The night life happened, I was ten years old, and the air was thick with the kind of oppressive humidity that makes breathing feel like a chore. The living room, dimly lit by the flickering light of the television, felt like a stage set for a tragedy that had been rehearsed in whispers and shadows.

My mother sat on the threadbare couch, a cigarette burning slowly between her fingers, its ember the only sign of life in her otherwise lifeless form. Her eyes were vacant, staring through the television screen into some dark void that I couldn't see but could feel creeping into our home. She had been like this for days, trapped in a silent battle with demons that only she could see. Depression, they called it, but it felt like a possession, something dark and malevolent that had taken hold of her and wouldn't let go.

I reached for the phone, my small hand trembling as I thought to call for help. “Dad…” I whispered into the silence. Dad, we called him, but he was anything but. Likely, he was at some dingy bar, hunched over a drink, his face etched with the lines of a man who had given up long ago. He was always drunk, it seemed, always doing everything he could to avoid being home, to avoid the life he pitied. When he did stumble through the door, it was with the heavy scent of alcohol and regret, his eyes bloodshot and his movements sluggish.

He had his own demons, ones that he drowned in whiskey and cheap beer. I knew he hated himself for not being able to save my mother, for not being able to save any of us. But instead of fighting, he chose to flee, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass and the temporary oblivion it offered.

I stood in the doorway, my small frame trembling with a mix of fear and anger. I hated her in those moments. Hated her for the weakness that seemed to seep from her very pores, for the way she had let herself be consumed by whatever darkness had claimed her. Yet, beneath that hatred, there was a flicker of something else—pity, perhaps, or the remnants of the love that had once bound us together.

She moved suddenly, a jerky, desperate motion that sent the ash from her cigarette scattering like grey snowflakes onto the carpet. Her eyes, now wild and frantic, darted around the room as if searching for an escape from the demons that tormented her. I watched, frozen, as she began to mutter under her breath, her words a jumbled mix of fear and incoherence.

"Mom?" I ventured, my voice small and hesitant. "Mom, are you okay?"

She didn't respond, didn't even seem to hear me. Her muttering grew louder, more frantic, and she clutched at her head as if trying to keep it from exploding. I took a step closer, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing with the urge to help her, to save her from whatever horror she was experiencing.

But then she screamed—a raw, guttural sound that cut through the silence like a knife. It was a sound that spoke of unimaginable pain and despair, a sound that would haunt my dreams for years to come. I watched in helpless horror as she collapsed onto the floor, her body convulsing, her screams turning into sobs.

In that moment, I saw the demons. Not as she saw them, but as a reflection of the torment inside her. They were the dark shadows that had consumed her spirit, the invisible chains that bound her to a life of misery and despair. And I hated them. I hated them with a ferocity that surprised me, a burning rage that was only matched by my helplessness.

I wanted to run to her, to hold her and tell her that everything would be okay. But I couldn't move. I was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a mix of fear, anger, and sorrow. All I could do was watch as the woman who had once been my mother was reduced to a sobbing, broken shell on the floor.

As the night wore on, her sobs eventually subsided, and she lay there, exhausted and spent. I finally found the strength to move, to go to her and wrap my arms around her frail body. She didn't respond, didn't acknowledge my presence, but I held her anyway, hoping that somehow my touch could reach through the darkness and bring her back to me.

In the rare moments when my father was sober enough to speak, his words were slurred and bitter, laced with the pain of a man who had lost his way. He was a ghost in our lives, present but absent, his presence a reminder of the life he was trying so desperately to escape.

I held my mother tighter, feeling the weight of our shared despair. I pitied her, pitied him, but most of all, I pitied myself for being caught in the crossfire of their demons. The night it happened, I realized that I was alone in my fight, that the adults I looked up to were too broken to save me or themselves.

In that darkened living room, surrounded by the echoes of my mother's sobs and the phantom presence of my drunken father, I made a vow. I would not let their demons become mine. I would find a way to fight back, to carve out a life for myself that was free from the shadows that haunted our home.

And as I held my mother in my arms, I promised myself that I would survive. I would endure. I would find a way to escape the darkness, even if it meant doing it alone.

To those of us who suffer from social anxiety, being in the presence of others can truly be Hell.

Side Bar: You almost always here that people suffer from social anxiety. It makes me wonder if there are people who actually enjoy social anxiety.

Anyway, I have always suffered from social anxiety or at least I can't recall ever enjoying the nausea, heart racing, panic I feel when being around more than a few people. Even when I was little I hated things like school assemblies, large birthday parties, and things like little league. I come by it honestly because my mom has social anxiety that actually developed into agoraphobia when she was a kid. So, my dislike of large groups of people definitely has roots in genetics.

