Prisoner of the Night

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

Above this line you see today’s JP prompt. Well I hardly needed a prompt for tonight. Yeah, it’s after 00:30, so it’s really morning. I know, but it’s dark, and still well before the hour of shadows. Which I think of as the hour I most feel that I’m really all alone.

Why I always revert to an opposition of circadian rhythm I do not understand. I’ve joked about it for years: “I’m a vampire”, “a werewolf”, whatever. But jokes cover up our true selves and lead us into a habit of not letting the worst of us slip out and give others a glimpse of who we really are.

Because doesn’t that part of us serve to cage our pain and fear? Isn’t it easier for me to let measured pieces of that pain and absolute terror out than to give them full vent and risk what can happen to me? To feel it all, everything, at once, knowing it could kill me, because a heart broken so many times should already have killed me?

And true, raw, pure terror, you can’t feel that all at once. So many years of it, decades of seeing evil, doing and speaking asshole things, but first having all of that done to me….nobody can survive remembering and feeling all that at once. We know that, because sometimes memories get distorted and become unreliable. That’s a built-in protection we have which allows us to survive.

But most of it, the worst stuff, we can never forget. And therefore some of us just can’t heal. Doesn’t mean we can’t move in a forward direction, just means we carry so much of what others would leave behind with us, every day, everywhere. No one knows. They can’t see it. They can sense it, and mostly they leave us alone. Somethin wrong with that old boy. He got hisself baggage, the heavy-duty kind. I ain’t even gonna look that way til he is gone.

For decades, I had big problems relating to and mixing in with anyone. I’m not good enough. I’m not smart enough. I’m not good-looking, not funny, I’m mental. Who’s ever gonna want a piece of shit like me?

Amy loved me. She did everything but throw herself at me, but I wasn’t good enough. I knew that. I let her go. Never even kissed her.

She was the last one. A wild girl who drove a rig for Bob’s Transport, then Keyway, here in Maryland. Being wild, she intimidated me while making herself all the more beautiful to me. I loved her because she was beautiful and wild and free. She could never be told that I loved her right back, but that I wouldn’t ever be good enough. Never be enough. That I was damaged. Terrified. Of everything.

I never loved like that again, and that level of pain I don’t want to ever feel again. I realize that she let me go because I had the power to hurt her with a spoken rejection.

On this night, I go outside to light a Marlboro, exhale smoke toward the sky. I linger. I ask the sky, “What is love, anyway? Is it even real? Is it a lie we invent because we’re so alone in a crowded world? Well? Whattaya say?”

Of course, there’s no answer. If I got one I’d go straight to the fucking hospital, and you know which ward.

Tonight, I’m bitter. I can’t even answer my own question. And I thought I knew the answer. This proves that I am honest when I say I don’t know anything at all.

But isn’t the question important, valid? I mean, doesn’t it deserve an answer?

I reckon not. That black sky is mocking me with its silence.

I went to the doctor yesterday. I told you about passing out, falling. Well I don’t really see a doctor. It’s a nurse practitioner. She’s not friendly and doesn’t give a shit what’s wrong with me. The first thing she did was pick a fight. I’d had an MRI two years back. Degenerative disk and spinal disease. That “Degenerative” part means it gets worse.

Well, it’s worse. She argued that, no, my insurance provider did not deny coverage on my MRI. Look, I’m the one who got the notice after it was done. She said that the imaging (corporation) that performed it had to make sure it would be paid or they would never have done it. Well maybe that’s true, but later I got the paper notice that it was decided that I hadn’t secured permission from them first, then that it was determined I didn’t need it despite the dire findings. They would not pay.

Trying to talk to an NP who thinks she knows everything is like trying to talk to a MAGA republican: you’re essentially talking to a wall.

In spite of passing out and intense back pain, she seemed very unconcerned. She recommended physical therapy, muscle relaxers and a steroid. What a fucking quack. Anyone can see, I need to be cut. But expecting professional behavior, common sense and God forbid, compassion from anyone in the medical field is plain stupid. It’s a stupid thing to do. They don’t care about you. You’re a paycheck and that’s all that you are. If you die, they get a new patient. Maryland used to have world-renowned medical care. I’m telling you, stay away. Just stay the fuck away. You’ll live longer.

III

Another Marlboro. I’ve doubled my consumption of tobacco since yesterday morning and that’s counting the trip to the doctor, and afterward, a stop at at my favorite restaurant, Trattoria E Pizzaeria da Enrico, where you can get real Italian food and New York style Pizza pies that you’ll never forget. I ordered a 14″ double pepperoni, and attacked it like a ravenous wolf. Or werewolf. Whichever you prefer. I think Gianni was impressed. He is a friend, a good man, one of honor and decency and hard work. Makes spaghetti pie, too. Come on, who could do better? To hell with Domino’s. Forever.

