I am not your object. I am not a pretty face to pose for pictures with or a doll to show off to your friends. I am not a stunt vagina or a place holder until your favorite finds a way back to you.

I will not be your number two. I will not compete for your affection. I will not settle for "I care."

Love me. or let me Leave.

Pages 9 through five

Everyone wants love so that they can have dramatic little moments to save them from their drab lives.
Toss an array of vibrant colors into the painting. It's entertaining.
We're walking along the sidewalk. I proffer earth tones from your pockets. From your eyes. From everything you wish you weren't to what you wish you were. All the way to your death cloaked with white sterile sheets. All the way back to what you would've and could've been, to what you left behind. More a part of your life now than ever, because al you have are the memories.
I slip my hand around hers and hold.
Not everyone needs companionship. All I need is the essence of every person I meet. It takes a lot, but the process of gathering information through interaction is worth it.
Flies are buzzing about. She doesn't notice them, they're not real. Tiny wings bat at air and cool my face. God, I hate flies. Tiny angels of filth, always flying to and fro, tumbling like gusts of air.
Kill them.
We stop and I goad a cigarette. Words. Nothing but words threaded across time, disappearing in the vast distance. Talk for the sake of hearing it. So others can hear it, their eyes locked and mouths open, shoulders facing you squarely.
I sit and watch these things unfold, not as a participant but as a third party. A loosely involved spectator. Someone always stands to get "the look," then tells a story or anecdote. I always want to stand, walk up to them with a continuum of neglect, then suddenly plunge my pen into them twenty or twenty-one times. They'll have all the attention they need by then. Like magic, but not at all.
I pull out a bag of parlor tricks. Just as this thought hits me, I'm huffing a cloud of smoke through a pipe.
"Flies that call me on and on..."
It's just nicotine. I concentrate on lies told and what is yet to be told. Not from my mouth.
"This is my..."
What?
"Nothing."
*insert gibberish*
"What? You're so funny." (A frown shows.)
Nothing is what it seems. Everything is so obvious. Absurdity, all of it. Still I press on, grind, move forward.
Sharp as a tac, these people I surround myself with. It's to ensure that my mind doesn't fade. There IS hope in the world. Can't get things in through the cracks this way. Can moniter self control this way.
"This is mink."
Looks dead.
"It is."
Oh. We continue moving forward. The streets feel filthy under my shoes, like a thousand grains of dirt and compost. A bum is sitting on the corner and I purchase food for him, for my precious homeless messiah. My homeless Jesus.
Her head rests upon my shoulder, proving to be an arbitrary moment that makes me want to set hot coals upon my enemies.
In ancient times fire was shared throughout villages by dropping a single coal into a clay pot. The pot was perched atop a runner's head. He could then pass the smoldering fire to anyone. This is something which "Sunday Christians" don't care to know. I'm no Sunday Christian. I'm no Christian at all, in fact, although I know more than you.
Earth tones everywhere. We get up and go to the car. I know that someone is following us. Of course, I say nothing. Why would I? My eyes search faces and postures and it's negative. It's all a big negative. Her hair is messy. The ride out goes smoothly. An old Japanese woman coasts past and I miss the old times. The old way.
All of a sudden someone is in the road and I stand on the brakes. The car hits the person in the knees and she hits her hed on the dash. I'm yelling "Shit" and everyone is watching, cars are backing up behind us and I hear sirens in the distance. Or maybe it didn't happen like that at all.

After months past

The alcoholic in an AA meeting says, "It's been a while since I've been here."
The miserly old man in the confessional says, "It's been a while since my last confession, father."
It's been a while since I've posted anything.

Outside while smoking, I thought of a million things to type about.
The depression.
The feeling of complete isolation.
The paranoia while I am alone.
The hypervigilance at night.
The daydreams.
The crying.
The occasional nightmare.
The complete feeling of hopelessness.
The lack of care I feel for others.
The lack of drive or ambition.

