The Gravity of Nothing
Page 1
The Gravity of Nothing
By: Chase Connor
© Copyright 2018 Chase Connor by Chase Connor
All characters depicted in sexual situations in this publication are eighteen years of age or older. These stories are about fictional consenting adults. Nobody involved in the creation of this ebook, including authors, editors and models, support immoral or illegal acts in real life. Cover models are not intended to illustrate specific people and the content does not refer to models' actual acts, identity, history, beliefs or behavior. No characters depicted in this ebook are intended to represent real people.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
AUTHORS’ NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: @DeanColeWriter
As always:
To everyone involved in the creation of this book (you know who you are) and to everyone who reads this book, there just aren’t enough words.
And…
To anyone who identifies with this story, you are not alone.
My heart is with you.
Also by Chase Connor
Just a Dumb Surfer Dude: A Gay Coming-of-Age Tale
Just a Dumb Surfer Dude 2: For the Love of Logan
Gavin’s Big Gay Checklist
A Surplus of Light
The Guy Gets Teddy
GINJUH
A Tremendous Amount of Normal
The Gravity of Nothing
A Point Worth LGBTQ Paranormal Romances
Jacob Michaels Is Tired (Book 1)
Jacob Michaels Is Not Crazy (Book 2)
Jacob Michaels Is Not Jacob Michaels (Book 3)
Jacob Michaels Is Not Here (Book 4)
Jacob Michaels Is Trouble (Book 5)
Erotica
Bully
This story is a fictionalized tale based on real life.
This wasn’t my story to tell.
Nevertheless, I was allowed to tell it.
I asked the difficult questions and got the heartbreaking answers.
I will never forget those answers.
Those answers will be with me always.
I will never understand how a person could be gracious and brave enough to answer those questions so openly and with such unabashed honesty and trust that I wouldn’t judge them—or maybe not care if I would.
So, if I tell this story wrong, or without bravery, or in a way that seems disingenuous, or without honoring it adequately, I am a bad writer. It’s not the story’s fault.
Regardless, this story will, unfortunately, be with me always.
The
Gravity
of
Nothing
Contents
Sometimes I Lie to Myself
Two Boys Met on a Bus
Not All Thoughts Are Deceitful
A Whole Lot of Nothing
Friends Keep Secrets
A Hole Can Never Be Filled
We All Lie Sometimes
Let’s Pretend This Never Happened
I’m Not There
I Didn’t Fall, I Shuffled Slowly Downwards
Behind the Walls
The Biggest Truth
Blurred Lines
A Timeline of Trauma
Betrayal
Tell Me a Truth
A Culmination of Everything
Closed Doors
the gravity of nothing
A Shell of Blood
A Cacophony of Silence
Wherever You Go…There You Are
A List of Truths
No Big Truth
The Devil is in the Details
A Little Shame, A Lot of Guilt
Between You & Me
Sometimes I Lie to Myself
Not all thoughts are real.
Not all thoughts are true.
Especially when they’re your own.
Thoughts can be deceitful.
Thoughts can lie.
Especially when they’re your own.
The human brain consists of three main parts: the forebrain, midbrain, and hindbrain. All three parts contain smaller, more intricate parts which control complex functions of the human body. The midbrain consists of the tectum and tegmentum. The hindbrain is comprised of the cerebellum, pons, and medulla. In the forebrain lies the cerebrum, thalamus, and hypothalamus. Forebrain functions are of a large concern to those who have trouble with their thoughts. The forebrain consists of four lobes: frontal, parietal, occipital, and temporal. The frontal lobe is a bastard. More specifically, the prefrontal cortex. It’s the lobe that is associated with reasoning and emotions—and it’s not always fair and balanced. It’s kind of the Fox News of the human body. It doesn’t necessarily always tell the truth. Sometimes it tells the truth as it sees it.
My prefrontal cortex likes to lie.
It tells me that I’m awful.
That no one loves me.
That when someone says something vague it is obviously about me.
That the world is burning down.
That if I do
It makes me irrationally afraid of things.
It makes me anxious.
It makes me retreat.
It makes me paranoid.
Somedays, it makes it impossible for me to do anything because it creates anxiety so debilitating that simply existing is a struggle. From one moment to the next, all I can do is breathe. Survive. And even though I know that I just have to be more patient than my anxiety—have more stamina than my prefrontal cortex—it’s hard to ignore the thoughts.
What it tells me isn’t true.
I know that.
In the back of my mind, I heard my tiny inner voice saying “ignore that, that’s bullshit”. But it’s tiny. The prefrontal cortex is not. The lying voice found there bellows. It screams. It harasses. It cackles. It sneers. It derides and demeans and it is so effective at getting me to believe it. If only long enough for actions to take place. What actions? Well…whatever my mind tells me should be done. Maybe eating a whole cake will make me feel better. Or buying a whole bunch of things I don’t need and can’t afford. Or picking at my skin until I bleed. Or cutting myself. Or drinking until I end up in the hospital. Or drinking and taking handfuls of pills will make the lies stop. Maybe…maybe silencing my brain can only be accomplished one way. I rarely give into these impulses, but my brain gives me lots of ideas.
That’s what my brain tells me. A lot. Often. Too much.
That’s what it makes me think.
But not all thoughts are real.
Not all thoughts are true.
So, I ask myself questions to counter the thoughts. Where is this thought coming from? What prompted this thought? Did I see, hear, watch, do, eat, say…something…to make my brain create these thoughts? Why would I think this thing? Is there anything to support this thought? How would someone else process this thought? Am I sleepy? Am I hungry? Did I have a fight with someone? Do I feel guilty about something? Was I active enough—get exercise? Yes, even, did I poop today? Constipation can change a person’s mood. Did you know that? Is this just a mood—or am I just full of shit?
