It’s quiet except for the din of tires sluicing through rain puddles, the sound of the city going home to their husbands, their wives, to kitchens smelling of chicken pot pie and home spice, of muted TVs and Friday night anticipation.
It wasn't very long ago. It could easily be me, walking past green windowed skyscrapers to meet my wife for dinner. We have a cat who kneads our laps constantly moving paws, we have an apartment with a view, promising jobs with edgy companies. We cook dinner and she watches her shows, I work furiously and hard and I know I'm cut out for something even more. We're still young and we talk about what's next, where we can go. The possibilities are staggering, infinite.
Except they're not anymore.
I'm alone, and I'm hollow, and the G in this bottle is going to fill this raw hole and make it OK. Screw those people in their cars, lining up in the rain, crawling to their familiarity. I can do this my way, synergy is here, in other forms.
I pound the G and I pound some more until I experience a deep body relaxation. I breathe steadily and heavily and my muscles feel liquid good and I want to feel something, touch something. I pound more, alone in my apartment that isn’t my home, until there's nothing left in my supply.
***
I switch off my computer and rifle through my closet. It’s 4am and I have a plan. I find clothes, nice ones. I rub expensive cream into my hair, moulding strands. I look in the mirror and hesitate for a split second and then I twist my wedding ring on: place it on the finger it resided for so long, and doesn't anymore.
The days are colliding and flailing into one slipslidy blur: there are snippets of sleep and an inhale here, strangers there, a group of sudden, hollow-eyed friends who don't know my name. Right now, though, on this Friday night I look like I have it all. I am put together and confident, slick and satisfied, unless you look at my eyes too deeply.
It's a facade, all of this, and it doesn't matter, because that's what all of this is really. A facade.
I start walking the streets in the rain. I'm in search of something: trouble, companionship, hope, panic. I don't care, something.
I'm going out high, hurt and angry. I'm going out looking for trouble.
***
A medic shakes me out of complete darkness. I'm vertical, on the sidewalk . It's the middle of the night, it could be early morning. It's cold and I'm in trouble. I gather, dimly: I slammed into the street, passed out cold. A stranger robbed me while I was comatose: my visa, my bank card. He didn't take the wedding band. The medic takes me to the hospital, and they cut off my nice clothes.
It's not the last time I'll be in the hospital, it's not the farthest I fall. In the next year, I'll be back in the hospital three more times. I'll see death clearly and tangibly before I'll be able to make the realization that saves my life.
(This is part 1 in a 4 part series of Corey's story. It is gritty and raw and inspiring as all hell. I am writing it based on what he's told me: he is an amazing storyteller, and unflinchingly honest, and I hope I can capture even an eighth of the power of what he's told me. His journey from blackness to where he is today blows my mind every single day -- Kristin)
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