2016/03/11 Friday
I felt better when I got out of bed today, better than I felt yesterday anyway, but still not really good enough to be able to focus on my chemistry lesson. I knew I wouldn't be able to focus, knew I wouldn't be able to think anything except I am not afraid to keep on living.
And, even while I struggled through my English homework and poetry analysis, all I could possibly think about was I am not afraid to keep on living. Mr Bowie gave me a poem for leisure and he said that I didn't have to analyse it if I didn't want to: but it came with a sheet of questions so I did them.
The poem was called Group Therapy and I don't know if you've ever read it but it doesn't rhyme and, for this reason, I would deem it as useless and just generally a waste of space. They'd miscategorised a short paragraph for a poem, that's what they've done.
I didn't enjoy it much and I didn't relate: but I knew that Mr Bowie knew about group that happened on Fridays, even if I didn't tell him. The Group Therapy poem could've been worse: I'll admit. It could've been condescending or worse: the poet pretending to understand how I felt.
It was about children. A group therapy for children who, I guess, had been abused or had been neglected and even though I was neither of those things I felt like I could've been. I felt neglected and unloved: like, for some reason, the universe had decided that I wasn't worth it anymore. Like everyone and everything was out to kill me off. Like a character in a book they'd planned on killing from the beginning.
I felt abused. I felt like I'd been used and mistreated even though I knew that I hadn't. I felt bruised and broken and covered in a million different injuries that didn't relate to my Useless Logs of Fat™. I didn't want to get up today, I didn't want to have lessons and I didn't want to go to group therapy. But I did anyway. I am not afraid to keep on living.
The poem, Group Therapy, made me feel understood... like I wasn't alone even if it had nothing to do with me. The therapist didn't seem to know what he was doing and the children didn't either. I analysed it over and over and did the questions over until I was happy with them.
And, even after that, I couldn't stop myself from going over it again and again like it would make me feel less empty inside or maybe a little less afraid of seeing Pete at Group Therapy today. I just kept repeating it over and over again until I knew the words backwards and forwards.
Group Therapy by Bernard Levinson
We are talking about love
(not daring use that word)
As they sat about me
In a circle.
The boys and the girls.
Each with a paper puppet in one hand.
He said-
'Mine's an old man,
He's so very hungry
And so very much alone.'
And she in the softest voice –
'My puppet is ugly
Everyone hates her.'
I searched for words
To form a bridge
Between them.
The old man looked at the ugly puppet.
The paper head nodded gravely
While the group waited.
And I, groping in my word-world
Waited for the right words
To set them free.
On an impulse
He stretched forward
And gently swept her hair
Out of her face.
I know it, mostly, but I still had to look at it to type that out. I think it's my favourite poem so far. It's sort of like Pete. Because it's not what I'm used to; it's not what I like. The poem doesn't rhyme and it almost doesn't have a purpose, which means it's a waste of time and energy. While Pete is... he's never been what I like.
He laughs like a donkey and his whole face twitches and he's the reason I feel like a festering pile of shit (Shout out to Donald Trump) he watches stupid slapstick movies and takes forever to read The Boy in Striped Pajamas. He kisses me in the dark and then doesn't speak about it again.
But he's still my Best Friend for Life, even if he isn't what I conventionally go for. And this poem is my favourite, even if it isn't what I conventionally enjoy analysing. Maybe that's just the case with all my favourites. Because I went from Stephen King right to The Boy in Striped Pajamas.
By the time Frank came to take me to group therapy, I'd learnt most of the poem and I'd answered the questions over and over until I was happy with my answers. They weren't even all that difficult but I did them so thoroughly that the answers sounded like a psych analysis instead of a poetry analysis.
I was prepared to go though, on account of the fact that I thought Pete might've finished with The Boy in Striped Pajamas and he'd give it back to me in today's session. Frank and I didn't say anything in the car and I had to stop myself from comparing the silence and emptiness to the way my stomach felt. I am not afraid to keep on living.
The snow was completely gone for the first time, lately it had just been clumps of snow here and there but now I was faced with the green grass that spring brought with it and, not to mention, the allergies. And I don't know whether it was a subconscious response or not, but I could swear I felt my nose start tingling.
The ride to the elevator was more bumpy than usual, on account of the fact that we had less layers of snow than usual. We waited for 10 minutes and, I know that I said I hated snow, but I preferred it over the sunlight that beat at my skin. Fuck the sun, it's been my enemy for many years.
