“The Journal of Wall Grimm” 74: The Phantom on the Park Bench

April 8, 2013

Yesterday I felt like shit.  All around shit.  Mental shit, physical shit, emotional shit, spiritual and psychological shit.  But it was a nice day.  So I went for a walk.  I went to the park and sat on a bench.  I watched the ducks and geese.  I heard children playing.  I saw lots of families.  I felt so disconnected from it all.  It didn’t help that I was high and drunk off my ass.  I wore sunglasses and sat still so maybe people didn’t notice it so much.  I just sat and smoked one cigarette after another.

I realized that the more drugs I do, the less drugs people see me do.  I’m no longer sharing the high with other people.  I sneak off to do it privately, hiding most of my use from everyone, except of course Dave.  But even he thinks I’m getting the shit to share.

I sat there thinking about my whole fucking life.  I don’t know if I was being nostalgic or regretful or what.  My past was far away.  My present was so distant.  The future seemed unlikely as if it was my time to die.  It’s like I wasn’t even there, couldn’t reach out or grasp anything or anyone, just a phantom on a park bench.

I thought about when I was a kid and I ran away.  I just took off and left for a whole year.  There wasn’t any big search for me because I left a note saying I was running away, so the cops just blew it off.  I was an open case left in a draw.  That’s what I feel like now.  An open case left in a draw.  Somebody’s got to do something about it, don’t think it can be me.  Until I decide to come home.  That’s what I have to do is make a choice.  I ran away for a year and then came home because it sucked out there on my own.  I was almost 13, old enough that people didn’t get concerned when they saw me on the street alone.  I was young enough that it complicated things when I needed to eat or find a place to sleep.  I learned quickly that I couldn’t stay in one place for very long.  If you do, then you’re going to catch the eye of the wrong kind of people.  People who want to befriend you then use and abuse you.  Reminds me of the Bob Dylan song, “Like a Rolling Stone.”  Well not the whole song, just these lines, “And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street and now you find out you’re gonna have to get used to it.”

So I had to keep moving, just walking, getting rides when they seemed safe.  That young though, very few were safe.  Finally I had to come home when I admitted to myself that I was afraid.  I just wanted to be home and in my own bed and have my mother cook me gnocchi.  That was my favorite then.  I went home and everything was different and it never got back to being the same.  I altered things by running away.  I traumatized the entire household including myself and put a huge hole in my family.  My parents seemed to look at me like a stranger sometimes, though I could tell they wanted to connect with me again.  But I just couldn’t connect.  Everything was different because I changed.  I left there a child and came back a broken person with no chance of becoming a real man.

I sat on that bench and thought of these things and I thought of last year when Kathy killed herself.  All I could think was how selfish suicide was.  Just to think, “oh I’m in so much pain I can’t take it anymore” then to escape and leave all the pain behind for everyone you know to suffer.  How selfish is that?  It’s the ultimate selfish act.  That’s what I thought until I tried to kill myself not long after Kathy died, before I started this journal.  It was kind of an accident, I didn’t mean to do it, but once I decided to, it was a real attempt.  I only survived because the cops found me.  It was weird though because I was fine, or thought I was, then I just kind of snapped.  Once I came out of it, I was fine again and assured everyone I’d never try it again it was stupid and selfish and I wanted to live.

A couple things came from that anyway.  A new perspective on life that was great and positive and short lived because now I’m too high to even notice I’m alive, and I’m beginning to gradually isolate everyone around me.  Eventually I won’t be alive to them either.  I’m killing myself in that I’m gradually transforming into a ghost, a memory.  A shadowy guy.  And the shadowy guy came from that too.  Once I came out of it, I began to dream of Kathy and have sightings of this shadowy guy.  I’m just now realizing he is me.  As if there is another plane of existence and I’m seeing through the veil, and he is another self and he’s trying to break through to warn me of the path I’m on.  The last thing that came from that is that I’ve smelled strangely for a long time and I think the smell is now just going away.  I overdosed on tons of shit and since then, a tangy kind of odor comes from my pours, from my armpits when I sweat.  It’s not a bad smell that people notice, it’s just me.  I notice I smell differently.  I altered the chemistry in my body and poured so many toxins into me that they just took about a year to be cleansed from inside me.  Very strange.

Anyway, I sat on the park bench yesterday thinking of all these things.  I didn’t even take a notebook or anything with me to write in.  I do that sometimes when I’m alone.  I just wanted to think.  I had nothing to say anymore.  I began to get tired and I lied down on the bench, knowing it would only be a matter of time that some mom would get freaked out and call the police to have me removed.  So I had that much time to relax anyway.  I lied down on the bench, closed my eyes, listened to the sounds of the park, mostly the geese who were louder than the kids.  I felt the hot sun on my face.  It felt so good, so natural.  Then it went behind a cloud because I could feel that shadow.  But it didn’t feel like that kind of shadow so I opened my eyes.  Emma was standing there.  She said, “Hey Grimm.”  I sat up and could say nothing.  She said “How you doing?”  I still could say nothing.  I had too much to say and I couldn’t possibly be concise enough.  That’s the way it is sometimes, the more you have to say, the fewer words come out of your mouth.  So I just leaned my head into the tips of my fingers as I propped my elbows on my knees.  I felt like hiding.  I didn’t want her to see me like this.

She sat beside me and said, “I think we need to talk.”  I was ashamed of who I was at that moment and I realized how destroyed I was.  Not the same Grimm that she knew.  I said, “yeah, but not now, I got things to do.”  And I got up and walked away, choking up, trying to not stagger or appear as fucked up as I felt inside.


previous Grimm 73: Hasty’s Birthday http://wp.me/p41c99-bk

next Grimm 75: Back on a Bench & The River Charles http://wp.me/p41c99-bt

For a chronological list of links to all the journal entries, refer to the Journal Entries Index Page http://wp.me/P41c99-J

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Categories: JOURNAL ENTRIES 51-75 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 17 Comments

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17 thoughts on ““The Journal of Wall Grimm” 74: The Phantom on the Park Bench

  1. Oh, this is exellent!

    • Thank you! I like this one too, one of my favorite more heavy ones.

      • I like it that he is facing himself at last. It is painful though.

        • Yeah, he’s very introspective generally as it is, but he rationalizes a lot, and is so wrapped up trying to figure himself out, he becomes oblivious to other people, and beats himself up when his actions affect other people. This post was inevitable, as were those soon to come. I felt it leading here as he was on his path of self destruction.

  2. Desiree G

    Wow ….

  3. Morbid Insanity

    “That’s the way it is sometimes, the more you have to say, the fewer words come out of your mouth.”
    Exactly! But even when the words come out of order people should try to speak, because it’s better to avail the moment than wasting it suffocating the words and going away.

  4. Reblogged this on SageDoyle.

  5. Very heavy….but so well done.

  6. Holy cow, that was a good post.


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