Another thing that really contributed to my social anxiety is being disabled. When you walk with a halted gate, one side of your body is significantly smaller in both length and musculature, and you only have full use of one hand, you kind of stick out. Unfortunately, growing up in the 1980's orthopedic bracing was nearly impossible to hide and lucky me, I got to wear a Forest Gump style leg brace attached to what can only be described as old man shoes. So, self-conscious. I always felt that there was a spotlight pointed at me allowing everyone to see how different I was. Now whether or not people really noticed didn't matter, for all know the vast majority probably didn't take the time to notice. That didn't matter because it was my belief that people were noticing my physical disability that increased my anxiety.

Of course, some of the most observant people on Earth are children and there was no escaping their spotlight. Unfortunately, recess and PE in elementary school became a daily misery. I never played with other kids really and spent a lot of time alone. As one can imagine I was bulled, but I had one thing going for me there. I'm one of those wallflowers whose unique ability to disappear into the crowd rivals that of the chameleon and octopus. You couldn't be bullied if you couldn't be seen. So, I blended in amongst the stale shelves of the library or slipped into corner of the playground where no one played. When forced into a situation where I had to participate in a physical, team activity I was always picked last. These little instances of rejection made me turn further into myself and increased my dread being in group activities even more. Highschool was pretty much the same situation only throw in raging testosterone in the other guys and the bullying became a bit more dangerous.

I blame myself for a lot for my social anxiety. Maybe if I would've joined the recess games of soccer, basketball, or touch football I might have been a little bit better at sports. By no means would I be a jock, but I could've gotten a little better thus get picked next to last instead of absolute last during PE. In elementary school I realized early on that most of the time I was smarter than the bullies. As a result, I might've been able to talk or joke my way out of the bully's crosshairs. Thankfully, in high school I weaponized my sense of humor which allowed me to outsmart the bullies or at the very least, be seen as funny enough to enjoy a little bit of the grace that my other classmates were able to offer. I did have a few friends in high school and did some socializing, but I always felt like a nun watching an adult film be made in person, totally out of place and a bit afraid of any backsplash of residual body fluids that might fly my way. So, my inward turned self allowed my anxiety to thicken as it simmered during that 4 year prison sentence also called high school.

After high school, my social anxiety made me its bitch and I didn't put up much of a fight. I wanted to go to college. In fact, I lived right across the street from the local state college, but I became nauseous just walking on campus. The thought of being around so many people terrified me. Being on the sidewalk that bordered the school made my pulse race, I'd breakout in a sweat, and I would have to talk to myself until I was away from the school to keep from having a full on panic attack. I lived alone because I felt that I would be seen as a pathetic weird guy and no one would want to live with me. Dating? What dating? You have to be able to talk to a girl you're interested in to date. I clammed up whenever I was near a girl I was interested in.

Now, I think I'm introverted by nature, but even introverts need friends, but I was paralyzed by my social anxiety which kept me in the shadows. So, my social anxiety grew and eventually it invited it's friend, clinical depression to join us. Being around more than a handful of people became overwhelming to the point that I was starting to feel like I couldn't force myself to go to work. If that happened, I'd end up homeless with social anxiety and clinical depression. My thoughts grew darker and as time passed it became more and more difficult to find reasons to continue being above ground.

After a brief stay at a happy fun time hospital and a prescription for a drug store worth of medications I had to make a decision. The social anxiety and depression were keeping me from finding friends and meaningful relationships. Of course, the loneliness fed the social anxiety and depression. I was caught in a circular fuck on the way to self-destruction. So, to pull myself out of it, I challenged myself. After work, I would go for a walk around the college across the street from my apartment complex a few times a week. It wasn't easy but it wasn't walled away in my one bedroom with just books and music for company. I stuck myself out there and made a couple of good friends which several years later would lead to me meeting my wife.

Oh, I still have social anxiety. I hate all staff meetings where I'm forced to sit in a room filled with people I don't know for hours. In addition, I'd rather have a lit flame thrower shoved up my ass and then have the trigger pulled than do one of the icebreaker activities management always fucks us with during these meetings. While everyone is in line to grab their catered lunch I immediately disappear into my car so that I can ground myself enough to make it through the remainder of the meeting. I don't grab my lunch because the anxiety driven nausea that has been building for hours makes eating inadvisable. Finally, I don't do clubs, weddings, family picnics, big events, or even events hosted by the agency I work for. My wife calls me the antisocial social worker and I'm okay with that.

