Monologue: Syndicate

Do you realize the things that go without seeing the light of day? Think about it. Katie Beers was kidnapped and spent seventeen days in a concrete cell under a garage. Let’s get even worse. Modern slavery is a thriving business that generates thirty five billion dollars annually. Think about the punishments for them. How long they must have spent in cramped ships and wagons being transported around the globe, from field workers to sex slaves. The greatest incarceration though is the one we’re doing to ourselves

No, no i know what you might be thinking, this isn’t going to be a drab political treatise about how we are all slaves to an oppressive system and we can’t see the truth. I'm more so talking about what’s happening on the inside. Your insides.
Unless you’re one of the lucky few who have experienced, but unfortunately replaced an evisceration, most of your organs have never experienced light. They don’t know what it’s like to feel the warm inviting sunshine on their precious delicate membranes. They’re trapped in the dark, with no way out, no break. Even those in POW camps get rest occasionally, yet you’re working your heart constantly, and the only respite it’s ever getting is a small blip in between beats.
You cruel son of a bitch.
I would tell you to stop enslaving your own body. To open up your ship and set your slaves free. But, I've done this enough times to realize that nobody does. You’re content being a slave owner. Until I open you up. Then your skin cries tears of joy as it's finally able to release the guilty torment of its brothers it’s trapped inside. Your heart still beats, Erradically. Ecstatically, as it thanks me for my efforts, shows its excitement for its new found freedom. The lungs cheer me on, spasming, telling me to go deeper inside your body. Your blood is the most eager, literally jumping from your constricting arteries to get away from the wound it thinks will heal soon. It’s such a beautiful sight I tell you, and I hope to be able to give my body the same pleasure one day. However, as sickened as I am to say it, it is not my body’s independence day just yet… but I am happy to tell you, it is yours.

My Excuse

Today I heard someone say, stop making excuses, you just weren’t raised properly. Heh, no. I don’t think you understand my problem, in fact, I’m sure you don’t. It’s not about not taking part in activities because I don’t want to, or freaking out at you for touching me, because that’s just the surface. It’s that everything I do, I have to do again, but in the opposite direction. It’s that everything I touch with my right hand, I have to touch with my left hand twice, and then again with my right hand. It’s that I can’t leave any piece of trash, scrap of food, or fallen leaves from trees on the ground, for fear that something bad would happen. But at the same time I can’t touch it because it would contaminate me, and I would be stuck in hell with whatever I chose for hours after that. I got so worn out. Even when I turned to cutting to cope with it, they had to be even, and on both arms, in the pattern, Left. Right. Right. Left. The razor I used, the same exact razor, had to be sterile each time, so I usually burned myself trying to get every last germ off. I was in and out and out and in of therapy, and all I wanted was for my hell to stop. And what’s worse, is that was normal. I thought everyone was like that, everyone needed to be even, and that my inability to cope just showed my weakness. So keep saying that these are just excuses, because I would like to see how you would behave for a single day in my head.

The Goose Egg

Another false negative...
It has to be there. It has to be hiding somewhere inside of me. Something that you're missing, that the tests aren't picking up on! Something that no biopsy, no ultrasound and no MRI is picking up!
Is there a more sensitive test?
...
NO! There is something wrong with me! Maybe the first one was a cyst! But then a second one? On the opposite side of my body! That could mean it's spread and it's already too late! And you're not doing anything about it, because your tests tell you I have nothing to worry about!
It feels like a find a new "cyst" all the time!
And... Maybe the first few were nothing to worry about, but what about this one? A new one? What if that's the one you don't want to check because all of your other tests say I'm just over reacting?

When I switched over to you, I felt reassured. You're supposed to be one of the best in the business, but you're like all the rest.

Do you think I feel relieved by that? Relieved that you don't think anything is wrong? Relieved that you're missing something?

Please, just give me another test. Something better... Or broader...
I just have to find out... Even if it's bad, it's better than living in the uncertain hell I'm in now.

Monologue: Time Heals

Once my appetite has been whetted. I know what I did. I know I’ll face my wife again with the same disgusting, disheveled look about me. Eyes and head hanging low, dragging my feet behind me… walking up to her with a big sigh as I break down and tell her everything. I see once more the hurt in her eyes, as one more heart string is cut. One more wound made. The hurt I cause her is so unbearable to see… I swear off of it once more... she believes me… I believe me

But it, just eats away at me. This... hunger. For an instant, I forget the wound I caused myself before. And as that wound scars over and begins to fade… These, episodes, become longer. I forget my goals, my work, my wife. I can only focus on one thing. The very thing I swore off of forever mere months ago. Now my normal comes in flashes, just long enough to give futile resistance before my lust takes control.

I sink deeper into myself, become more lost in my guilt. I drown myself in the next sin I see, and for an instant I get relief, before sinking deeper again.

I’m stuck in this cycle. Every time, I feel so guilty. Every time I see the hurt in my wife’s eyes, I die a little inside.

Then that’s the last straw. That’s, the end. I am going to straighten up, and be a good man. And she somehow finds it in her heart to forgive me again and again. I feel so good, So free… I’m determined to turn around… Put it behind me... and I do. For a time...

When I finally reach my breaking point, and see the path of destruction left behind me, I see I cut her once more. And I can only pray this won’t be the time she bleeds out.