The pizza was delicious from the first bite to the last. I began to feel better.

I slept soundly until 22:30. Good, peaceful sleep. But I awoke sore, bitter and in pain.

Asking questions of the night. Questions I want the answers to, especially on this night, when I dare ask them with insolence. With more of a demanding tone than I think prudent. But I’m too bitter to care.

02:48; almost at the hour of shadows. I ask that stupid black sky, “Okay, let’s forget about love. You don’t know shit anyway. But what about honor? Huh? Honesty? Kindness? Decency? What are these things, which I’m starting to believe aren’t real? Tell me what they are. Or that I’m right. That there are no such things. I’ll believe you and be on my way.”

The little girl had survived a gunshot to the head. She was clearly in shock, but the reporters surrounded her like vultures anyway. They barraged her with questions in condescending childlike voices. How did it feel? Did you see your daddy? What did you say to him?

“I said I love you daddy, I hope you’re okay.”

And what did he say to you?

Jesus Christ, lady, you’re a really cold bitch. Leave that child the fuck alone!

I’m outraged. They didn’t just put her face all over the world. No, they showed the world how insolent, cold and sick the American media really is. And they piled trauma upon trauma on this poor little girl. Before long she stopped talking. Just nodded her head. She’d had too much. They were killing her.

A basketball had rolled into some asshole’s drive way. The details are hard to assemble, but someone came along and shot the girl, then shot her parents. Her daddy was still in the hospital. And she was out, not knowing that mainstream journalists had turned into sleazebags like the paparazzi. Scummy, suffocating, relentless, not an ounce of respect or compassion between the lot of them. No ethics, no boundaries, no humanity.

I fucking hate reporters. If they ever try that shit in front of me, they won’t like what will happen. There’s no joy in it for me, saying something like this. It’s dark and it’s wrong. But if we really stop caring about children then we are a doomed society, surely to be consigned to Hell. I would die protecting a child. There’s a big difference between that and what those assholes were doing.

The sky has no answers. It mocks me with a slow, cold wind. The night that I cannot sleep through because that’s when the bad things used to happen has thrown the gauntlet at my feet: join me or die.

It is the hour of shadows, but it’s almost over.

“You haven’t answered my questions. You know nothing. You hide the evil that happens in shadows. You never liked the light. I may be your prisoner, but it’s easy for me to choose death over you. One day I’ll live in the light. God will wipe all of my tears away. My sorrow won’t need to be held back ever again. And if this world doesn’t know love, that’s okay. The next one will.”

One Time, I Helped A Neighbor Change A Tire…

People are travelling for the Christmas holiday. They do this against the advice of experts, doctors and their local officials. They are lonely and don’t want to be lonely on Christmas. After being lonely for most of this year, I understand the feeling. It can be a sad thing to feel like you’re alone. Sometimes people who are alone hurt themselves and I understand that too, because I’ve done things to hurt myself. Bad things, bad enough to die. I don’t like it when people feel so alone and sad that they hurt themselves, sometimes not ever living another day because of it. It’s sad and I can’t help. That’s another bad feeling. Being unable to help someone who is in danger. Who just needs someone to make them see that they’re priceless and can’t be replaced.

But there have been times, too few, I fear, when I did help someone. Sometimes we help but we don’t know what happens after that. Sometimes I think about them, and I hope they’re okay. I hope that they are happy.

What really does happen after we’ve helped another person?

Only they and God can know that. We don’t. All we get is the feeling, which never seems to last long enough, a feeling that feels nice. It comes from neurotransmitters that hook up with things called “receptors” in our brains. These cells get to soak in dopamine and serotonin and give almost a “high” of goodness. Better than any drug, at least to me.

One day in early 1981, a neighbor in the apartment next to mine was trying to change a tire, and I felt sorry for her. She obviously needed help. So I changed the flat for her spare, put away the jack and lug wrench and she thanked me and I hurried back inside.

Because I wasn’t really as nice as I should have been. She was not pretty but we were both single and I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

Sometimes, at night, I used to hear her crying. She must have been very lonely. I felt sympathy for her. But I avoided her.

A kind word, a simple greeting, could have helped to make her feel better, but I didn’t want to do those things. Looking back, it shames me. Maybe I always felt ashamed because that was a long time ago, but I can’t forget that. I hope she found someone to love who would love her back. I hope she’s still out there, that she’s happy and healthy.

