Tequila, Cold Medicine, Pills, Melencholy and Her: My New Years Weekend Exorcism

"There is a curse upon my every waking breath, and I cannot escape the darkness.

It feels like every step is gonna be my last, and I cannot escape the darkness. Some have tried to lift me up, but I only dragged them down with me, for I cannot escape the darkness." - Those Poor Bastards, I Cannot Escape the Darkness

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Caution: Pretentious melancholy writing ahead, but fuck, you should have expected that at some point. I'm a poor writer living in a country where you can get cheap booze and drugs more easily than you can get a permit to drive a car from another country.

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"Have you ever heard of exorcism? It's a stylized ritual in which rabbis or priests try to drive out the so-called invading spirit. It's pretty much discarded these days, except by the Catholics who keep it in the closet as a sort of embarrassment. It has worked, in fact, although not for the reason they think, of course. It was purely the force of suggestion. The victim's belief in possession helped cause it. And just in the same way, this belief in the power of exorcism can make it disappear." - Dr. Barringer, The Exorcist

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While outside the door and shockingly thin walls of my lovely squat here in Mexico a celebration is taking place. Car horns blare, music thumps, people laugh and cavort and throw firecrackers, a moment ago someone was firing a full auto AK-47, or a Chinese made copy, into the air while hooting triumphantly. It seems News Years celebrations are early and often south of the border. Instead of joining in, I'm here at this keyboard, because there is something I need to do. 

This is something that has been simmering in my chemically addled brain for a very long time, and this strangely feels like the time to finally exercise theses particular demons. Not a demon of the literal sense, I need not an old priest and a young priest, merely the medications and tequila which have been my companions these last two days of ill health. Those, and of course this laptop to pour out all the garbage that has been rattling around my psyche on this subject for far, far too long. 

I won't say how long, nor will any names be given, this is not that sort of testimonial. I'm not looking for messages from those mentioned, no apologies or recriminations, this is simply an exorcism of the psychological sort. No "thank you" or "fuck you" cards from the demons hopefully being driven out of my mind to some degree. 

"I am going to look at the stars, They are so far away, and their light takes so long to reach us. All we ever see of the stars are their old photographs." - Dr. Jon Osterman aka Dr. Manhattan, Watchmen (Alan Moore & Dave Gibbens)

You see, this is about Her, and I'm not looking to passive-aggressively drop any clues as to Her identity. Again, this isn't that sort of thing. There are a few of you out there, some who might even read this, who could hazard an educated guess as to Her identity, but please don't. Its not a conversation I've ever wanted to have and this is no exception. The purpose of this exorcism is personal catharsis, not any sort of conversation or closure with anyone but myself. This is the villainous monologue at the end of the comic book, the Republic serial villain coming clean as to the childish simplicity of his motivations, except there is no city to save, no damsel-in-distress tied to the railroad tracks, and no hero with whom to banter.

This is simply me, a bottle of cheap local tequila, and Her memory, in an empty room, in a shitty border town in Mexico having it out for the first time, for hopefully the last time. As it should be, just the two of us here. Her, and my memories of Her.

"She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together." - J.D. Salinger, A Girl I Knew

To put it simply, I miss Her. I miss having Her in my life, as a part of my life. Her presence in my life made it better, made me better, without me even realizing it. Even under the simplest of circumstances, she made me a better person, and I miss being that person. I do. Not something I would admit sober to anyone, even myself, but I do. I miss Her like a piece of myself. Like an animal caught in a trap that chews off its limb to escape, with no thought to future consequences of that action. Only escape, escape and survival in the short term considered. This is... not typical of me. 

Without trying to make myself sound like some sort of Don Juan I have never had difficulty with women. Talking to them, approaching them, flat-out picking them up for pleasurable-yet-nefarious intentions, engaging in honest, sincere relationships, none of these things have ever been very difficult for me. My longest "dry spell" since high school was a three month self-imposed exile from romantic interactions. Clinical depression was the only mistress I had the time to entertain, and she took up all of my efforts and attentions.

There are no secrets to reveal really when it comes to women, its always been simple, talk to them. Its amazing how many women would rather have an honest conversation with someone than be put up on some weird pedestal while a guy drones on-and-on about his lack of intentions towards her sexually (bullshit, like 95% of the time). Or any of that Pick-Up Artist bullshit, fuck, those guys disgust me. As if my gender and orientation didn't have enough awful shit to answer for, we are now burdened by those profound dipshits as well. Like giving Charles Manson a parking ticket while he's already in prison, and dead.

No, out of all of them, all the regrets I carry with me related to the fairer sex, its Her that I keep coming back to in my solitary hours of regret. Regret, another thing I do my best to avoid, but anyone who says they lack regret is probably lying more to themselves than you. I could say that its all my fault, that I fucked up and ruined a good thing, which certainly wouldn't be a first for me. I'm not an easy person to love at the best of times. Mental illness hasn't exactly been healthy for my long-term relationships that is for damn sure. But I'm not here to blame my own malfunctioning brain for my problems with Her, no, I'm here to admit, finally, that whatever the reasons for our parting I should have tried harder. I could have tried harder, and I did not.

"And everybody knows that it's now or never,
Everybody knows that it's me or you,
And everybody knows that you live forever, 

Ah, when you've done a line or two." 