Monologue: Under Pressure

"You're too thin!
Is that all you're eating?
Put some meat on those bones!
Take a second helping, you need it...."

You're not helping

I know I'm already thin, it's one of my biggest insecurities. Everytime I try to put on a little weight, I can't. Or even if I do, someone points it out, and I feel like I have to lose it.

I am aware, that you watch me eat. I know you try to make sure I "have enough", as if somehow that would keep me from getting an eating disorder?
Well it was that behavior that gave me one!

I was a such a happy kid. Ate whatever I wanted, whatever I could, and I'd never gain a pound.
As I grew up, others noticed, you, especially noticed.
And you watched me carefully, like there was something wrong that I was doing?

That's when I stopped wanting to eat in front of people. Because I know, with every bite I take, they're judging me. They pay attention and it freaks me out! Why can't I just be left in peace? Why can't I take a bite without someone thinking I'm fighting an uphill battle? It's gotten so bad, I can't even eat in front of my boyfriend! Someone I love and trust because I wonder deep down if he's doing what you are.

I mean God damn! Look how fucked up I am! I'm a recluse with food! I have to go and lock myself in my room not to have another panic attack when I take a sip of water! That's not normal!

I just want to be able to sit down with my family at dinner and worry about getting my favorite food instead of worrying about the gasps and attention I'll get.
Because everytime I hear the words "she's eating!", it makes me even more concious of the fact that you're watching, and I'm not normal....

Monologue: Breaking Down

I met you exactly 3 months after I tried to kill myself. I met you at a party... Someone blackmailed me into going.
And I was not a fan of you either.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't anything personal. I didn't like anyone. Not you, not my family, not my.. "friends"... not even myself.
And in fact, it was a burden talking to you. Every word that came out of your mouth bugged me. You just seemed so.. happy...
I mean, what the fuck? How can a person be that happy all the time? You're hiding something, you have to be.
I think I was jealous. Why should you be happy, and not me? Who gave you that God damn right?
... And one day I finally understood why.
I don't exactly remember why I agreed to meet up with you that night, but I did. And you put on your same happy face, made small talk.... I hated it. We went to a sushi place downtown, and I was just waiting for my chance to end it. I ate, we talked, I tried to leave, and you wanted to walk me to my car.. some nerve. Well, my car doesn't start, and triple A would take 2 hours to be out there. So, you stayed, we talked... and talked... and talked, until I was so fed up, I needed an answer,
"Why are you so fucking happy all of the time? You're fake and I can't handle it".
And you said back "Because I am alive. I want to be the same person for someone else, that saved my life"
I was stunned to say the least, and my whole demeanor changed... sort of..
"What the fuck do you mean by that?" I said.

So you tell me your story about when you put a gun in your mouth a few years back. You felt like the world abondoned you. No one cared about you, you didn't care about anyone. You didn't even care about yourself. You started doing risky things, walking in the bad part of town, took up smoking... won a game of Russian roulette... but no matter how much you tried, you just, could. not. die. So you decided to do it yourself. Skipped work, and put a gun in your mouth to blow your brains out. But you didn't. Because just as you were about to pull the trigger, your coworker called you to make sure you were alright... To make sure you were okay, and you broke. You cried. You told him everything. And as uncomfortable and shocked as I'm sure he was, he stayed on the phone with you. He stayed on the phone for hours, didn't say a lot, but just listened... cared. That was the day you realized you weren't alone. The day you got help. The first day you opened up. The first day on a long road... but a rewarding one.
And from that day, once you recovered, you decided you were going to be that person for somebody else. What you told me sent shivers down my spine and my disposition towards you changed.
I related so much to the feelings you described, right down to the feeling of abandonment that prompted my own suicide attempt.
That was also the day I opened up, I broke down, I sobbed, and you gave me hope that someone else actually gave a damn. A genuine person who actually cares. Something I had long since ceased to believe in.
And that prompted my own recovery. You inspired me to seek help. And I'm not there yet. I still have dark thoughts, I'm still unhappy, things are still bad. There are days I don't want to do anything, I don't want any treatment, and I want things to end. But they're happening less and less and there are some days, I think I'm actually happy. And that's more than anyone has ever done for me before. You gave me a chance to get through this... Something that I never realized was possible... You helped me more than I think you realize. And you should know... you might not be able to save the world with compassion. But you saved mine.

Breaking Character

I've decided to break form a little today to talk to you directly, rather than getting into a character, because I heard something disconcerting from a friend today. “Happy is not poetic”. That bothered me. Because we do have a prevalence of sadness beauty in our culture. A majority of films we see that we think of as deep or meaningful, are generally sad. There's a prevalence of blogs having to do with depression and sadness (this one being no exception), and the audiences generally think of these as more artistic than a happy equivalent.
But I think you need both for poetry. You can only know sadness if there's some happy baseline. Happiness only exists with sadness as a reference point. So if it can be poetic to create a sad story, or poem, or monologue, you should be able to create something equally poetic that's happy.
Since sadness is only sad because you know how happy you can be, happiness with a sad reference point can be equally effective.
Although this blog does contribute to the very thing I seem to be preaching against, I do want to take time on occasion to write something I'll label as “breaking”, to focus on there being as much beauty in happiness as there is in sadness.