Obsessive Perfectionist

I wrote the majority of this snippet of life while at work in between phone calls. For those that don't know where I'm working, I started at Gallup several weeks ago. McDonald's is no longer my master. Thank God. The following passages describe a time where I felt out of control as a result of obsessing over something I love. The first night of the play that I was a part of put a lot of strain on me afterwards. The second night was better than the first, for me. And the entire experience was incredibly rewarding.

        I hear two hundred hands clapping behind me. Its like a sudden eruption of audio lava, pouring over me in a warm embrace. The feeling lasts for a moment before the heat intensifies in my stomach. A tingling sensation crawls up my chest. These aren’t butterflies. They’re roaches.

Its my turn to take a bow. I turn around from the director chair to accept some of the applause, but its hard to feel deserving. In this moment, I feel... happy? Nervous. Scared? No. I feel myself withdrawing from the people around me.

There were only two opinions outstanding in my mind. The one of the stupid kid in the restroom and the old critic’s, the one living beneath my skin. I walk briskly out into the cool night air and begin pacing up and down the sidewalk, pondering the reasons for my strain. I don’t want to face the audience. I’m hiding from their opinions and remarks. How can I believe what they say? How do I take the compliments? They make me uncomfortable. I go back inside. My peers swarm me, smiling and satisfied. I do my best to put up a convincing front. They can’t know how I really feel. Not right now, anyway. We have to put on another show still. I have to stay confident, controlled, contained.

Soon, the props and equipment are stored and the school is being locked up. Several of us stand outside for a few minutes before I walk to my car. The broken duct taped window is down, leaving my car’s interior exposed. Then I see them. An overnight growth of tiny white circles had appeared like patches of unwanted mushrooms all over my seats and floor. There isn’t time to think of analyze, only to feel.

Corrosive words explode from my mouth. Car keys fly out of my hand into the grassy hill across the parking lot. I jump up and kick my car, yelling all the while. My friends chuckle as if it’s a normal hammed up rage. I’m glad they believe that. Some wonder why I’m upset, but I continue to openly vent.

So much for keeping my cool, I think. I assume that one of the actors must have committed this treachery against me. After all the work I’d put in, I’m repaid with this. The thought consumes me, and I realize that I would probably punch the perpetrator in the face if they were standing in front of me.

I walk around, steaming, searching for my keys lost in the grass. Finally I find them, get into my car, and begin driving angrily. Underoath is in the CD player and I scream every word with them. My open palms beat against the steering wheel, sometimes honking the horn.

In the midst of my red mist rage, I begin wondering at the answer to my volatile emotions. Maybe everything’s just built up and now I need a catharsis. I’m never this genuinely upset about pranks. I continue thinking about the night and how the play went, running it over and over again in my mind. Each time I think about it, I’m not satisfied, and yet all the compliments and enthusiasm on peoples’ faces tells me it was great.

Nothing is making sense. If everyone around me believes and is proud, then what’s wrong? It clicks with me suddenly. No one else’s opinion matters. Its what I think that counts. Its the pride that I take in my work that makes the difference. Its that one negative comment that’s setting off my alarm. It isn’t my humble reserved nature. This is the dark cynical perfectionist that beats himself up for things. I think about my visions for the new born play and how I’d pictured everything going on stage. Then I remembered tonight and realized that it wasn’t how I’d planned, but it was fine. It didn’t suck like I kept hearing in my mind. People enjoyed themselves. Let it go. The words bring on a deep relaxing breath. Let it go, stop worrying. Another exhalation and I’m back in control of my thoughts.

P.S. Scott Simpson was the one that put the hole punched paper in my car, and I deserved it. In November of the previous year, I, along with other friends, lit bags of human feces on his porch. Twas well played, Scotty, and I learned that payback is a bitch. Yours is coming... not really.

Jugular Jab

Sometimes things reach a near breaking point in class. My arms get all tingly, my legs get restless, my brain feels overloaded, and I just want to run out or flip a desk over. In these extreme times, I try and channel it into writing. So yeah, I wrote this during class and was glad my teacher didn't walk over and sneak a peak.

Class sucks, what the fuck, glad I tucked

A needle in my bag

Take note, as I float, its in my throat

A jugular jab

I grab my veins for some paint, no more restraint

I smear it on the floor

Then I start my final art: a literal work of heart

Dripping to the door

I shatter glass, then they gasp, I’m falling fast

Straight to the ground

The swirling in my head, aching in my bed, things you said

Finally make no sound

Poet Tree

This piece was created with thought towards the numerous great artists throughout history that have struggled and fought against internal demons. Various ones that come to mind for me personally are Kurt Cobain (Nirvana), Layne Staley (Alice in Chains), Whitney Houston, Heath Ledger, Edgar Allen Poe, Eminem and others that I can't remember right now. They obviously aren't the only ones that have gone through hard times and they haven't all committed suicide. But this poem is a dedication to them as well as reflection of my own mind during dark times.