- Leonard Cohen, Everybody Knows

I made every effort to keep Her in my life, at least I told myself that at the time. What else could I have done? Easy, all the things I did not do. So she slipped from my life just like that. A regret I have carried for far too long, through far too many relationships. If she left me, if I left Her, if we parted amicably and mutually it doesn't matter much anymore. What matters is that I let Her slip through my fingers like sand on a deserted beach. I watched Her slip away and I knew, some part of me knew through the entire process that I was making a truly terrible mistake. A mistake that I would be carrying with me for a very long time. All the way to Mexico, so far it would seem.

At the time I rationalized it of course, as I always do when faced with an impossible situation. I tried to look at it objectively, scientifically, tried to find the pros and cons, the pluses, minuses, and all the other varied bits of the equation to determine the outcome with the most good and least bad for myself at the time. Like I always do. Survival is paramount in life, at least for me. At that moment in time, in those circumstances long gone, letting Her go seemed like the path to survival in the long term.

“I have learned one lesson in all this and I will share it knowing it will do no one any good. The lesson is this: 'There are none more complicit in one's undoing than one's own heart'.” - James Pratt, The Woman in the Portrait

I might be self destructive in more than one way (way, way more than one way), but even then those risks are calculated, there are no variables in the equations I don't account for. When I let Her slip away I did the exact same thing I always do in a crisis, reduce the situation to as many variables as possible and run the equations, calculate numbers/percentages, figure out the exact procedures that will be responsible for the maximum positive outcomes, and of course will result in my survival, be it physical or emotional.


I've always said I was bad at math, that is a bit of a lie, I'm great at it, I just don't enjoy it very much, and tend to avoid things I dislike. Unless its necessary. Usually my math is pretty spot on, even with people. People are easy, they seldom act outside of a few easy-to-identify circumstances and variables. Rarely am I surprised by people. Its how I've seen almost every break-up coming from a mile away and why I've never been successfully mugged. With Her, I fucked up the math. I fucked it up badly.

"An era can be said to end when its basic illusions are exhausted." - Arthur Miller

In the grander scheme, in galactic or geological time, the time I spent in Her company is nothing. Insignificant in comparison to time on any scale save our limited, linear, personal perceptions of it. Barely a moment by any reckoning, not even a tick of the clock, but for me it was significant. At the time it was the most perfect time of my life, and I didn't even realize it, not completely, not in any way that made a difference in the end. The old conundrum about not knowing you are a part of the "good old days" until they have passed. We spend our time talking about the good old days, never realizing that one day those moments as well will be the good old days. If not for us than for someone, surely. 

At the time it seemed like she would be by my side forever. Not as a side-kick, or appendage, I've never sought women I consider to be my inferior in some way. I've always preferred the term 'Partner' to Girlfriend or what have you. That is what I look for, that is what I want, a partner, and she was one. Hers was/is a gifted intellect, a sense of adventure tempered by pragmatism (something I, um, occasionally lack along with my sense of adventure...), a sly wit which complimented my own droll sense of humor perfectly. In another lifetime we could have put Bonnie & Clyde to shame with a roaring rampage of crime and revenge against the establishment that would surely have left many law enforcement types wringing gloved hands in consternation at our antics. Instead we had what we had, what brief adventures together we could strangle from the circumstances life allowed us. The crazy times, the simple times, the randomly affectionate times, all of that, all of that time together, however brief it was. There is little in this life I wouldn't sacrifice for another moment with Her, for a repeat of any of those moments. Any of them. Anything.

A time in my life I seek to recall every moment of, as clear as any photograph I have ever taken. When death claims us in the end, all we have are our memories, our experiences, and I hope that when the time comes for my life to flash before my eyes I can find the rewind function. For just one more moment with Her. One more replay of the time in my life when I was alive, truly alive, and happy. The only extended period of happiness in my life, however brief it was, was with Her, and I would give anything to experience that again, even if its only a rewind at the end of my life. Whatever waits beyond, if anything, good or bad, wouldn't compare to that moment. Being able to see, to experience my time with Her again, knowing that it wasn't real, it wasn't live, it was Memorex. That I suppose would be heaven and hell all at the same time. Whatever came next would almost seem passe.

"Maybe I’ll live so long that I’ll forget her. Maybe I’ll die trying." - Michael O'Hara, Lady from Shanghai

Still, I'd give anything for that. I'd give anything just to be able to tell Her how I truly, seriously felt, how I feel. How Her presence in my life effected me so much more profoundly than I could ever admit in person, sober or otherwise. Emotional compartmentalization they call it, everything in its place. I've never had a problem expressing emotions, I'm not a Vulcan for Gene's sake, I'm just not very good at expressing the extent of them. A defense mechanism, one of many. One that I deeply wish I could have shed during my time with Her. The impression she left with Her unexpected arrival in my life, and the gaping wound left by Her exit from my life, however she did so. I didn't count on either of those things being so profound, so painful, so wonderful, and everything else she was, and to some degree still is, to me. 

I'm not as clever as I think I am at times, and she is at least as clever as I am. So by this point there is a good chance that the Her I cryptically refer to knows exactly who she is, if she ever bothers to read this at all.

If so, then let me just say this; I'm sorry. I didn't value you like I should have, like you deserved, certainly not when you needed me to. You meant, and mean, more to me than even this pretentious missive could communicate, and I never really told you that, no matter how many chances you gave me. I'm sorry doesn't really cut it, does it? Its the most basic, most perfunctory apology in the English language and I'm supposed to be a writer on occasion, but its all I have. Its all I can offer you, but it means more than I could ever convey. I am truly sorry.

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