Dragons in Dreamland

 

In 1993, he put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Instead of a “Bang!” there was a loud click and he felt the hammer drop on a dud. It wasn’t enough to kill him but it was enough to give him a headache.

Later that same year, he would “O.D.” on a cocktail of medication. He could not remember what the concoction was but it triggered an allergic reaction to paracetamol which almost caused a difficulty in breathing. Instead of seeking treatment, he lay there alone in bed, waiting for the inevitable that would not come.

It was a very troubled time which was the result of a few high-risk assignments that he refuses to talk about to this day—life-changing events that would shape how he would eventually spend decades fighting his demons, putting up a brave exterior while a quiet storm lashed at his soul.

Writing was his escape, his refuge and his redemption. He would fill out hundreds of handwritten pages of poetry, short stories and essays and anything that came to mind. He would grasp a pen and endlessly scribble—hundreds of thousands of strokes on any given night.

Years of scribbling helped appease the monsters in his head but something had definitely changed him. While he no longer felt the need to punctuate his existence, he would put himself in situations that were not unlike being under the hammer. The closer he was to the edge, the more he liked it, the more he was challenged, and the more he was alive!

What was it that allured him about the concept of not making it back alive?

Once, after an investigative assignment, he was so pumped up with adrenaline and the stakes were so high, he thought he would never go home again. He was incredulous to find himself in bed in a strange, cheap and dirty motel the morning after. He and his team had a simple breakfast of Putong Pulo and instant coffee and it was literally one of the best meals he’s ever had even to this day!

From then on, he was hooked. Everywhere he went and everything he did involved the pursuit of “the Rush”.

Life slowed down a bit for him as he grew older but he never fully recovered from his addiction. His story would be stained by a failed marriage, bad relationships, professional squabbles and personal tragedies. The more pain he was subjected to, the more he sought the comfort of the razor’s edge.

Being an outlier and being different doesn’t help either. He was always that kid who stayed away from the court while everyone played basketball though he loved badminton and the bike. He was an introvert who buried himself in books and other pastimes that allowed him to enjoy solitude. He never had a problem being alone and if there was no one else to talk to, he always had a pen and paper ready or something more meaningful that deserved his attention.

In time, he would meet like-minded individuals. People who smiled on the outside but were disturbed on the inside. People whom others would envy for their looks and talent and stature. It would seem that they had it all but at least one of them whom he knew personally would succumb and eventually hang himself.

Even while dealing with his own self-destructive nature, he was able to prevent a young single mother from jumping off the balcony of the condominium she lived in, by talking to her for over two hours on the phone. He felt the helplessness of the lady but at the same time, doubted whether he would actually make a difference and save her life from several miles away but they would see each other again a few months later.

Over the years, he would help other friends recover. It was easy enough. It’s dealing with his own destructive tendencies that befouls him. After all, one cannot perform brain surgery on himself.

Having gone through a lot, looking at the view from the edge, he thought he had tamed the dragons that came to dreamland. He saw no reason to repeat the attempts of 1993. Now, more than a quarter of a century since he pulled the trigger, he is feeling the need to load the gun again!

That doesn’t mean he’s ready to do a Hemingway or a Bourdain but somehow, he is attracted and finds a lot of himself in those men and even in the lyrics of the late, Chester Bennington who sang angry songs which were actually a cry for help that few listened to.

Yes, he has an intimate knowledge of depression. He lives with it every single day and especially so, today. All his adult life, he sought “The Fix” and is still actively pursuing it as this piece gets written. Maybe only he knows how to mend himself and heal those wounds. Maybe, he knows what can fix him but can never get it.

To him, the trouble with people is that they do not stand on the same plane with him. It’s true. He is on a different level that only the ordained will get to. He knows that what he seeks can never be acquired in the temporal world. He has actually found it but somehow, misplaced it. He is lost, broken, tired and angry.

I hear him calling out and it is as loud as it has ever been. I see him fighting every day. I see him every fucking day and I am struggling to get his head above the water and safely get him back to shore.

Every day I see him in the mirror, locked and loaded!