Chapter Thirty-Seven
Many people with a brain disease can spend years lamenting. They think that they are less; stuck on a ridiculous portion of the world that esteems them not. I would guess that many do this for as long as they live but there are others that come to allow some self-celebration and realize that what makes them different, in many ways is what makes them valuable. If we take words literally different has never been synonymous with lowly. Those who would believe otherwise are men and women whose nature, I think, is a little dubious. Perhaps, if I may take my crack at generalizing, they are evil.
Some people will say, in an attempt to downplay another’s suffering, “What’s normal anyways?” If these masters of glib could experience the fearsome core of a mental illness and how it can, even after abating to a degree, turn one inwards and encourage self-loathing, they might, with more deference for the suffering of others, thank their lucky stars that they are normal. They might gladly acknowledge that normal really does exist and that they are it.
I kept bumping into Joseph, he of Dungeons and Dragons. Wherever I was there he would be. Sometimes he’d come to my place and he’d have dope to smoke, magic elf dust or something, who knew what was going on in that guy’s head. Every time he saw me, he’d want to smoke some with me but I wouldn’t. Unwavering, I responded in the negative each time he lit up and offered his crinkly, pleasant smelling, little cigarette. I really didn’t think I needed marijuana at the time and frankly, Joseph didn’t need it either. Sometimes when he was high he would try to bulldog his way into borrowing money, but I had none to give him whether he was in a pushy mood or not.
We were both on welfare so when we went for a cup of coffee we went to places where they would give you at least one free refill. We were out-and-out rapturous when we found a place that put a full pot on your table and charged for only one cup per person.
For a while, we were welcomed at that restaurant as if we were royalty from someplace far off. I suppose they were half right, in a sense we were from some place far off. Come in, drink the java, can I get you an ashtray, a glass of water, a newspaper, no you can’t have the waitress but everything else is here for your enjoyment.
I knew it was coming and wasn’t surprised when we started to get the cold shoulder and the chilly looks. I guessed that they finally understood that we weren’t going to spend much money there; in fact, I figured, we were probably a liability, when we walked in the place the manager felt his pockets get a little lighter. So they took their time serving us and when they did get around to looking after us they no longer offered a full pot and a smile but one cup at a time, no free refills. I wanted to ask them what the score was and apologize if we’d offended, but I didn’t. After all, we couldn’t expect a free ride forever. Later I would suspect that Joseph had been going there alone, stoned and belligerent, or with someone else who had caused a problem.
I suppose through all that happened during that time, no money, shoddy treatment and just hanging out with each other and telling horror stories about the illness, some bond born of mutual suffering developed. I figured I had gotten to know Joseph well enough to be friends with him, going against the better judgment of my roommate in so doing.
Some, eager to strike out at Joseph, would say that he got me back into drinking. I would say to them that in no wise did he pinch my nose and force the hooch down my throat. The fact is that I started to drink again and I did so because I gave myself permission to. There was no one to blame. There was no need for blame. After years of abstinence I very much enjoyed having a beer. I still steered clear of the pot and hash; that stuff was a little too mind warping for me. One of life’s great mysteries for me at the time was how my new found friend could smoke dope until it was practically pouring out of his ears and remain conscious let alone cognizant.
So with mixed emotions, after years of teetotalism and a month or so of having the odd beer, the day came when I got drunk. It was unavoidable, like rain on the coast or Hollywood celebrity scandals.
Ah, the first sip of beer on that night when I knew I was going to cut loose. How can I explain the taste of it, that initial bubbly mouthful? Even the feel of the cold bottle in my hands was in a sense liberating. I was closing the door on sobriety.
I had a few and became a little more talkative, sharing my opinions and later, drunk, I shared my experiences. The people I was drinking with, friends of Joseph’s, were surprised at some of the things I’d been through. Later, having become drunk and nonetheless withdrawn, I thought that maybe I was imagining their indulgence, that maybe they thought I was a bore and were probably glad I had stopped talking. I couldn’t remember much the next day, so I told myself that what they thought could be filed away under ‘N’ as in ‘neither here nor there’. I felt sick most of the day.
I may have made friends with a person that most people disapproved of, but that didn’t change the way I conducted myself. I continued to live in the group home, paying my rent on time and respecting my fellow boarders, doing my chores and not agitating in any serious or harmful way.
I was rewarded for my behavior, for playing by the rules and pasting a smile on my face when staff came to visit. I was moved to a house in a nice, quiet neighborhood where there was less supervision. My new home also happened to be near a great bar where, as I took to drinking more and more, I spent a great deal of time, usually nursing just the few beers I could afford.
It was there, at the bar, that, though I knew it was foolhardy, I became completely bewitched by one of the barmaids. I fought my feelings and was as befuddled as one could be when they, with deceptive strength and cunning, hit back. The fondness that struck me startled me. In a way, it was like losing control all over again.
Once I was smitten I had to accept what soon became obvious, that even casual contact with her, other than tipping beyond my means when she brought me a beer, was out of the question. I had to accept that I didn’t have a chance, that I didn’t have the means to be around her. I had no job, no car, no house, no dog, in fact I was so lame I was sure I would get all kinds of wise counsel against having a dog if I wished to own one.
I had to accept it when the one with whom I fancied I was in love asked the bouncer to have a word with me because I was acting strangely and in so doing making her uncomfortable. From that point on I felt his eyes on me wherever I went in that crummy establishment. I had to accept that falling in love had been a lousy idea.
Unrequited love is a harsh mistress, driving you to folly, stripping you of self worth, poise and common sense. It seems all you have is your love and you live off it like a drug. I had loved the idea of her that much; she became, for a time, like a narcotic to me.
The days grew shorter. We were into fall. I had begun receiving my disability pension a while after I moved into my new home. I had waited for a little extra money for a long time and when it came, I went straight to one of those grab-your-wallet-and-suck out-the-contents electronics stores that sold Walkmans. I walked around putting my grimy fingers on most everything that wasn’t under glass. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and then grew tired of the game. I picked out what I wanted and opened my wallet wherein lay every single dollar from my cheque. The clerk became conciliatory. I paid and walked out without a word.
I wandered aimlessly while it sunk in. I was on a disability pension. The powers that be believed that I would never be fit to work. I grew depressed and drifted, listening to the radio and not really noticing or enjoying it. I was officially retired. I had extra money but the day was much more bitter than sweet.
I first stopped tipping the barmaid and then I moved to another section of the bar where someone else would serve me. Eventually I got over her. I would watch her and think: she is made of flesh and bone like anyone else here. She’s putting herself so immensely out of reach that she’s in a place that I’m sure is reserved for demigods. After awhile of thinking like that I’d have to laugh and shake my befuddled head. The sting gradually left, as did my desire for her. The elitist in her and her friends no longer convinced me that I was of little worth.