...the year could not get any worse. I'm ready for that symbolic "new beginning" that the new year offers; and Gawd dammit, I fuckin' want it and I need it. During the first weekend in June, the first sunny weekend in a long long winter, I went to a three day concert with my super good homie. Let's go down the list: three day concert, camping at the event, ten's of thousands of super hotties, many many home-bro's to chill with, food taken care of, party supplies...no worries mate. And yet, it sucked (for me).
On the Saturday of that weekend, on what usually is the pinnacle of a weekend festival like that, I was off of work (and it is not work walking around a concert venue asking people "Are y'all having a good time, folks."), the sunny day morphed into a nite filled with that energy, sweet reggae music was playing, the lights were dazzling, I could see silhouettes of couples embracing-and kissing, mixed with people shadow dancing, cute girls hula hoopin', the stilt walkers walking, the steam punks and their gigantic bikes, the beer garden (and the tinkle of glasses and the laughter of boozed up women) and all under a moon so close (if I wuz on mushrooms) "you could actually reach out and touch it."
I was crouched behind the empty hand drum/percussion stand, in the shadows of shadows, and I thought to myself, as girls with fairy and angel wings danced by (leading drunk bro-dudes with the power of their pussies)"if I could walk home right now, I would." What really happened was that I went back to my tent, alone, and I tried to sleep while the sweet reggae music played and the crowd whooped and holler'd like there was no tomorrow...and then I cried (again).
I don't know if it was me, or my super good friend, that dubbed this year "The Year Of Crying," but one of us did-and we both agree'd. (This time around) My depression has been absolutely tremendous. I do not remember it being this intense before. After months and months of everyday obsessing on stupid and uncontrollable shit, for ten to twelve hours a day-every waking moment-I went to go get help in the form of beautiful Prozac. Fo sho it has help'd, but not the way it help'd before. The last time I went on the Zac, that was it. It did the job. Fin. End of story. Large ladies with huge breasts singing. This time there is residue. It's not over (and I want it so badly to be over), and in my chemically changed heart and mind...I know it's not over.
Earlier in the year I had the super bug, MRSA, so of course I thought things like "shit I hope this doesn't kill me," "shit I hope it doesn't get so bad I have to cut off my foot or something (which is not unheard of)." If you have anxiety and depression...you don't want to think about those things when you are already thinking about uncontrollable and stupid shit anyways.
My personal living situation had to be addressed (and my super good homie took care of me. thanks bro) and that weirded me out for a while, but I still had that thing that was always there like a cloud over my head, following me and following me. It was hard to sleep (insomnia), so I drank a lot to sleep (that was my excuse), but when I got up...the cloud was still fuckin' there. It was during these times that I thought "if I go to sleep and never wake up...that would be OK by me."
So at this time, I no longer had any feelings for playing music or listening to music (not even listening to music, really, sheez). I had gotten penicillin for the killer super bug that kills people. In other news, the love of my life (or so I thought), the one that in my writing I have always referred to her as "Her" or "You", had tried to help me, but it (suddenly) turned into she was the one that needed help; and then it ended with...the end of us. My great job, the place that I have great history with, the place that I used to call The Greatest Place on Earth, was now a monster and I dreaded going there everyday. I got the meds that I needed so badly and everything was starting to get better...then the monster became a mouth and I had to enter it everyday (with my mind running, my head down and my spirit defeated, fuckin' defeated I tell you...everyday for a month).
I accepted it and called it Nu Kriss Summer/Winter 2011. It was my hope that this, this was the Phoenix arises from the ashes and this was a new beginning. A snake sheds it's skin and becomes anew. Winter turns to spring where new life emerges: seeds and trees-n-caterpillars and butterflies. Day (fuckin') turns to nite, but that is just so that we can rejoice in the new day...a sunny day, a day with warmth and life. I've taken steps back, but I always thought "I'll take more steps forward, so fuck you circumstances...I'm Kriss." Fall off the horse, fall of the bike, if it doesn't kill you, tomorrow will come...and all that shit. Also....
I'm at the end of my rope and (currently) there is a straw breaking THIS camels back. I have always had skin problems of some sort, eczema, MRSA and twice in my life I have had this thing called Pityraisis Rosea.
No one knows what causes it (doctors say stress, and I won't argue with that) or how to cure it. The only thing we know about it is that it can last for up to four weeks, it happens from ages 14 to 35 and it's not contagious. I had it went I was 14 going thru my shitty and tuff childhood (thanks abusive shitty Filipino parents-I'll never forgive you, assholes) and I had it at about 33, around the time I first got help for depression. Guess what...I think it's happening again (even tho it is only supposed to happen twice in a lifetime).
I can feel it. My skin feels different. I can see the patterns in the scabs and I can even see the scabs going in a pattern (it follows the bloodstream, like the MRSA). I would go and get checked out, but I don't have insurance. What are they going to do anyway-nothing. The only thing to do is wait it out-4-6 weeks.
So what do I have to look forward to...100's in not 1,000's of itchy scabs all over my body...ALL OVER. I will itch all the time, but that is not shit. I hope it doesn't happen this time, but if it gets all over my face, then going to work at the cafe is going to be shit. I can wear long sleeve shirts, but I can't cover my face. If it progresses to my scalp then my head will have dandruff on steroids and fer get about combing my hair. If you have ever had chicken pox, then it is like that. My skin will be super sensitive and when, not if, but when it goes down there....fuck.
Bloody underwear that sticks and peals and hurts because there are scabs all over my body when I get dressed and undressed. Taking a shower is like a million needles bombarding you constantly and relentlessly. You can't sleep because you can't move. Don't flex your muscles, skin will break. Movement sucks because you have scabs all over you body. Taking a shit sucks, because you have a million scabs all over you body. An erection...I don't even want to think about it.
A couple of months ago I prayed and I asked God to relieve me of my suffering. I begged and pleaded "I have not done anything wrong. I'm kind to people. What have I done." Since that I have suffered more. I was never relieved of my suffering, in fact, it only got worse, more intense. I'am now bitter and angry. I long for the happy go lucky Kriss that my memory tells me was a good and kind person. After those countless hours of excessive worry from months ago ("why did this..." "is this really what is happening..." "is THIS the truth..."), the sleepless nights, the nite sweats, the not being able to look people in the eye, the frustration that turns into anger, the confusion and...now this.
I can't fuckin' cry anymore. What did I do to deserve this much suffering?
Fuck.
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