When I was about 19, I was living in a duplex on 25th avenue in Hattiesburg. I worked graveyard shift at the Tastee Donut, so I got the bedroom with no windows. My neighbors were a small family with big problems – I was often awakened by the sound of beatings, yelling and crying. My roommate was a sweet girl, but she was new to the local punk circle of “friends” that I was beginning to outgrow*, so the house was constantly plagued by drunk, drugged-out delinquents who were at least smart enough to stay away until I left each night, returning home each morning to a trashed house, often with passed out losers lying around and piss in my bed. I was miserable. I came very close to drinking myself to death during that time, and in fact – on September 11 – I overdosed and ended up spending some “quality time” in the same hospital where I was born.
During this time I was dealing with bronchitis, depression, I think I sprained an ankle during that year, and due to the drinking I lost a huge amount of weight and was actually smaller than I’d been since age 13. That’s what a bleeding ulcer and drinking two or (many) more of your 3 meals a day will do for you. Strangely enough, a lot of my “friends” kept telling me I’d never looked better. I still have one of those photo booth pictures taken during that time on my mantle to remind me of how dangerous irony can be, and of how people can see you every day and not know you at all…

My best friend and first love was also in the picture. Of course I was too selfish at the time – and for a long time after – to think what all of this must have been doing to him, and how it must have affected his respect for me. But he was still there, as much as he could stand to be and then some. He’d show up with soup on some days*, and other days he’d come and subtly try to sober me up with his good coffee and chocolate chip cookies. Some days, though, he’d try to talk sense into me, and if you think that’s a tough job NOW, you should have tried it when I was 19, drunk and mad at the world (Rory, you are a brave, selfless man. How could I not love you?)
On one particular day, we were sitting at the little table in my dining room/kitchen. My typewriter was there – at least I was trying to write. We were having coffee. I don’t remember exactly what we were talking about, but as I said, he was probably just trying to talk some sense into me. The one thing I do remember though, is that he said “…Sam, I probably know you better than you know yourself.” I don’t remember what I said (a mercy, most likely, but it was probably somewhere along the line of !@#$ YOU!…”) but I do remember that I flew into a rage and threw my typewriter. The one that papaw Joe gave me when I was 13. Poor Rory, Poor Shirley****…

Why did that make me so mad? Probably because, at that time, it was true. And I couldn’t accept that, because lack of self-knowledge (self-awareness, self-understanding) is a horrible, unforgivable weakness, at least in the Book of Sam. These days, I would be even angrier at such a pronouncement, but righteously so, and so calmer. I feel as if I know myself through and through now, learning more as each day passes. But knowing and handling are two completely different things. These days I would have to give Rory – and my other wise friends – credit for being able to see the forest for the trees.

I had a horrible, violent and painful meltdown the other night (ed. note, I started writing this over a week ago.). I haven’t done anything even remotely like that in a long time, and I have never done it in front of anyone else, or without any forethought. I talked my heart out to Chris afterwards, about everything that’s hurting me that I am currently conscious of. It definitely helped me to make more sense of it all. Chris is one of the sweetest, kindest, most understanding beaus I’ve ever had. But the fact of the matter is that sympathy only goes so far, and sometimes it is empathy that you need. Chris listened patiently, but there comes a point where you can see the light of understanding go out, and then you might as well be talking about a science fiction story. It’s not that he doesn’t want to listen and understand, it’s that, when you haven’t grown up in and lived a life of mental, emotional, and sexual abuse, neglect, torture, abandonment, betrayal, chaos, instability and madness, it’s hard to understand. And YAY for that. I’m GLAD that he and a lot of my beloved don’t have that kind of understanding. And luckily, you don’t have to have that kind of understanding in order to give comfort, and Chris – and all my good friends – are aces at that.

I stand by my belief that I know myself well, better than anyone else, though I have some friends that surprise me every day. And one of the things that I know is that it is unbelievably hard for me to ask anyone for any serious help. Small every day favors, things that are easily repaid, I can manage. But those deep down life things, like “can you talk me off this ledge?” or “will you give me a place to stay?” or “will you listen to my deepest, blackest pain and still love me and try to understand me better?”, I can’t do. Several of you have called or written or even said to my face lately that I am going to have to learn to do this. At least you all see this possibly fatal flaw, but how many of you really understand just how difficult this is for me. I think several of you have a good idea, and so I thank you for watching me, looking for the signs, and reminding me that I can ask, for anything.

I am grateful for you all taking the time to know me as well as you do, for trying to see the forest for the trees. Lately, I’ve not been feeling very worth it, so each reminder carries more weight than you know. My typewriter-throwing days may not be over, but I promise that I will never aim one at you.
Unless you deserve it.
;)
-s

*thank god.
**one day he and the only girlfriend he ever had that I liked***, beautiful, wild Michelle, came and made me soup and made me feel loved and included. Michelle’s smoky, latin-tinged voice was as much medicine as the visit and soup – chicken and noodle, lots of black pepper…
***though I haven’t met his fiancé Julia yet, I think I can add her to the list.
****my first typewriter and my second bike were called Shirley. Shut up, Jams.