I still have social anxiety and probably always will. As a result, to some extent Hell will always be other people. However, I have managed to stop feeling sorry for my inbred ass long enough to gain a few coping skills to make it possible for me to function. Ultimately, I've reached a stalemate with my psychosis which allows me to have friends, a job, graduate from college, and have a family. Just don't invite me to any weddings, family reunions, Tupperware parties, or bar mitzvas. Save your stamp, email, or group text because I won't be going.

I didn't know much about Stoicism before taking on this challenge. I'll admit, I had a heavy bias against it because a person who used to be close to me, (who I now despise) used to be obsessed with Marcus Aurelius (specifically the Meditations).

After reading about the philosophy of Stoicism, I have mixed feelings about it. For the most part, I don't like it because it seems too dispassionate and individualistic to me. I do have a few things that I like about it and would agree with though, so I'll start with the positives.

On a small scale, I like the idea of worrying only about what you can control. When I was in the mental hospital, we talked about "radical acceptance" which is the idea that what has happened in the past has already happened and there is nothing you can do to change it, so you will have to accept it one way or another. Therefore, it's better for you and others to not allow yourself to get overwhelmed with anxiety or anger. An example they used was road rage - if you're in traffic and you're going to be late, you can't choose to leave earlier or force the cars to get off the road. There's no sense in getting angry about it.

I also like the anti-materialist/anti-consumerist attitude. I can talk about how much I hate consumerism all day, but I won't. I think this is a point that especially applies to today's world because, especially with advertisements, we are constantly bombarded with the idea that we need more "stuff" to make us happy, when I wholeheartedly believe that it's completely the opposite. I believe that most people want to create, to do, to invent, to interact, rather than to simply consume and purchase. And we would be so much better off if we could break out of the mindset that we are meant to buy, buy, buy.

On the other hand, I find that stoicism encourages an “it is what it is” mindset, which is my second least favorite phrase behind “life’s not fair”. To the second one, I would say: "but it should be". And to the first I would say: "shouldn't we strive for a better future?" Stoicism seems to be very individualistic, and doesn't just put the responsibility on the individual but robs the individual of the idea of collective power. The mindset of only being upset about what is within your control is resigning yourself to “what it is”. We do have some control over our external environment and we can convince others to join us in creating change. We are not passive or reactive actors in our own lives.

Moreover, I think that we should be angry sometimes. I think that the only way to fighting against injustice is to be fed up with systems and the actions of others. The only way that we can create change is by getting upset and banding together to change things. Again, there is power in numbers.

Caveat: I think that the modern conception of Stoicism is kind of different from the ancient one, and so some of what I'm speaking about isn't completely rooted in ancient philosophy but rather the teachings "self-help gurus". A lot of them seem to preach about self-discipline which I hate. For one thing, some people in this group, have an attitude that your lack of discipline is the reason that your life is subpar. If you woke up at 5 AM everyday, did 10 pushups, put money into your 401k, and were more grateful for everything around you, then you would be happy. One, this neglects to consider the socio-economic conditions that a lot of people live under, as well as disabilities and mental illnesses. In all of these cases, people can't do certain things that "self-discipline" requires due to lack of resources or lack of energy, etc. It's also unproductive at best and obnoxious at worst to tell people to be grateful for what they have (it often implies "because someone else has it worse" or "because it could be ripped away from you"). That just makes people feel guilty and anxious.

Additionally, the happiest I've ever been was when I was completely carefree but completely undisciplined. I skipped school, went out to parties and drank underage, I slacked off, I spent all the money I made instead of saving it and I'm happy that I had fun despite being sad and poor (and still undisciplined) now.

Most of all, I'd rather be passionate than content. I want to have security and peace of mind, but I want to grieve when people die, I want to feel longing for someone I have a crush on, I want to feel pissed off when I see injustices, I want to feel passion, despite how “irrational” it is. I hate stories with happy endings, I love tragic and bittersweet books, I love sad songs, and I write best when I am upset. I'd rather feel something so intense that it makes me scream and cry than feel something so subtle that it makes me feel numb.

In the end,

There is only death.

It's a concept I've struggled with often. Not necessarily via interpretation or meaning, but fully digesting it. Internalizing it.

The inevitability of death is utterly, brutally terrifying. It's in the idea of a life cut short, the act of achieving & climbing the ladder ascending to your goals, but failing to entirely leave your mark — that is a truly horrifying thought.

I can imagine it is for you, as well.