According to every internet resource I've found, I definitely have ptsd.
I scoff at the idea of being so weak, but I secretly want to have it so I have an excuse to feel this way.
Outside while smoking, a few tears were streaming down my cheek. I was thinking about Alonzo, the latest of the dead little brothers.
I desperately wanted to breakdown and bawl.
I didn't let myself get that weak.

Earlier I almost screamed at my sister in law I want to every minute she's around. I want to murder my own brother. There is no real reason. I have no meter or gauge for aggression or hate. Everything is an annoyance and I have no fuse. All I do is hold it in and fester on the apathy. In the Marine Corps I could break things. A multitude of things. I could get wasted and break myself. I could stick a knife into my arm and get stitches for free. I could throw a million bottles so that they all burst at once.

One night a friend and I were pouring lighter fluid on army men toys and chastising them for their incompetence and uselessness. As they burned we told them, "You're fucking worthless now and no one will save you. Not even god will save you now." We were talking to these little projections of ourselves. I can't do that here. All I do is sit and think. Sometimes the only things I can think about make me want to die. Other times, they just make me want to hurt myself.

Kate. I used to be in a wonderful relationship with a woman named Kate. She stuck with me through my entire deployment, and by god I ruined it in the end with my lack of sympathy and emotional isolation. We made things work, but when I got back I stopped making anything work. How it was is how it will be for the rest of my life. I had a good thing and I made it fall apart. I just stopped caring. Now it will never work.

Now I'm in a relationship with Becky. It's happening again. In arguments in the past I've just given up mentally, not taxing myself with -or just plain losing the need for- resolution. I said what needed to be said to de-escalate the situation and I pretty much lied my way out of every major confrontation by giving the typical response to fix "whatever." I'm losing the need to care. Slowly I'm worming into things and losing the passion to want any of it at all.

Everyone is oblivious to all of this. I'm the only one who sees any of it, or understands any of it. The others just aren't here. They're gone, gone far away where they don't touch me anymore.

This is how things will go indefinitely because I won't get help for something I don't even have. Because I don't have ptsd. If I did, I wouldn't get treatment.

Reverberation

Somewhere over the rainbow...
way up high...
There a land that I heard of...
once in a lullaby....


Words are still ringing in my ear, resounding back and forth between my left and right drum.
"Out there in the civilian world, they don't give a fuck about you. The Marine Corps doesn't give a fuck about you either, but the Marines, they will always give a fuck. Out there, they don't just care."


If happy little bluebirds fly...
Beyond that rainbow...
Why, oh why can't I?

relationships = hope = perpetual longing for something more which will never manifest

What's bothering me the most right now?
My girlfriend.
Her deceased soul mate.
The stigma of Afghanistan being a no-name war.
Accomplishments turning to gross underachievements because of nothing more than the whim of someone else's words.

There are two wars right now.
OIF;OEF
Obviously OEF is not as taxing as OIF because it's not a bloodbath.
Still, anyone who knows someone who has been to one or the other or both will regard OEF as a cakewalk because of what they have heard.
This bothers me to no end. People hear word of mouth and think that's all there is to it.
"Oh, so you didn't lose a friend? Then you did nothing."
What the fuck is that, huh?
Since when did nonexperiences dictate what happens at war? If you were there, you can state an opinion. If you were not there, you can state some shut the fuck up.
My girlfriend has a way of slightly mentioning things with a heavy undertone, such as "I mean it's not like it was afghanistan, it was a WAR."
So what exactly is Afghanistan, then?
I'll tell you what it is.
It's picking up the pieces of body which used to be ANP and loading them into a truck.
It's rifling around the bodies of dead children and elderly civilians who are trying to make it to their home before sundown for burial, because you have to make sure there are no bombs.
It's watching the lights in the sky and explosions in the valley across from yours knowing that your friends are getting fucked up and you can't do shit but look and listen to the ambience.
It's being inhumane and cruel to a SUSPECTED bomber, then watching as he's beaten for information about something you later find he was innocent of.
It's knowing that the little girl was run over and that she will never get up again.
It's seeing the faces of the people whose privacy you are violating with a gun in their face when they are 90 years old.
It's hitting innocent fathers in the head with your rifle while their entire family is tied up, helplessly watching.
It's walking through a compound at night waiting to get shot because you know they are there, somewhere.
It's driving all night constantly looking around for bombs because you know that sooner or later that bump in the road will take away your legs.
It's hearing marines die over a radio while you sit safely in a room trying to write letters to your family.
It's running towards gunfire.
It's knowing that you will die and hoping that it will hapen soon so you can get it over with.
It's not ever dying and living the rest of your life wishing you did because it was all for nothing.
It's coming home, establishing something which you want to pour meaning into, and not pouring a single drop because you know that you came home to something which doesn't care.
It's hearing that you didn't do anything which warrants anything more than the half asses ears that are fit for overemotional high school girls.
It's knowing that no one will care at all and no one can understand anyway.

