Control: Deja Vu

I, Dalton Lewis, blog to you from a new location. Is this the first or the second of my blog entries here? Yes, I, Dalton Lewis, author of the one-copy selling book of poetry Lovers Gone, am writing from a new home. I have a fresh new place to live and grow and make my own.

I moved back in with my elderly parents. I know, I know, looks bad. Well, it is bad. I am so mentally ill so as to not be able to function alone any longer. In retrospect I never should have lived alone. It was miserable living alone. I didn’t talk to people very much. I know, I know, people have lives. They can’t drop everything to talk to me during the middle of the night. I think about that place, my apartment.

It was ghastly. Often food would be left out for days at a time. I would have models and toys everywhere, often broken. Books lay all over the floor. Bugs were around some of the time no matter how often the people sprayed. I couldn’t eat in very often because I hated to make my own food for myself. I often would go out in the middle of the night, every night, to go to Denny’s or IHOP or Steak N Shake. The waiters and waitresses knew me well at those places and acted just nice enough. They meant it, I suppose, but it didn’t mean friendship. In the end, I was paying those people to make and serve me food, and that dampened the relationship.

I would play music in the middle of the night. I would look up anything, absolutely anything legal but weird, on the internet. I would sleep on the couch sometimes. Then the parents nicely replaced my great couch with a bad couch. Isn’t that the way life goes? I miss that old couch, and we can’t get it back.

Deja vu. The same mental problems happen over and over. I can’t handle it. I think about getting framed over and over. It’s the same few situations over and over. Nothing ever changes. Fifteen years ago similar things happened in my head with a slightly different cast of characters. Fifteen years ago every story ended unhappily. Today it’s little different, with so many stories going poorly and ripping my insides out.

I think about abuse a lot. I feel like the voices are almost this side of causing me to feel like a victim of, well, something. I don’t know how to articulate it, but there’s not much that I can do about it. I know, hysterical, right? He’s being abused by the voices in his head. I’m not. I’m just saying that it’s not right to have voices in my head say the same horrible things for fifteen years. They will continue to say the same things for fifteen more years — if and only if I live that long.

What to do, my friends? Persist. I suppose I need to live on and try to work out regularly and eat better and write every day and read every day. I suppose that I need to read good fiction every day and write the best fiction and nonfiction that I can most days. Why? Will it fix anything?

Well, no. Life is a difficult and terrible place, and then you die. That won’t change. It won’t get better. But if one can make one’s world a tiny bit better by living a proper, appropriate, good life — then that might help survive the hated bullshit a little bit more effectively.

Thanks, and take care, friends.