I wondered whether Hayley and Ryan were going to be there and whether Hayley knew or Ryan even remembered. He seemed so shitfaced that I didn't think he'd even remember the milk which, let's be honest here, would scar anyone else so badly they wouldn't be able to forget it.
We got up and, for the first time in forever, we were late. Everybody was already in the circle and it looked like we were actually going to be doing therapy things this time instead of hanging about the room and chatting. That wasn't the first thing I noticed, though: the first thing I noticed was that he wasn't there.
The reason I broke down yesterday, the reason I'd gotten out of bed today, the reason I'd suffered through lessons, the reason I even came. The cause behind my silly little mantra. I am not afraid to keep on living. Pete wasn't there. The room was empty without him. But full at the same time.
Too many things, too many people, too many chairs and too many people that weren't Pete. Too many 'too many's that made me feel uncomfortable. But at the same time not enough. Not enough things, not enough people, not enough chairs and not enough people that weren't Pete.
Everyone greeted me, even down to the shy kid who raised his eyebrows in greeting. I was supposed to be listening or, at the very least, think about what I was going to say. Something funny or witty and smart that I can say. But I didn't. I just stared at my shoes.
I wasn't angry at Pete. Well... I wasn't supposed to be. That wasn't the intention. That wasn't the idea. I was angry, though. I was angry that he'd ditched me. I was angry that he hadn't come to therapy to see me.
I felt like I'd felt when I read the Group Therapy Poem. I felt neglected and unloved. Like I'd always be second to something that was better than me. More important to me. And I felt abused. I felt battered and bruised and hurt all over. I felt like I could cry.
But I decided that I could wait until I got home, away from the prying eyes of the delinquents around me. The Lady at the Head of the Invisible Table cleared her throat and I think I responded faster to that than I responded to my own name. They were waiting for me to introduce myself.
I'm Mikey Way... I wasn't in the right mind set to give a funny answer. I couldn't think of anything to say. And I'm here because I watched my parents die. And, well, I'm in a wheelchair. Not to mention that my boyfriend is dying. The group was quiet – and Hayley's eyes were wider than I'd ever seen them.
I had no way to indicate that I was done, because everybody else could simply sit down when they were done. While I had to simply sit in the silence that gave everyone the opportunity to stare at me for longer than was necessary. That's all. I said.
The session continued and I made sure that I was half-listening to what was going on so that I could wheel myself out of there as fast as was fucking possible. I didn't know where I was going to go or what I was going to do. I wanted to scream and cry and punch myself in the face.
I was angry at Pete for a while – but I don't know at what point I started being angry at myself instead. Pete was sick. He was dying, probably trembling in his bed right now wishing he could be here. And I wasn't there supporting him. We hadn't spoken since Wednesday.
I felt guilty, which was good. Because it meant that I acknowledged that I was in the wrong. Which I was.
Before Pete and I became Best Friends for Life, I could shout loud and proud that alone and lonely were too completely different things. I was alone and I was happy with it: I had no reason to go looking for friendships and that sort of thing.
But now I felt empty: I felt lost and afraid without Pete by my side even if it didn't make that much of a difference with him there. I sat between Hayley and Ryan, who are both my friends, but I felt like I didn't have any friends at all. I felt lonely in a room full of people.
I didn't feel alone: I was constantly reminded of Hayley's existence by her hand that had slipped into mine in a half-assed attempt at comforting me. And Ryan's deep breathing made it hard to ignore him completely. But I did feel lonely.
Times were changing and I could feel it. I don't know where we're going but we're going full speed. I don't like not knowing, if I'm perfectly honest with you. I don't like being alone anymore because it means being lonely and I'm afraid to keep going. I'm afraid to go on after he's gone.
Is this what it's going to feel like when he's dead? Am I going to feel empty and numb? Because I'm sure that I'd choose anything over this if I could – I would choose death if it came down to wondering over this stupid planet without an ounce of feeling.
I was afraid. But I didn't show it. I didn't think it. All I could possibly think was about what Dr Stump had told me. I am not afraid to keep on living. And then about the difference between being alone and feeling lonely. I am not afraid to walk this world alone.
I'm making all of these preparations for when he's gone, making sure that I can keep going. Regardless, I hope I see him on Wednesday.
Mikey.
Because my boyfriend is reading this and I have the sudden desire to delete the entire thing.
Vote and comment because this replacement laptop's keys are in the wrong place.
And my favourite thing right now is me. But I guess Pepper Spray is good too.
Undying affections from yours truly,
Brendon.