A Humble First Piece

On the Edge of Average

Eight weeks. Eight weeks was all that separated me from death. Pretty morbid thought right? I remember reading somewhere a few years ago that a human baby can survive as early as twenty weeks outside the womb. And I was born at twenty seven weeks. Just eight weeks, and I would’ve never existed at all. Never watched a cartoon; never gone to a ball game. Never watched a single movie, show, or read a single book; never seen anything, met anyone, uttered a word, thunk a thought, dreamed a dream, laughed, cried… nothing.

I’ve been told over and over again that I’m a miracle baby; because I was born three months early and was lucky to survive. It’s a stupid label; we’re all miracle babies. Every single human being that has walked the earth has been lucky to be alive. When you consider that at any point in time in our history that disease, earthquakes, hurricanes, asteroids or animals could’ve wiped us out millions of years ago, it’s amazing that we’ve reached this point. There is no generation like my generation; born at the start of a new millennium, the recipients of thousands of years of human thought, toil and skill. I should be glad to be alive; to see what I have seen, to know what I know, to have a roof over my head, food in my belly, a library just down the street with more books than I could ever want.  Yet I’m unhappy. Why? Because I’m disabled, that’s why.

I know objectively it’s no big deal; every part of my body functions just fine; everything is where it’s supposed to be and works just like a normal body does. I just move a little slower than normal. My body reacts twenty percent slower than normal. You’d be amazed how big a difference that is; it keeps me from driving. Something that so many people take for granted, and I’d give nearly anything to do. I could go to the movies, head down town to watch the game, head on over to the club; hell, I could even bring a date home, have some drinks, talk, laugh, and do…things. Y’know what I mean. Physical things. Things you do in the dark that involve a lot of panting, sweating, moaning, and after a too brief time, sweet release. That part of my body works just fine too. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, yet have always felt that I’ll never be able to do. I want to dance that dance that been going on since time immemorial, before we ever knew that we all live on a little blue dot spinning endlessly in a void. Maybe someday. but definitely not today, tomorrow, or next week, but someday. Maybe.

 It’s not just this feeling of impotence that has clouded my whole life. But also fear. I have a list of phobias two pages long; I’ve been afraid of the dark, lightning, drowning, heights, the unknown, interacting with others, bees, pain. Yeah pain; I know it’s stupid to be afraid of something inevitable. Pain is life; some say life is nothing but pain, but that’s a thought for later. It’s funny, after all the shit I’ve gone through, you would think I wouldn’t be afraid of anything. When I was two I nearly choked to death; when I was eight I fell down the stairs and nearly split my skull open; my best friend nearly broke my spine when we were fooling around, and he also split my lip. I’ve had asthma, a speech impediment, a leg operation, really bad fevers, pneumonia; I’ve been in a car accident, I’ve watched my loved ones die suddenly without warning and wither away as time eats up their bodies and destroyed their minds. I’ve been through shit. Yet still I fear. I know I’m not alone in this; we all saw the World Trade Centre go down; we see in the news everyday wars, drug OD’s, cancer, children being shot at and gassed, beaten, broken, disease-ridden, torn up. I’m ashamed of my fears because they are so petty, yet I still carry them; they way me down like someone has injected adamantium right into my veins or something. I feel like every time I go outside, a lightning bolt is going to come down out of the sky for no apparent reason and reduce my body to cinders. Or a bullet is going to pop into existence out of nowhere, speeding towards me before I know what the fuck is going on, bury itself into my skull at mach 3, and splatter my brains into the dirt. Irraional? Fuck yes! I know it’s irrational, I know that I gotta live, otherwise what’s the point? My dad is buried next to an 18-year old kid. I’ve lived approximately nine years more than that kid ever will; there but for the grace of God go I and all that. Yet still I sit, and I fear and I worry and I complain and I bemoan the cruel fate that has left me an unable to go wherever the fuck I want. Narcissistic? Fuck yes! We’re the me generation aren’t we? That’s what a lot of academics say; we’ve grown up with so much wealth, food and technology that we’re spoiled to the core. When the Internet goes down it’s like Judgement Day; thousands of times over, again and again ad infinitum. Crap, my Wi-Fi’s gone down, where is the whore of Babylon, the seven-headed beast? Where’s Jesus? Where’s the heavenly host of angels come to do battle with the forces of Satan? Why isn’t the world ending, the power’s gone out dammit!

So on top of the fear, the self-loathing, the narcissism, what else? Oh yeah, depression! I’ve loved stories ever since I was a kid; Like a lot of kids, Harry Potter got me hooked on the drug that is fiction. I’ve read voraciously ever since I was in third grade. I’ve read everything from Tolkien, to Dickens, to Greek myths. I’ve read stories that were thousands of years old to books that were published last year. I’ve been to the far past and to the far future and everywhere and when in between. No matter how much I read, I’ve always lived with something called “bookcase envy”. Bookcase envy is when you look at another person’s bookcase, piled up with books, and you’re filled with jealousy. I’ll never understand how so many people can stuff so much into their head, and can work and raise a family on top of that. I’m depressed because no matter how much I read, there’s something I haven’t read, some classic that eludes my knowing of it. I love books so much, have worshipped the words of  so many others, that I forgot to concentrate on my own story; I’ve focused so much time and energy reading other people’s stories that I’ve forgotten to sit down and write my own! Silly me; I’m so obsessed with other characters that are just so much ink and paper that I’ve neglected my own life. Important everyday stuff like cooking, cleaning, relationships, tying shoes.  Yes, tying shoes! I find it extremely ironic that I can use the phrase “cognitive dissonance” in a sentence and know what the fuck that means, yet can’t tie my own damn shoelaces. Yup, my life is one big irony. I love the speculative, forgot about the mundane; silly me!

So now here I stand; a twenty-six year-old man-child with a university degree (only the second person in my immediate family to go to uni; yay me!), with a head full of dreams, no money in the bank account, no girlfriend, contacts, prospects, connections; my one and only friend left me behind years ago, the three men responsible for my existence are dead and gone, maybe on to Heaven, Pugatory, Hell or Oblivion, who knows? I have a family still with me, who loves me and only wishes for my happiness and success. They hold me back from taking a knife to my wrists; the people still with me, and those I have left behind. Their memories, support and love keep me adrift in this storm.

I live in interesting times, at an incredible turning point in human history, the weight of millennia on my back, crushing me, suffocating me, pushing me further and further down into the ground.

By the time I was 13, I had read more books than my dad and grandfather combined. Yet why do I feel so helpless, so insignificant?

Anyway, I could go on, but the rest is too personal and painful to share with you; I’ve emptied myself, I’m done, I’ve said too much and too little.  Roll credits.