A lot has happened since I last posted on here. A lot.

I won’t be making a list, but I’ll share where I am. I’m living in High Falls, NY and attending the nearby SUNY New Paltz as a printmaking MFA candidate. Most everything associated with that is going very well.

I’m struggling with missing people back in Arkansas. My close friends and I can’t talk as often because now we’re all just much more busy. I haven’t spoken with my goddaughter in over a month, and I keep forgetting to mail her the letters I write. By the time I do remember, the content isn’t relevant anymore. I miss a few people greatly, and early this month, I seriously considered dropping out and getting back to them.

The nightmares I had had for years are finally weakening. That ex the previous posts talk about so often isn’t haunting me in my sleep anymore. Of course, it’s because of a new interest. One I can’t really pursue very actively for a variety of reasons. But to get these words out, a bit about the situation: I feel a lot more than I have in years. I can’t say if these are romantic feelings; I really don’t remember what that is. I do know she’s special, and I suspect she’ll play some large roll in my life. Hell, even being the catalyst that broke the nightmares and allowed me to sleep a bit more soundly is a major accomplishment. I’m hoping to continue getting to know her, and I want to be her friend. That isn’t a common thing for me. She’s also charming, beautiful, and has a strength I don’t think she realizes is there.

But like I said, it’s not an active sort of thing, my interest in her. Sometimes what we need is a friend, and it seems we’re both in that situation.

I’m still lost. Very lost, but at least I’m moving forward.


I’m in a weird place. Things are going well. I’m enjoying life quite a bit more than I have in a very long time. By all accounts, I’m happier more often than I’ve ever been. I’m happy with who I am, with the direction my life is heading, but I still hurt for something that I’m never going to get back.
Objectively, I don’t even want it back. It would be a bad idea. If I were to get it, it would be a fantastic relief for a few days, and then I wouldn’t know what to do. I want so much more from it than can be given. Neither I nor the elusive something are capable of what the other expects.

Anyhow, life…I went and got myself a tattoo of Vonnegut’s birdcage. I love it!
10599367_10100510554177834_5718410444997843379_n (1)

It was a long time coming. I first decided I wanted this tattoo when I was in high school nearly a decade ago. I was always too concerned with the opinions of others to get it. I’m really trying to get myself to where I’ve wanted to be, to where I should be. I’m a pretty awesome dude, and I haven’t shared it with the world.

That’s all for now, I guess. I’m tired. I sort of feel like a desert, rather undefined in my emotion and tone, changing with the wind, but beautiful nonetheless.

Scattered Thoughts On Suicide

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while now, and now seems as good a time as any. I have the night off, and Robin Williams is dead. It would seem that he killed himself. 

Initially, like many others, I was just in shock. I googled “Robin Williams death hoax” hoping to find that this was one of those celebrity death stories that are fabricated so often. No luck. When I realized it was real, there was pain. When something is a constant in your life, even when it’s something as seemingly pointless as a celebrity figure, you grow attached to it. There doesn’t seem to be a world where Robin Williams can’t exist. 

When my thoughts returned to Earth a few minutes later, I thought to myself, “If someone like him can’t hold on, then why am I still trying?” 

I have spent the majority of my life with that option on the table. It’s not always at the forefront of my mind, but it has almost always been there. It seems honorable at times, just ending the struggle. If the idea is there, and appealing whether I’m happy or sad, then why not? 

I’ve found some relief in reading philosophical musing that touch on suicide. Tolstoy’s A Confession was particularly helpful at one point. I hope this paraphrase of a small part of that text is not completely inaccurate:

                 Life is so painful, and ultimately, so pointless. It’s a joke really. If one becomes aware of the joke, is it not more honorable to put an end to it? Isn’t not ending the joke simply cowardice? 

Ultimately, Tolstoy finds some shelter in religion, though restrained my his reason. He transforms himself into someone capable of living without the feeling of pointlessness that he had found before. This was the key to his survival. 

I had not found anything that gave me reason to keep going until quite recently. To be fair, I didn’t even find it; it was given to me. I will be in debt to that person for as long as I do survive. 