Oh em gee

There’s Poet Tree

Where all the artists hang

Like you and me

Poets and musicians swaying

No longer do they write or sing

They wove their own rope

Out of sensitive heart strings

Substance abuse, shotgun skull

Sad and lonely and fearful

Inability to cope

Against the riptide’s deadly pull

Now I can see

Here’s Poet Tree

With a new coil fashioned

Especially for me

We’re never twenty-eight

Consumed by things that frustrate

Unable to see past the present

Skeletons and blind hate

Tragedy and trouble

Disappointment, a popped bubble

In tune to issues of life

Buried beneath rubble

I broke branches with my knees

Ascending the trunk of Poet Tree

Hands that once wrote words

Tightened the rope around me

We’re forever twenty-seven

Free spirits locked out of Heaven

Until that day peace prevails

Minds and gates finally open

I used to be sixteen

Somewhere I lost me

Inside a vat of restlessness

And an apathy to be

So crouching in the leaves

I leapt from Poet Tree

Hope for tomorrow sprung

Into the air alongside me

A Post Among Poems

Greetings readers.

I am aware of the unfortunate distance between posts. I used to be able to post twice, maybe three times per week, but a new semester of college is underway and my patterns have been disrupted. Of course I'm working to re-adapt myself and get to writing. There are a total of three things I have to put into action in order to write. My brain, my fingers, and my heart. Brain, because it keeps me somewhat organized. Plans, goals, and focus all have to originate from my thinking-organ. Fingers, because even if I plan and set goals, that doesn't mean I'll follow through and actually do what I intend to. Countless are the crumpled pages filled with lost thoughts, unfinished poetry, and incomplete homework assignments. Last of all is my heart, but in a way, it is the first of all three. My brain and fingers have to be reset and commanded to do what I want them to accomplish. My heart though, it never leaves the page. It always longs to write, create, and express.

So here I am, all three elements in play, in the Mill, in a good semi-melancholy mood from Blue October's "My Never". The poetry-post before this one, "Issues" tells of an extraordinary fit of anxious half-angry restlessness. I suffer from similar instances often, sometimes from my own procrastination or apathy. When overwhelmed with homework I feel a lot of remorse and get upset that I even have to be doing the menial assignments that I see no immediate benefit from. The upset feelings swell and grow and eventually I get too worked up to even focus on the assignment or anything for that matter. I think I kicked one of my shoes across the room, nearly hitting my precious guitar. Finally, after realizing I wouldn't get any more done on the frustrating tasks, I went to bed, where sleep was no where to be found.

In the morning, everything flooded back, like picking up where you left off on a saved video game. Worst game ever. As ungrateful as it may seem, waking up the morning is one of the more depressing things to me. Not the fact that I'm alive, but that everything has restarted again. The school. The work. The stress. Cycling and recycling over and over every day, every week. Those feelings over came me that morning while I was getting ready for the day.

I kept thinking about all the dumb things I had to accomplish that day and then I opened my phone. I have a Bible app and part of the app is to post a daily verse everyday. It was like the following:

"And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him." -Colossians 3:17

I don't remember if it was exactly that verse or not, but whatever the case, I felt a bit better. I handed the day over to Him and everything was okay. My first class was cancelled, and I basically finished the annoying assignment.

Things in life are typically not as bad as we imagine them to be in our minds. Its always a relief to realize that, though it oftentimes takes experiencing the negativity to acknowledge its "not-so-bad-ness".

Well I think this is the end of this post. I hope to keep writing, writing, writing. And you keep living, living, living. And like Modest Mouse says "We'll all float on alright".

Issues

Words straight from a bout of stressful panicky restlessness while trying to do homework.

What the hell am I?

Why do I fight

To not feel these feelings

At work and in the night?

When I’m restless, despite

The tired-longing for peace

In my mind

For something to finally click

So I won’t fall behind

Trampled by the daily grind

Who the hell is this?

Why does he ache?

“Just be content and calm

Shut up for Heaven’s sake

You’ll run ragged and break”

But still he dreams

And plans his escape

From this surrounding prison

In which he’s raped

By assignments, tasks, games

And there I am

Looking into a glass

Straight back at myself

The mirror’s light is cast

Between the same two faces, masked

He and I

Are often overcome

And thoughts of ending it all

Don’t seem so dumb

When under fire by Panic’s gun

Plastic Room

Some part of me is out of balance. Or perhaps it swings in and out of balance, I'm not quite sure yet. I'd wager the latter. Whatever it is, I struggle with knowing what to do at times. Indecision is a common component in my daily speech and writing, if you've noticed. I haven't ever been able to pinpoint what causes this lack of definite-ness. Regardless, its there on a regular basis and usually isn't a huge deal.