You stand before the clock of eternity, its design bereft of the usual hands, its flat surface kin to a sun dial. Instead, you yourself serve as its hands, guided by a demiurgic force coursing through you. Every ticking, passing second, a new, monolithic titan is forged from the zephyrs of time — a new being of your subconscious creation. Each, resembling you physically.

What one would fail to realize off first glance: whilst recherche in their own ways, these are just versions of you, manifestations from your different thoughts. Or, rather, what you could become.

You can become your quintessence.

You are the stars beneath the moonlight, & the clouds along the azure horizon.

Everything yet nothing revolves around you; you simply move with the currents & adapt accordingly.

I say this to say to both you and myself: stop wasting time dreading the past. Stop wasting time looking into the future. Stop wasting time investing your energy in the wrong places. If you want things to change, & change for the better — if you want to become the quintessential version of yourself you envision — you have to evolve past that which brought you turmoil & doubt, & rise in the end. Only then will you have mastered the art of stoicism, & find your equilibrium in helpful settings or helpful activities where you normally wouldn't be at or do.

In the end, let us embrace the dance of life, knowing that each step forward is a testament to our resilience and strength. Let us seize the present moment with unwavering determination, forging our path towards greatness with every heartbeat. For in the grand tapestry of existence, our legacy is not measured by the fleeting sands of time, but by the indelible mark we leave on the world. So let us live boldly, love fiercely, and create tirelessly, for memento mori — in the end, there is only the beautiful symphony of a life well-lived.

The strongest rock will always survive

Sitting stoich for so long

No break out in angry rage

Drumming the beats to the song

You can't see reality is a lie

Even though I can see the truth

Never damaged nor neglected

The perfect childhood of youth

All my demons have been external

The jealous trying to tear me down

Never rich but never poor

But they tried to steal my crown

Built them all to the highest level

Unable to believe in themselves

Walk away burning brightly

But left my heart upon the shelf

So much karma to come back to me

Lessons of life have been learned

I will accept all that has given

Because everything has been earned

Dear typewriter.

How are you?

I am guessing that you are fine since you are still as excited as you were yesterday, as you were the day my mother gifted you to me. 

Your click-clack sound rings out pure, not smeared or tainted by the world outside. 

But just like yesterday, and like five years before that, my fingers are making feeble efforts to push you down. I beat at you with the same frustration and anger that I feel. 

My boss snapped at me again today. 

It was for the smallest thing. I forgot to tuck my shirt in after I visited the restroom, but that wasn't my fault either.

He made several remarks about how lazy, old, and terrible I was. He even told me I was a failure and asked me to quit the job. 

I wish I could, but how will I eat? I can barely make do with the meager amount I am currently being paid. If I lose my job, I may even have to lose you. 

You wouldn't want that, would you? 

Your click-clack sound tells of your answers. 

So, I have to remain there. Allowing him to batter me with his words.

I feel a bit of me die every single day.

At forty, with no kids or wife, I have only you.

I am tired. So tired. 

Maybe I should just end it all. 

I bow my head and weep, and you receive my tears in your careful hands. 

After I could no longer go on crying, I moved to pick up the paper that contained another one of my musings and throw it into the basket where several others had been dumped. 

I stop, startled, as I stare at the four words on the paper. 

You will be fine. 

To sit in silence is to face oneself. A break in conversation to hear what the other has to say. The other: your feet. The other: your organs. The other: the pain in your back whose cries are stifled by social anxieties each day when you leave the house. A locking door to an empty room, a place of silence. A place of overwhelming complaints, of longings, of terrible, horrible things. To sit in silence is to sit in chaos.

To sit in silence is to reflect into the mirror that is the undistracted heart. When the room floods, what is it that rises to the surface? What sinks? And which will you remember to move to a higher shelf? Do not fret though. The sunken and forgotten with age will become treasure that will be most novel to rediscover. By someone else of course, not you. The next tenant, hypothetical grandchildren, or a sparrow to use for their nest. To sit in silence is to scramble to the top of the trash heap.

To sit in silence is to gaze into the crystal ball you have spent your life creating. To revel and to mourn. To anticipate and predict. To worry and to dread. To sit in silence is to be assured that all is factual that is broadcasted from you and if the forecast is dire, you need to take shelter soon.

To sit in silence is to levitate in a spacious moment. At the counter between customers when the store is empty. On the near-empty bus late at night between stops. On a walk as the battery on your phone finally runs out. To sit in silence is not to sit at all.

