Part Two: Bed Time Without a doubt, night-times were the worst. The more stable of us were individually roomed, and in some ways that made it even tougher. They were always sparse- the rooms that is, with little on the walls, notwithstanding the few dog eared drawings, and perhaps a football poster. A single bed graced the far corner of the room, beneath the window- which could only be opened a certain distance, of course. Resting upon the battered bed frame was an old, lumpy mattress, springs abused almost beyond use, certainly beyond worth. Two sheets- a thin, linen under sheet, between the mattress and the thick, bobbled woollen monstrosity that retained its pugnacious odour, even when freshly washed.
My bed, however, was rarely slept in, for in the corner of my room I was lucky enough to have a worn, black leather chair. Upon leaving, I requested permission to take the chair, and it sits in my room to this very day. It is rarely sat on, yet it remains there, stoic and resilient. I often look at it and wonder just how many people like me it has seen. It's an upsetting moment you know, when you realise for the first time that despite all you nuances- all your fuckups- that you aren't by any means unique. I wept the day, or rather the night, that I realised it, sitting upon that chair. I was nothing special. Take away the one thing that had previously show me to be individual, exposing me to the similarities demonstrated in others, and what are you left with? One hundred per cent, grade A, fuckup. That isn't to say that I'm not a nice person, on the whole, I am. I just happen to be fucked up beyond the realms of most people's comprehension. But then again, so are thousands of others.
However, back to the chair. Bed time came at eleven o'clock, lights out at a time of our choosing for those of us who had their own rooms, as I did. Lights out was never really applicable to me, as lights never went on. I merely sat on the cool leather of my chair, and gazed out of the window. One can only assume that I looked to be quite a sight, but that was irrelevant, as I was never disturbed. How ironic, that choice of word. Allow me to be more specific, I was never interrupted. It was in this pose that I truly began to acknowledge 'that' feeling. It cropped up a few days ago, in a conversation with a friend, but this was our first interaction where she was the focus, and so I was somewhat reluctant to pitch in my tuppence worth. But every word typed struck a chord within me. All that talk of overwhelming despair. Utterances of self loathing. Reminiscences of acceptance. Each night, I would sit upon my chair; arms upon their rests, the feel of old cracked leather beneath my fingers. And in this pose I would allow it to wash over me, consume me, and expose me. As I rested, upright against the back of my chair, the tears would meander in rivulets down my cheeks, as I learned to accept the most harrowing thing one could really be expected to. That I, a teenage boy, with my life ahead of me, would never truly be happy. It may only be able to understand it if you've experienced it, that soul wrenching self depreciation, disgust, hatred. The bitter sadness, accompanied by salt tears. My weeping would never be accompanied by heart wrenching sobs. I never had the energy, the force for that. Mine were tears of sheer futility, the knowing that forever any future happiness would be tinged by that ever lurking knowledge that pain could only be to come. And each and every time such preconception has been tested, I have been proved correct.
I no longer sit in the chair, and weep, for its beaten, worn leather has seen more than enough of my tears. A man who wallows in self pity is a man who deserves to remain there. I walk through my life with the constant reminder that unlike so many others, I know who I am, and I have found myself. Whilst the thing that I find is not who I would choose to be, I really have little alternative. I continue with my in the honest, yet barely held belief that life has always had the power to surprise me up to yet, so why not once more. Perhaps, if I am truly lucky, I will be struck with two surprises. One, that I may change, and two, that the first surprise would be positive. Alas, I wait not with baited breath, as I feel I may be long in my grave before such happenings do occur. To quote a certain line "The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace." My love of that line may be more telling than the first glance leads me to believe. I guess a part of me believes that a certain amount of the feeling may be banished by the removal of the ever gnawing sense of loneliness that I feel, but perhaps, despite it all, this is just my wishful thinking. And as long as I have that capacity, dear friends, life does not entirely elude me. There's life in the old dog yet. Just. On occasion, it'll visit me, normally in my depressed episodes, as though reassuring me of its presence; it's rare for me to feel such consistency, even if it is in regards to such abhorrent occurrences.
Yet despite all of this, the chair remains there, in the corner of my room. It is nor worn further by my self-revelations, unlike I. My knowledge means nothing to it, which is perhaps why I am so attached to it. I move out soon, and I hold little doubt that upon leaving this house that my relatives term a home, my chair will accompany me. Notice the use of the personal object pronoun. How humorous. The one thing that I feel any real solidarity towards, kinship with, happens to be a chair. Sod's law really, isn't it.
Post edited at 8:05 am on April 23, 2008 by Anonymous
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