My girlfriend discredits OEF because none of those sentences were replaced with "friend died." I'm not saying that it's not a terrible event, but I am saying that just because there's the color blue, it doesn't mean there's nothing else in the spectrum. What the fuck does anyone know, anyway?
My girlfriend's fiancee perished in Iraq, so he's an automatic hero to the vast majority of the world, even though it wasn't a firefight in which he gave his life. It was some piece of shit driver that killed him through incompetence.
RS (may his god rest him) is the primary focus, leaving me as secondary no matter what. She has stated that he was not a fiancee of any sort, and that they were planning on getting married someday.
Huh?
She has also stated numerous times that her soul is locked in an olive drab box.
She has also stated that she was different back then so he wouldn't know her anymore. As if that's any consolation on my behalf. That just makes it worse.
I'm fucking a dead Marine's fiancee. This bugs me a little. There was no closure, he is still hers.
She is still his.
For fuck sake, the essence of her very soul is dedicated to him. That leaves nothing but a body for me, yet the assumption is made that I will someday dedicate something more to her.
I have something which I cannot have, no matter what anyone says. I know this and I understand that it will never change.
Her life is dedicated to him, and so is my war.
The only two things I have which I am proud of myself for: myself and my accomplishments; now known as absolutely nothing.
Not worth a damn.
Because of her associations all of my efforts are rendered futile.
I can't be anything of significance for this woman.
I have nothing to be proud of when I'm with her, and I cannot be hers. She cannot be mine.
She already has a man in her life.
It's been this way from the beginning.
I can't be the man I want to be for her anyway, so I'm just drawing out the role of a sub-par stand in. A fucking stunt cock. A body that talks.

A fucking convenient piece of ass, a piece of motherfucking meat. I don't even want to have sex for any reason other than to get off because I know I'll never get any deeper.

God, I may as well call this part of the shame spiral because I feel somewhat ashamed for what I've gotten myself into, namely a woman who I could want forever but will never have due to the obstacles ahead of me.

But://realize-this.if/nothing.else

Only, there was no switch.

There weren't even any wires.
There was only the brief assumption that a glimpse of life was to be had. A quick look at something more horrible than anything you've ever imagined.
I've seen it, and I've felt it. This thing is a monster which preys upon people without them even realizing it. This diarrhea of the mouth, diseased mind. Sometimes it exists, sometimes it does not, other times we simply wish for it.

What is this terrible beast which plagues mankind?
It is nothing.
It manifests itself in language and action. In thought.
When you are about to kill an innocent creature, you think to yourself, "This will be a very bad thing." Then poof, the creature is dead and you feel nothing. The anti-climatic ends to absolutely abhor the means.
When you are about to cheat on someone you love, you think to yourself, "This will be a very bad thing." Then poof, the deed is done and you feel nothing. What's worse, you realize that this is what love feels like. Nothing.

Heaven deny our unity as whole

Heavens, no! I have changed the subject again. My nihilism is reaching a peak once again.
My indifference is branching back into pleasure, I am doing things merely to bide time until I die.
God, oh god, where are you?
Lord, thou hast forsaken me.

John 14 KJV

¹ Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.

