Break Free & Be Broken (4 page)

This is no good. This is no good at all. Instinct takes over, commanding my hand to start the car. I gotta get the hell out of here! I flick on the lights, release the e-brake, and flee.

Jesus fucking Christ! This night got away from me. The words seem to float in space, making a grim connection to something more. It isn't just this night that got away from me...

It's my whole fucking life.

Adrenaline and heroine do not mix well. By the time I get home, my head is pounding with ache-so much so that I find myself praying for death. I briefly consider taking another hit. I check my watch: 9:53. It
is
still early... but no, I feel like shit. And besides, I don't know what kind of affect two hits would have on me in the morning. Waking up is hard enough as it is. I don't need an extra dose of opioid in my system fighting to keep me in slumber. Better just to sleep. I can't even remember the last time I got more than five hours in a night. Perhaps it will do me some good.

As I stumble into my room, I can't help but wonder in what ways I will pay for ditching work early; especially when someone was inside. The heroine in my system shields me from a full self beat down, but I'm still disappointed I fled. As if falling to an imaginary foe wasn't enough, I had to run when things truly got real. I'm a coward, just as I always feared.

I flop down onto my bed, sleep already pulling me under. Oh but FUCK! I’m still in my work clothes. I gotta get dressed for the morning... but no, I can't. Not this time. Not tonight.

A somber chuckle escapes me. I let myself slip on drug use and look at how quickly everything is falling apart. Oh well.

Be easy on yourself, Chales. Tomorrow is your birthday, after all.

And tomorrow...

You die.

Chapter the Second

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Mother fucker.

The discomfort of a premature waking is as prevalent as ever, despite the extra hours of sleep. I grunt. I may actually feel worse than usual... WORSE!

Morning
always
arrives too soon; and even on this, a special day, a one of a kind holiday: my birthday.

Rather than using the usual technique and simply slapping my alarm to shut it off, I karate chop the hell out of it, knocking it unceremoniously off the nightstand. Offended, it clatters away into the dark. Ah. Fuck. Not a good start to the day.

I have a feeling it's going to be a long one.

I muse for a second on how long it has been since I allowed myself to sleep in to my heart’s content. If ever there was a day to lolly gag, throw regiment to the wind, and just say, "to hell with it!"- today is that day. But alas, it will not be so. There is much to be done. I can't let last night’s slip turn into a landslide. Now is the time for diligence, not easing up.

I climb roughly from bed, denying myself even so much as a yawn-punishment to the body for being greedy for sleep. I got more than enough of it. I should feel fine! I will act as though I do.

My mood is darker than even the deepest gutter outside, and the truth is, I know why. It isn't a result of yesterday’s weakness or my tired mind; those are merely symptoms of the underlying disease. It's because today is a day of reckoning, and I find myself with nothing to give.

You see, three years ago, in a broken hearted fit of rage, I made a certain promise. I vowed to myself, the earth, and the heavens, that by the time I reached the age 27, I would have made something of myself, and if I didn't... well, then I promised I would rid the world of my bedraggled presence.

Here I stand at the ripe age of 27, and here stoops my life: a frail, shabby freak, hiding in the corner, doing its best to remain in shadow and outside the gaze of Judgement's eye. But it sees you, old friend, and you most certainly are not what I promised you would be.

Happy birthday, old chum! Happy birthday
to you!
You promised to end this, let's see if you do!

Goal of the day: kill self.

I stop dead and eyeball the thought, then shake it away like I shake the clinging hands of sleep.
What
in the
fuck
was that garbage? This is just a regular day, Chales, just like any other. I commit to myself, right here and now, that I won't think about my promise of suicide again. It was a stupid promise when I made it and the fact I am giving it any energy at all is asinine to the extreme.

I’m nearly to the kitchen when I notice the unusual hindrance of excess clothing. That's right. I was too damn lazy-too damn weak!- to change last night. I throw down my pants and claw off my shirt, letting the buttons either rip off or come undone on their own. I care not either way.

I hustle back to my room and, with eyes squeezed shut, turn on the light. Even under the shelter of lids, the light is harsh on my pupils. I force them open; force them to deal with the circumstances they are in. Grudgingly, they make the appropriate adjustments, bringing the finer details of my room into focus. A bed. A desk. A dresser. No useless decorations on the walls, and certainly no mess on the floor. I throw on some shorts, throw on a tank top, and now behind schedule, get on with the day.