-I first felt the unique draw of suicide when I was 11. My mother did not love me, and I couldn’t comprehend that. I’m not sure I understood it, I just knew that she starved me, would lock me outside for days sometimes, and that she would ignore me almost completely when I was indoors. I wasn’t worthy of the attention of my own mother, and just not existing seemed to be a solution. I had been raised to believe that suicide was a grave sin, though. I never actually considered carrying out the act, though the idea came back to me several times over the next few years. 

-When I was 16, I had decided it was time to get it over with. It was over a girl. It was silly. A call from a friend put the idea out of my head. I dealt with emotional pain by cutting my upper arms with a knife my father had given me. 

-The first time I tried to kill myself was after KAE had left me. She was the catalyst, but I had so many reasons. I failed three times in the following year. These experiences are how I held back the idea before finding my reason to survive. It’s painful to fail at it. Incredibly, almost unreal pain is a big deterrent. 

-I had decided once again this last winter that it was the best option. I wrote letters to loved ones. I sent several of them. I had arrangements in place to obtain the necessary pharmaceuticals. Another friend, another phone call, and here I am. Some people are worth living for, and I only needed to find one. 


I’m not proud of any of this, but it is a part of who I am. I think of suicide as a deceptively beautiful being. I actually refer to it as the Suicide Fairy. It shines and smiles, and is so bright that there couldn’t be any negatives. When you get close enough to make out it’s features, you see the fine lines in the face, the barely noticeable fangs, the hollowness of the eyes. 

I don’t have much to offer when it comes to advising people against killing themselves. As I mentioned, on paper, it’s a lovely idea to me. I just found something that will keep me going. That’s all I can think of that anyone can do. Find a purpose outside of yourself, something tangible from which you can step back and see the positive affect your mere presence is having on it.





This blog probably reads like I spend my days obsessing over lost love. Maybe because I always write about it when I get in those moods. Also, I think that’s pretty much all I’ve posted on here. 

I apologize. 

I’ve spent the last five years or so waking up with my mind screaming her name. I would really like that to stop. 

Also, when very young, I would have dreams about this girl that I understood to be my girlfriend. KAE matched her every detail. They even had the same name. This resulted in speculation that I simply dreamed her into existence. That leads to all sorts of philosophical musing/fears of schizophrenia/ identity crises. 

That is all. 

There was a time when I was having a lot of sex, then, against my wishes, no sex at all. That lasted a few years, and then I had sex with a few people. These encounters largely felt debasing and wrong, so I stopped them and made a conscious decision to stay away from dating and sex until I was in a place where I really wanted to find a partner. I’m not sure that’s ever going to happen. I’m often lonely, but I’m still far too bitter about the past. It’s been more than five years and I still can’t comprehend the idea of being in a committed relationship. I think it’s a sham. 

But I would really like to have sex already. 

That brings to mind something else. It is so rare that I meet someone that I find attractive. I find myself thinking, “Oh, she’s pretty/gorgeous/plain/odd looking,” but no attraction forms. When I do, I get very weird and can’t talk to the other person. I’ve grown incapable of conscious flirting. I do it on accident (and realize it later) very often, though. Just never with a woman I’m interested in. 

I have to go to work, but yeah. Relationships seem stupid. I can’t see myself having casual sex. There are women I could see myself have an ongoing thing with, but it wouldn’t really fit either of those categories. It would be weird. I am weird. 

Ahh, Gender.

I was explaining to a coworker that I don’t believe in gender as a concrete thing. The conversation began when she said something I found offensive and I explained that to her.

What I’m pretty sure they heard (based on their reaction and how they started treating me”:

“Hi, I’m Bryan, and I’m a homosexual.”

She wasn’t mean or anything, she just clearly thinks that I am into guys.

My sexual identity is not something that I generally discuss with any but a select few people. It isn’t that I’m shy about it; if asked a direct question, I’ll answer truthfully. I just don’t think it’s something of consequence. Whether I’m attracted to women, men, any combination thereof or in-between, has no bearing on my humanity or my ability to function as a member of society. 

Anyhow (for the most part) I’ve been celibate for five years. It’s probably a good thing.