Other times it is.

There are days where I'll experience a sudden mental panic. Typically its brought on by many options being presented before me. Just tonight, I made two choices in my head of what I would do with my evening. Get Taco Bell, come home, and either catch up on writing or begin cleaning my room. For those that don't know, my room is a disaster. I'd say that it directly reflects my mental process. Semi-organized clutter, but it nearing a state of crisis every day. The messy room itself is stressful upon my mind, much less the indecision of what action to take. I'll find myself literally standing in place, staring blankly, mind racing as to what the next step is I need to take. Its torment.

Things got worse when I was asked if I wanted to go to a movie. I had to lay down to calm down. The swirling in my skull was too much to handle. It all sounds a bit nutty as I write it out here, so I'll explain. The things that are going on in my head are extremely trivial and petty. But they build up to near catastrophe it seems. I weigh the options in my mind. Writing would seem the obvious choice, beings that I haven't written in over three days. It would relieve certain mental strains. Then I realize that the Mill is closed and my desk is a mess and unusable. So I think to myself that I should just clean my desk and room. That's when I think about all the writing time I'll lose, tidying the desk. I could write in bed, but it makes me sleepy and I don't want to waste time. I ponder the movie, and it sounds enticing but makes me feel unproductive.

Its like a blender in my head is turned on; all these thoughts and considerations swirling around. I panic, and I twitch a little bit. I start feeling like I want to scream or throw something. But that is when I know I need to sit or lay down and let the blender cycle end.

So tonight I gave this all some serious thought as to why I get this way. I think its because I need to write. But not just write. I need to have the special alone writing time I get when I'm in a coffee shop. Quiet. Meditative. Productive. Maybe it is when I don't accomplish anything I'm proud of that I start getting desperate and panicky. Like I'm wasting something. Wasting precious free time that I have while I'm on break from school and work.

I watch the ShowTime program Dexter. He's a serial killer that has learned to use his killing abilities to kill bad guys. He has an inner need, a "dark passenger", as he calls. In order to keep it from consuming him, he has to kill. Its his demon. Some days I feel like I relate a lot to Dexter. Not in the killing sense of course. But in his need to escape from structure. He has a job and family and has to juggle them a lot of times to accommodate his private agenda. I'm always fighting against the schedules and requirements around me to find room for personal time. Time for writing and music and creating. Now that I'm on break, my schedule has been thrown off and time for those things has to be made again, and its difficult.

I haven't ever been an organized person. So setting aside time in advance for activities usually doesn't happen. Its a part of me that I have to keep working on, but that comes with great trepidation. I don't understand why I have to be that way. All I know is that I need to continue trying so I can feed my own "dark passenger", though it isn't nearly as dark as Dexter's. Despite the difference in activities he and I take part in, we both find a level of peace when we do them. Dexter, in his plastic covered room with his evil victim is able to reveal his true self. The prey sees Dexter for what he is; the hunter. In the coffee shop, I can let out whatever it is I am inside. The sanguine. The emo. The free spirit. The psycho. The artist. When Dexter and I are in our prime environments, we thrive. When we can escape the structure around us, we finally find contentment and peace.





Its been about four days since I've written. Sorry to keep everyone out there wondering. I meant to post more for Christmas, but alas it did not happen. I finally hit this breaking point and I needed to just put my fingers on the keys. Hopefully you enjoyed it and you all had a Merry Christmas. Leave comments below and keep an eye out for something about New Years!

Withdrawals

A burned tongue

Is useful

Like an ammo-less gun

Arthritic hands

Do no good

Like a rubber-less band

A jittery brain

Solves little

Under anxiety's strain

Mount St. Helens

This I wrote recently and finished today about reoccurring bouts of stress I've been dealing heavily with. Particularly at work with a new manager that seems to enjoy pushing me around. I don't know what his deal is, but now he's got a poem written about him. Its serious. Haha.

Controversy in the work place

We stand here, face to face

I, your victim, receive no grace

You have lured me to the edge

Cuz I feel just like Mount St. Helens

Everything’s been shoved below

I can hear the rumbling

The ground beneath is about to blow

Give me a hand

Stick a straw into my head

And let the stress leak out

Let the stress leak out

Give me a break

I’m starting to see red

What could this be about?

What’s it all about?

Pressure, pressure, pressure

My brain is so congested

Thought can’t be digested

You should be arrested

For bringing me to the edge

Pressure, pressure, pressure

You’ve given me reason

To recirculate this rage

Into a calculated reaction

A calculated reaction

Appropriate for the season,

You’ll fall, despite your age

And pay for the infraction

Pay for the infraction

I could have ended this long ago

But I’d rather put on a show

So I won’t hesitate to just let go

When you hang me off the edge

Cuz I feel just like Mount St. Helens

Everything’s been shoved below

I can hear the rumbling

The ground beneath is about to blow