I’ve never really regretted being nice to or for helping someone. I’ve very often regretted turning my back on someone in need. Or being very mean to others. That wasn’t part of my soul. It was because I was hurt and I was very sick. My help had meant nothing.

One time I was in my father’s dispatch room routing deliveries. It was very early. A young man came in from the parking lot with flowers in one hand. He began to speak with a lisp and asked if anyone would like to buy flowers. At the time, Moonies were still around and that means he could have been in a cult. I didn’t like Moonies or their leader, a fake “reverend”, and I was mad that he was in there. I was also a conservative and had a problem with the stereotypical mincing, lisping man who must have gotten up very early to try to sell flowers just so he could eat. I yelled at him, “Get the fuck out of here!”

He was shocked, probably as much at the implied violence in my tone as by what I said. He stammered, frozen. I stood up and walked toward him and this time shouted something even worse. The truck drivers were also shocked. It wasn’t the me they knew. It scared them. When the young man fled through the door a couple of them asked weakly, “Why’d you do that, Mike?”

I said something about the guy that was so awful that I’m not going to say what it was.

To this day I regret the words. It would have taken seconds to hand him some currency and take a flower. But my hatred and bigotry prevented it. I gave full control to that hatred and bigotry and it haunts me still.

One time I saw an older black man outside the supermarket just opposite a liquor store. He asked for some spare cash. I could see in his face–on his face–why he had asked. He needed a drink or he was going to drop. If he made it to the hospital alive, I knew they would give him small doses of liquor. If he didn’t get it he could die.

I did not judge him for being an alcoholic. Or black. Or asking for what he needed. I gave him fifteen dollars, which came close to cleaning me out, but it was plenty for a pint. I never saw him again but I remember the tears of gratitude in his eyes as he thanked me and said, “God bless you.”

I’ll never forget it. That…was a good day for me. Did I help him to live another day? Probably. But he wouldn’t live much longer and I knew it. That hurts. He was a good man, I could tell. He was just as nice to me before he got the money as he was after. I recognize gratitude when I see it.

One day I ate a meal in McDonald’s and was going toward the trash can on my way out. A woman with a child beside her came in, and of all the people in the lobby, she walked straight to me. She had even more kids in the car as well as an elderly man. I believed that they lived in that car. She asked if I could help feed her kids. I had no cash but told her to order what she needed. It was strange. She ordered a lot of food. The total cost was 19 dollars and change and I swiped my card. I left but as I turned around she said “thank you” but returned her gaze quickly to the people getting the order together. She was starving. I had gladly helped, but I oftentimes have thought about her. I put a band-aid on a gash and felt good about it. I don’t feel very good about it now. I hope she got help. I hope they have a roof over their heads, pillows to lay their heads on, and full stomachs.

The misery in this world can swallow you alive. And I’m very grateful for the people who taught me these many years that cruelty is evil, compassion divine, and all we have to do to learn the difference is to make mistakes, usually emotional ones. Mistakes that haunt me helped to keep me from turning into a monster; which is what I once was becoming. I’d been so unloved, so demeaned and so violated that I began to fear everything, hate everyone and I had no idea why I felt so much awfulness all the time.

But feeling worse when I hurt someone never left me. And sometimes good people crossed my path and taught me how satisfying it was to be treated with kindness, liked for who I was in times that I needed it most. God knew that I was hurt. He knew how angry I was. How sick I was. He never reached down from heaven and cured me, but he gave me the miracle of being able to learn in spite of the things standing in my way. To learn what to do with the better part of ourselves is a true miracle, a gift. The kind of gift we can share with each other.

One very important way we can do that is to not travel this Christmas. Stay at home, do video calls, and avoid putting family and friends at risk for Covid. It will hurt you for the rest of your life if one of them died and you think you may be the one who made them sick. Ask yourself if it’s really worth the risk when you could wait and everyone can celebrate next year, happy, healthy and whole. Ask your higher power what’s right.

I love and appreciate my followers and my friends. This morning I got to help some of my friends work through a problem. Maggie had her phone freeze on her and didn’t know what to do. I texted her daughter while she used Messenger on her tablet. I merely acted as a go-between but it was very touching to see this family of three come together to solve a problem. They are truly a close family and I’m so blessed to know them. They live in New York but are all far apart. Even if they weren’t, they will not be getting together on Christmas. As a close family I can see that this makes them very sad. But they love each other so much that they refuse to put each other at risk.

That’s love.

That’s caring and compassion.

That’s sacrifice.

They set examples for me even when they don’t know it. They are some of the people who shaped what I am and made me think back on mistakes and learn from them. Every day I learn from them. Every day I love them more.

Be a family like their family.

Stay safe, and may God be with you in your lonely times.