To sit in silence is to squirm uncomfortably in your chair, in your clothes, in your skin. To sit in silence is to notice you are physically alone, and to realize the music, the podcasts, the radio are not your friends after all. To sit in silence is to notice silence. To sit in silence is to remember how untethered you are. Levitating, cartwheeling, sleeping, gliding, landing and launching. All you do to feel as though you are going somewhere, reaching something, reaching someone. To watch time pass and feel it pass to always arrive at the same place. To sit in silence is to face oneself.

So, I've been learning about stoicism and a fellow named Marcus Aurelius.

Why is it that most Roman philosophers and emperors had names ending in -us?

Was it a decree of some sort? Who knows. There must be a linguistic explanation.

Or, another reason, is that humans sometimes are stupid

and look for meaning in places where there simply isn't any.

Anyhow, back to the original point. Stoicism.

It is not the concept of not feeling anything, but rather about choosing the best box

in the attic of your mind in which

your emotions belong.

Instead of acting on impulse, one focuses on the facts,

on reacting to an event with courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom.

In being the most genuine version of yourself instead of fixating on what was,

on what could be.

There are several aspects based on the concept of memento mori.

Remember you will die.

Yet, despite these philosophies and Roman emperors and tips

and meditations and breathing exercises to take four seconds breathing it,

holding it in, and another four seconds breathing it out,

the reality is

I desperately want for so much, precisely because I know I will die soon.

Soon can be tomorrow, twenty, forty, fifty, one hundred and twelve years from now.

What I want is tangible, burning, nonsensical, a borderline teenage dream--

I want to throw this desk into the window, create a bridge of iridescent glass

I get to step on in my sudden escape,

and no matter how many bleeding scrapes will cut my feet,

I would grin and laugh knowing I am finally, at long last, free;

free to explore a place where I get to climb trees to the very top branches,

where I get to make my words matter to vastly honest, honestly vast audiences,

where I do not think about my lifetime of the past as if it was my present,

where we all want for naught, where we choose kindness above all,

where we are all doing what we love, to the point where we forget to eat

or drink

or sleep.

I want to skip along insomniac streets with the sound of yellow-white

lamppost light and music in my ears,

to stare at the sunrise from a beach with tears in my eyes as I just

allow myself to simply

Be.

You were born of particle and dust, carefully sewn with trails of light, and filled with worlds unseen.

But then, you were pushed into the abyss, swallowed by the viscous black. It filled the spaces where there should be air and enveloped you, suffocating you with flesh and all its unruly demands. Pieces of you, vulnerable, contorted sinew push through your holy threads and leave you hapless. Hopeless.

You've felt this.

Haven't you?

It's in the way you wail for love, for fame. The way you glutton, though all discernable needs are met. Like an insect met with the shock of fate, you pour into the flashing light, for it has promised you so much. You fall, willingly so, into your own siren song of self-preservation. You jump from wheel to wheel, picking asphalt from your wounds. You peer into the depth of glass and plastic, hoping to catch remnants of your birth, that familiar glimmer within the darkness of dimensions. But the spark isn't there. It never is.

You despise this.

Don't you?

There is a piece of yourself, petulant and whining, just as you did when forced onto this Earth. Its cries keep you up at night as you stare yards into the black, merging with the déjà-rêvé. You mask the natural light, afraid of its illumination. And so, your Petulant Self is "disciplined", neglected, ignored, abused. It's forced into the background, unsure of how to reach you, for petulance is its only defense against the voracious black. It will wail until its needs are met. A thread tugs at your heart and you slice it, annoyed. You are too tired for the truth.

You're denying this.

Aren't you?

The smiles formed with brick and string are not the same as the ones that appear in those quiet moments when you recall your composition of dust and light. As you float along cyclicality, you discover how to move with grace through the uncanny valley, how to walk within the plotted chaos of the moon. The nature of your intelligence usurps the desire for control and the ancient truths of the past push you into the future. The guiding light of your Self relived will tell you stories of dust and stars. If you listen, you release.

But you knew this.

Didn't you?

she came into

the bar, ordered

a double shot

of tequila

told me

she had just come

from an AA meeting

she was lonely

it was written on her face

the way she swayed and

seemed tolerant

to almost anything

that I could possibly say

she was excited to meet me

said her AA group

was routing her on

to make a new friend

and then she launched into

how she had lost custody

of her two daughters,

because she had beat up her husband

we went to a new bar and

she told me that out back,

she had pummeled a girl so bad

that the pictures of the bruises

were being used against her in

her custody trial

I couldn't say anything back

to her, it was too ratchet

she seemed so sweet

until the stories came out to be

something completely

off kilter

sometimes meeting new people

is fascinating and

here I was, thinking I'd be weird

or make her uncomfortable

by being myself

but she had won

this round, with really

no applause