, either.

He’s a kid, darling.  I can’t blame him for what he feels.  He’s seen a lot of shit that makes him afraid of things like this.  But baby, you’ve got to believe me when I say you’re not the cause of this.  And sweetheart, no offense, but I can’t ask you to be the solution.  Just be there.  Be the ears you have been already.  Be the arms that hold me.  Be patience; be love.  Fine, yes, be everything to me.  You already are, and you know I’m going to keep asking you if that’s okay.

To LMB