² In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

³ And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.

⁴ And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know.

And so it was believed, until he died. Upon death, the blood travelling to his brain had ceased with the beating of his heart, choking the grey matter of the vital oxygen it needed to stay active. With the death of his brain, there was also the death of many other things.
His memories had vanished, his feelings had ceased, and his god was now dead.
This is what I mean when I say "The anti-climatic ends to absolutely abhor the means."
Demonize whatever actions and thoughts that you will, it affects absolutely nothing.

and all those things i held so sacred
they fail me
they betray me
these pins these
needles
they never leave me
this crooked cross is
bleeding deeply
let the wine fill my veins
bring the
time to change my mind
wash away this dirty soul
(this
dirty soul of mine)
the curtain it slowly closes
the
players how they quickly change around you
not a trace, no
familiar face
only the soundtrack and the bruises we keep
to ourselves.

"If in everyday life, you are asked about continued existence after death by one of those people who would like to know everything but refuse to learn anything, the most appropriate and approximately correct answer is: 'After your death you will be what you were before your birth.' For this answer implies that it is preposterous to demand that a species of existence which had a beginning should not have an end; in addition, however, it contains a hint that there may be two kinds of existence and, correspondingly, two kinds of nothingness."
-Arthur Schopenhauer

Crap crap crap crap crap. Nothing but meaningless shit.
You know what is going on? My mind is coming and going here and there, pushed by the wind like a blowing bag. I'm sweeping low across the landscape, seeing everything for this instant and trying to process this information, only to have another 20acres of land in the next.

I keep having realistic dreams and waking with a pounding heart and an enclosed throat.
People wonder why I stay awake at night. Sleeping is a riskthat I don't want to take.

Flip a switch and...guess what?

Instant death.

Trisha

Trisha was a hot number.
She had a small mole on her hip though, and she obsessed over it.

Trisha would drink and drink because that gave her an excuse to act any way that she wanted. Trisha wanted to act out in a way that would earn her undivided attention from men.

She felt like she was inadequate.

Trisha would get drunk and fuck fat disgusting people that she would NEVER talk to if sober.
They would love her no matter what, even if she had a mole on her hip and even if she were hideous. They would always love her, because they only saw her when the mutual haze of alcohol was present...
And Trisha became a whore.

Trisha even contracted an uncurable venereal disease. That didn't stop her.

She just wanted to be loved.

D>A>R>E

For a while I was convinced by outside sources that it was me, that I thought that I was better than everyone else. The lone wolf trapped in his den because he thinks he is the only member of the species left.
Boy, would that wolf be wrong.
But the wolf in question is not wrong. Not in this instance.

The inadequaces and securities that become all-too-apparent in life make not drinking a full time job. At the same time they drive me towards sobriety because never, EVER do I want things to become that apparent.
Tonight, a night spent with the intentions of drinking heavily, self medicating, with the reigns pulled until I come to a screeching halt.
How quaint.

I have made a few observations.
Of course, alcohol lowers your threshold for social behavior.
Tonight I saw how low people think of themselves.
Case in point, women who try so hard to be fucked so hard by a soft dick because they think too low of themselves to go after anything which engorges itself. I'm not talking about me as the engorged dick, but rather the specimens around me.
It's so sickening to me.
So fucking sickening.
Go back to the myspace bulletin about the angel and how out of the mouth of babes the words word spat, "and she looked so disgusting to them."
And they looked so disgusting to me.
And they looked hideous, and I saw myself, but I saw where I stood in the face of the pessimistic weighing of self tolerance, and I know that I AM better than that. If for no other reason than for past examples.
All night I sit, questioning of myself and my moral fabric: "Is this were I am in my life? Am I so far past this that I am taken back when seeing this kind of self depricating behavior?"
How can people have such low morals? How can women think so low of themselves that they go for the lowest bidder, or try to make their bid seem lower than it actually is?

So to sum up many words with few, I have come to the conclusion that people my age are of such a lower tolerance to self respect that I am past the point of fitting in.
It's officially hopeless.