Let’s pick up shortly after I got married.
Words are important. Without them, our lives are nothing more than reflections cast upon walls by firelight, the shadows gagging our impressions of reality, veiling the truth in obscurity and fear.
Yeah, I’m a sucker for the dramatic, but our lives are short, why not play dress up.
About seven years ago, the forest fire that was my life nearly consumed in me in a conflagration stoked by the fuels of my own genetics. I was diagnosed initially with Bi-Polar disorder, which in itself isn’t a very precise diagnostic tool linguistically, but it serves the purpose of identification. Add some PTSD and a panic disorder and you get something of a clinical vision of my head.
Within the last seven years I’ve seen the insides of clinics, hospitals and other places one never thinks about growing up, places you might not even know exist. I’ve known the insane, the schizophrenic and been the insane myself (whether I still am remains a debatable issue). I’ve lived with those cast aside and written off by society, people in a former life that I might have turned a blind eye to bring tears to those eyes now. And I have seen what hell is like in real time. People like me and maybe like some of you have been written off like so many urban ghettos and it takes things like Newtown to put any kind of spotlight on them and for all the wrong reasons. Because, you know what, they don’t even fucking care, the mentally ill are just foils in schemes to save guns. And that’s not enlightened humanism, that’s just bullshit. Because the right to own a thing whose sole purpose is to maim, kill and destroy is more important then some guy named Gary who started hearing voices, lost his job and was driven onto the streets with no one and no way to care for himself. This is the America that I’ve found, buried underneath all the bullshit rhetoric and political posturing. Because we’re standing upon the rubble of humanity and we call it civilization, we call it freedom. But stare into the eyes of the sick and the poor, the destitute and the forsaken and if you don’t look away, you’ll find your humanity in their pain and emptiness. And if you don’t, then fuck you, you don’t belong here, because you despise the very thing you are, human, moral and flawed.
And down there, at the bottom of the rabbit hole, that is where we find our solidarity, our very humanity, with the weak and the poor and hungry, because they are us. They’re just the bits and pieces that we don’t want to admit we hide away in the closet. Society just simply buries them, the homosexual, the mentally ill, the homeless, the different. These are the ghosts of society and if they don’t haunt you yet, they fucking should, because they’re the weight around our necks dragging us to the bottom.
That, that is what pushed me, no, compelled me to run to the left and past it, right over the center divide. Because honestly, the center is a place for cowards and politicians. It’s a bullshit rally point for the powerful and weak minded, a clearing for them to set up their snake oil shacks to sell us the shit that keeps us poor, weak enough to be trodden underfoot.