I trot back to the kitchen rather than walk to compensate for wasted time. Tick tock goes the clock, always and forever. I quickly drink my damn, fucking, shitty ass water, taking no pleasure in the usual sensations.

Good lord... Just stick to routine, stick to routine. I'll make it through this, whatever may come. I just gotta stick to routine.

As I storm from the kitchen to prepare for my run, a foreign thought hits me: I should probably check my phone. It takes me a minute to remember where it is. I'm not even sure why I still have the thing. Other than the random check in call from old friends, people don’t contact me, and I never contact them.

I search out my phone and flip it open. There’s a missed call and voicemail to match, both from my boss. Memories of bailing on the job last night come swimming back to me as I click on the voicemail and bring the phone to my ear.

I wonder if I’ll be fired.

I wonder if I’ll care if I am.

"Hey Chales. It's Mark. Gary said you weren't here when he showed up for his shift last night. Hope everything is all right. Give me a call back if you aren't gunna make it in tomorrow. Thanks pal."

"End of messages. To delete, press..."

I let the phone fall into my lap, feeling a vague sense of bewilderment. Damn. I guess this means I have work tonight.

Autopilot kicks in, and I fall back on the basics. I check my watch: 5:12. Shit! I should already be out the door! I cast all strange thought from my dome and get moving. The only thing I should be thinking about right now is running. Running is easy. It's just one foot in front of the other, again and again and again. It's what... Thursday? So I'm running the Thursday route... but the Thursday route doesn't sound appealing. It's one of my least favorite routes of the week. I should switch it up... yeah... switch it up.

The part of me that adheres to order convulses.
It's Thursday! Do the Thursday route! Stick to routine, remember? Stick to routine!

Right, right... routine...

Try as I might to keep a grasp on my convictions, by the time I'm geared up and ready to run, a truly outrageous idea managed to be born, grow up, and mature into a strapping beast inside my head: I'm gunna run trail today.

Normally, the 45 minute drive to the canyon is an unacceptable waste that cannot be justified no matter which way it is examined. But trail running is without a doubt my favorite type of running. In fact, it was on the trail I first developed my love for the activity. Back then, I ran for fun before health-a memory so distant it almost doesn't seem like mine. Why not bring it back for today? It is my birthday after all.

But wait, what am I saying? I haven't given myself any kind of special treatment on my birthday since I was a pup, still excited about the prospect of growing older. Today holds no significance outside of the date, and what significance is there in that? Come on! Am I really going to let this dismantling of regimen continue?

I scoop up my car keys from the table beside the door.

Yep. Looks like I am.

Having decided, I waste no more time on the debate. I make my way straight to my car and get going. The drive to the canyon is long, though at least it's early so there’s little traffic. Part of the reason I wake up when I do is so that I have some time to go about my day without the herds of the world suffocating me with their presence-and I'm receiving the full benefit of that discipline now-but even with the freedom of low traffic, the long drive is tiring on my nerves. God, I hate driving. The only time I like it is when... my eyes fall on the glove box.

The only time I like it is when I'm high.

Maybe I should get high. I haven't ran high, I think, ever. That could be fun. That could be a good experience for me today. Yeah... I should do it. I'm going to do it! I'm going to live this day to the fullest!

30 minutes later, I find myself placing foot before foot on the trail, sober as the day I was born. I couldn't smoke. I didn't have it in me. It would have destroyed the rest of my day, and even worse, it would have put me in a situation where I'm fucked tomorrow. You always gotta keep the future self in mind. The more you can set him up for success, the happier you will be. It was hard to change my mind at first-quite painful really-but now that I'm out here, breathing the clean mountain air, knowing I will still have energy to finish out my day, I feel pretty good. I think I made the right choice.

The sun is beginning to gray the sky by the time I'm done, giving promise of the impending dawn. I ran far and long, much further than I was expecting. The experience was so pleasant I just couldn't seem to stop.

As I run up beside my car, feeling fresh and alive, I realize I never really pushed myself today. I just kind of ran: ran for fun. A somewhat alien feeling is sitting inside me. An old feeling.

