In hindsight, it is no wonder I have lived in a constant state of sheer exhaustion. The effort it has taken to even remain upright, to keep going is extraordinary. Wishing that I would just fall asleep and never wake up, doing anything I could to ravage my body in order to speed up that process. And at the same time, maintaining a job, certain friendships, even a relationship or two, and somehow doing it all with a smile on my face. It at times was even a sick game, like "Let's just see how far I can push this, and myself, and see if I can make it." Pure insanity. There were times I was disappointed I woke up, just sick of the cruel game my life had become. My mornings usually went like this. Roll out of bed (or usually get off the floor), and throw up. I had been throwing up blood for years, so that was nothing new. Most days, I'd heave so hard blood would start pouring out of my nose as well. By the end of that process, I was usually in so much pain and so disgusted with myself I would be crying, still dry heaving while trying to stop the nose bleed. As soon as I could stand, straight to the fridge for a drink. And as soon as that hit my stomach, more vomiting. This would go on until I had about three down, then a few more to stop the shakes. Then about ten beers, I could get in the shower, shave, and go to work. By the time I clocked in, I was usually about a twelve pack in. Functionable. A six pack at lunch to keep my hands from shaking too bad to be able to do my work, and always waiting until I was off and at the bar. Then, at least a case, passing out wherever I was. And let's not forget the drugs, any and everything, and as much as you had. Staying awake for three, four days was nothing new. By the time I was admitted to the hospital, this had all went on for about seven years solid, bringing me to four minor heart attacks at age 28. 6'3, 155 pds. Skin stretched over bones. I ate maybe once a week. Blood coming from everywhere, ulcerated from head to toe on the inside. The last heart attack was right in the middle of a company meeting, and my supervisor drove me home right after, I came to about a minute later and refused any medical help. Told I couldn't come back to work until cleared by a doctor, I sat at my apartment for a week. Finally, the thought of eating the fistful of Xanax I had and passing out on the train tracks popped into my head. There was a problem with that though. The one event, the scariest thing I had ever witnessed was a suicide. To this day that image still haunts me. And the thought of the guy driving the train, or the first person on scene was enough of a deterrent for me to go to my cousins house. No way could I do that to someone, scar someone as I had been. And that experience was enough to keep me alive to write this, to see how I wound up that way.
In the dead of winter, you take every necessary measure to seal your home up tight. However, in some houses, the concrete slab, the foundation has shifted. Everything is not as it is intended to be, the walls are not quite square, the doors and windows won't shut properly. You sit in your favorite chair, and a cold breeze sweeps your feet. Blanket or towel will not stop the air coming in. I have been that man, that child, who tried and tried to hide away, safe in my house. Any breeze told me the demons were still there, the wolves at the door still waiting. When trying to stuff the cracks with whatever was laying around wouldn't work, I thought drifting away, ignoring reality might do it. I kept everything outside while building another demon inside. And soon, I found myself in constant terror, running around like a mad man, running from my demon. Gasping for air, and trying to smell...The Cold Under The Door.
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