Tattooed and Broken
 

Some days are hard in my life and some days are easy. I have a job I would love to hate but hate to love. I see pain and suffering every day I work. And death… If you are lucky as I once was you can even see life (birth). I try to get the demons and pictures of hell of my mind by hanging out with my friends. Sometimes I don’t think they know how important it is for me to be with them. Even if it is just sitting on the couch watching them play video games. I wont tell them either because I don’t want to sound whiney. I am the one who picked this job so have to deal with consequences. I release all the thoughts (and pictures) in my head. The worst are the pictures are dead people’s eyes staring at you. There eyes are so… empty. So hallow. I don’t wish it on my worse enemy for a dead body to stair at them. Because they can stair strait into your soul.
One day I was stressed out from work driving home from work. My mind was going ninety to nothing. I could feel myself getting pissed off. The more I thought about it the faster I drove. The radio was cranked up spitting out the heavy riffs of Godsmack. I was grabbing the steering wheel so tight my knuckles were turning white… like a poisonous snake trying to bite me. I looked down at the gauges in my truck. Only 85. I thought to myself. I need to go faster. My eyes narrowed at the road and my head dropped a little as my foot pushed on the petal. I would never drive like this with someone in the truck with me, but nobody was in the truck with me. So I didn’t give a fuck. 100. Finley I get to the triple digits. What the fuck are you trying to prove? Said a voice in the passenger seat. I look over at the seat. There he was sitting there with his legs crossed, his right ankle resting on his left knee with his right arm resting on the window seal and the left arm resting on top of the bench seat. Me… He was sprawled out slouching in the seat giving me that “discussed” look. I looked at him with no facial expression and told him to shut up. Know body asked you. I said. He looks back at the road. We didn’t talk for about five minutes. He leans over and looks at the gauges of the truck. 120 he said smiling. You never had this truck up this hi before. I look at him with a face of surprise. I thought I told you to shut the fuck up?! I said. Quit being so hard on yourself. I am you conscience . I’m supposed to talk to you. Yea, My conchance. Mine. I said pointing to my chest. He rolls his eyes and gives me the finger. I look back at the road trying to judge the next curve doing 120+. I take the curve like a Nascar champ pulling thru the hole turn. I look back at the seat. He was gone. Now I even more pissed off due to my conchance. I make it to my apt. I walk up to the door so pissed I couldn’t even find the right key on my keychain. I walk into the living room and look around like I was expecting to see someone. Sitting on the counter was a new bottle of Jack Daniels that I had bought a couple of weeks ago. I walk over to the counter and snatch the bottle from the counter. I peel the black plastic off in a single flash stroke thinking of the sweet smell of the whiskey. People who know me know I only drink Wine, Tequila, Bourbon and American Whiskeys. (There is a difference Bourbon and Whiskey). All I can think of at that time was turning that bottle upside down and taking a big “swig”. I reach for the black cap. It didn’t move. I got a better grip and try again to no prevail. I look at the head of the bottle to see if I got all the plastic off. Yep. I try again. You son of a bitch! I told the bottle. The cap stayed put. I tried again until my face turned red from the struggle and being pissed. I tried for five minutes until I peeled the skin off my hand and got blisters. I slammed the bottle back on the counter and walked outside on my porch cussing under by breath at the bottle. I sat down on my chair and just stared at the sky. What was wrong with me? I asked myself. You are cussing at a bottle of whisky. I know I am not an alcoholic. I can go weeks without drinking. Actually that was the first time I have ever reached for alcohol to “help” me with stress. I sat and collected my thoughts, prayers and blessings. I sat and pondered. Hours flew by like minutes. I found a side of me that I didn’t know existed. A side that was lost. Lost in fear. I came to a conclusion that night. Fear is a product of uncertainty. And depression is anger projected inward to yourself. I thank The Great Spirit for what it teaches me. After I found the answer I went back into my apt. I walked by the bottle of whisky to get to my room. I stopped and picked up the bottle and looked at it. I wasn’t thirsty any more that night. I reach up and with very minimal effort the bottle opened with ease. I could not believe it. I laughed at the bottle and more important, myself. I put the cap back on and put the bottle up in the cabinet.