I'm happy...

I fling the sensation from myself like a handful of ants. I didn't do anything worth note on that run, I have no reason to be feeling happy with myself. Especially not today! I built my regimen as a pathway to satisfaction and accomplishment. It is the thing that made it possible for me to create all I have created. If it wasn't for regimen, I wouldn't have this body or this health. I wouldn't have been able to shackle my drug use. I use it because it is my friend... why am I enjoying breaking it?

Whatever this is... whatever it is that's happening, I don't like it.

The drive home is unnaturally peaceful. It makes me restless. Even when the dumb ass in front of me stops short on a yellow light both of us could easily have made, I don't scream, I don't yell; I just let it be.

This isn't good. The life I worked so hard to create is crashing down around me and I'm just sitting here, putting on a show that would make proud the Buddha himself!

"You should have gone, bitch!" I yell to the fool-a person who will never hear and likely wouldn't care about the depths of my displeasure-but it feels forced: unauthentic. There is no rage inside me right now, no anger.

It is in this moment a saving grace falls to me from the skies, or more precisely, rings up from my watch: the cue that tells me it's time to begin workout number one. And look at me: no breakfast, no rest, not even fucking home yet... I'm extremely and unforgivably late! The familiar gurgle of bitterness begins its slow pulse through me. I don't try to combat it. I welcome it with open arms. It is now that my brain gets down to business, scheming away at how I am going to pull off the rest of this day.

It won't be easy, it won't be fun, but so help me, I will find a way.

I'm cooked through with bitter spice by the time I get home. Once I realized how far behind schedule I was, it was easy to put an iron hand to myself. I'm going to have less time between workouts now, which could very well mean that my second one is going to suffer. I gave myself a little leeway and this is what I get! My day is pretty much ruined: as it should be.

I pull myself together enough to get through breakfast in a proper fashion. The only thing noticeable about it is that the lack of flavor never tasted worse. After eating, I move to my room to zone out and am all but blasted back out the door by the invasive morning light. I'd forgotten how late it is. The dark sanctuary I normally zone out in has already been lost.

Terrific.

I retreat to the couch like some ridiculous creature who has no place. I try to just lie down and keep things normal but I can't. It's too bright for me to sink below my thoughts. Try as I might, I can't ignore them out here. I sit up, reach for the remote, and stop. It's lay and relax time, not TV time. Whether I am able to ignore my thoughts or not, I must simply lay-a feeble attempt to cling to what I know.

I barely make a half hour before I am absolutely, downright sick of this shit. With nothing better to do, I decide to just start my workout early. My heart shrinks from the thought but I see no other alternative. The small plus side is that at least this puts me a little bit closer to being on track.

Today's first workout is shoulders, which, thank god, happens to be another one of my favorites. I go through the motions of warming up, watching curiously as some dark emotion grows within me. I hurry and get warm, then move to the weight rack. As I reach down to pick up the weights, the emotion transforms into a realization so appalling I can hardly bring myself to look it in the face. But it is standing before me, hands stretched out, clutching me by the throat and demanding my attention.

I don't want this. I'm tired of it. I don't want to work out.

I want to be done.

I want to be dead.

The truth hits with such tremendous, mind shattering force that all the pieces that once constituted my self scatter, leaving me with nothing but a searing pain and the absolute certainty that killing myself is something that must be done. I grasp onto the pain, though it burns me, and stare my certainty in the eye. It causes my heart to shudder and my knees to quake, and then, as easily as letting a rock sink beneath the water, I start to cry.

Fuck! This hurts.

Jesus, this fucking hurts. It's one thing to fantasize about killing yourself on a bad day under the influence of a particularly sharp emotion. It's quite another thing to know, fully and absolutely, that you want death more than anything else in the world; not because of some great tragedy or unendurable physical torment, but simply because life has lost its promise of joy, and just the thought of living another day is enough to make the gut wrench in anguish.

God damnit. For too long I’ve dealt with this. For too long I’ve put up with this festering, ceaseless ache. There was once a time I believed it would leave... It didn't. Death is nothing if not patient. He sat back, biding his time, letting me shred my hands on the ragged edge of despair until there was nothing left of my arms but bone.