The truth is—there are no right answers to any of these questions. That’s because no one is one-hundred
percent sure where anxiety, depression—just mental illness in general—comes from. It could be hormonal, chemical, brain structure abnormalities, a lot of things. There are pills. There are therapies. Dozens—if not hundreds—of different treatments. And they all work to varying degrees depending upon the patient. One treatment or therapy can have a marginal effect on a patient or none at all—while practically working miracles on another. Some patients of mental health providers take pills. Some do therapies. Some take pills and do therapies. Some are lost causes because they refuse to do their best in therapy or stay on a medication routine. Sometimes the brain wins. And when the brain wins…it’s never pretty.
Ever see a homeless person wandering the streets talking to…no one? It’s not always drugs. In fact, it usually isn’t drugs. Or it’s not just drugs.
See a person at the end of a bar, nursing drink after drink, talking to no one? His or her brain might be actively lying to them.
And they just want it to stop.
People with mental health issues don’t want to be crazy. They don’t want people to think poorly of them. Nor do they want people to think that they’re not trying their hardest to get better—whatever better means. Because—and this is something people without mental health issues don’t know—better is a sliding scale. What’s “better” for one person is not for another. When you have a mental illness it’s like managing chronic pain. Or any chronic, but not necessarily fatal, illness or disease. What level of crazy can you comfortably live with? What can you manage in your day to day life? How crazy can you be but still function in a way that lets you blend in with “civilized society”?
I’m crazy.
That’s what I’ve been told.
That’s what I’ve told myself.
I tell myself that a lot.
That seems incredibly harsh and un-P.C. to a lot of people.
But I live with this.
I can say what I want.
Sometimes, in order to manage my mental health issues, I have to be incredibly blunt. I have to use words that most people cringe at when they hear them. I. Am. Crazy. I say this to myself because it reminds me that my thoughts are not always true. That they are not always right. That my thoughts are trying to get me to do things I do not want to do. My thoughts have gotten me to do things before. I don’t want them to do that again. So…I’ll say whatever the fuck I need to say to myself to avoid that.
I don’t want to be back in the hospital again.
At least, not inpatient.
Strapped to a bed.
Locked in a room.
That’s the worst.
Actually, the worst part of my story isn’t my mental illnesses. Nor is it what my brain has convinced me to do. And it wasn’t actually the 93-day stay in a psych facility. It wasn’t the embarrassment of having to tell my doctor my deepest darkest secrets. It wasn’t having to see my mother while wearing scrub-style pajamas with no drawstring and booties and shoes with Velcro. It was afterwards. Adjusting to my life as a person with mental illnesses and a plan. The Plan is the worst. Because the plan is not easy. It’s not as easy as what my brain wants me to do. There are steps and setbacks and steps forward and setbacks and more steps forward. There are gains and losses.
The Plan is a daily struggle to stay afloat. And it requires patience and strength and humility and the courage to not be okay and letting people know that. Letting people know that you are not okay is…not okay. Out of all of the things that can fuck up a person’s dignity, admitting to others that you may be losing your battle is the worst. To look a family member, a friend, a partner, your therapist—any of them—in the eyes and say “I need help”? That’s the fucking worst part of all of it.
Admitting that you are not as strong as you want to be really gets a person right in the gut. And it’s not necessarily early on in the process of a getting back on track, either. Sometimes, after a relatively long period of time, a person’s mental illness stops responding to the treatment prescribed. And a person can end up in a worse place than they were before they hit rock bottom. Essentially, the illness hands the person keys to a backhoe.
‘Keep digging’, it says.
So, sometimes, all a person does is dig, trying to build a pile of dirt high enough so that they can climb.
But, that too, is a lie. There is never a pile of dirt high enough that a person can climb out of that type of hole. Mental illness is a bottomless pit. No amount of dirt can fill it. The trick is to find out how to get out of the hole without digging deeper. How to rise over that lip, biting, scratching, and clawing, and fight like a motherfucker every day so that you don’t fall back down the rabbit hole. And a person does this until they learn to manage their mental illness better, ‘til they become a pro…or until they get tired of trying.
I was tired of trying once.
But that was just a lie I told myself.
I wasn’t tired. Just frustrated.
Two Boys Met on a Bus
“Are you nervous?”
“Do you always ask people with anxiety if they are nervous?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m never nervous.” I replied. “I’m often anxious.”
“Do you know the difference?”
“Being nervous is a sensible reaction to a realistic set of circumstances. Being anxious can be caused by imagined circumstances and involves a physical component. I.E. a panic attack, racing heart, sweats, shakiness. I am anxious quite often but I’m never nervous.”
“You never get nervous about realistic situations?”
“Of course, I may get nervous about speaking in public.” I said. “But it’s not entirely realistic because I don’t imagine that I’ll flub everything and just mess up and stutter and make a fool of myself. I imagine that if I don’t do perfectly, everyone in the audience will end hating me and thinking I’m the worst person on the planet. Just from hearing me speak. That’s anxiety—not nervousness.”
“That’s an interesting take.”
Suck my dick, sir.
“I guess so.” Shrugging was all I could think to do.
Six of us, including the counselor, sat in a circle, the counselor leading our group session. I hated sharing. I hated sharing with strangers even more. When sharing meant that I had to go to a community center with iffy central heating, sit with strangers, a counselor I’d never met before, and pretend to enjoy the burnt coffee and stale donuts that were probably left over from the AA meeting the night before, I really hated it.
“Has everyone met Tom?” The counselor asked, vaguely gesturing at me as he smiled.
It was like looking at a white picket fence that had survived a few winters. If a white picket fence had also had a few years of meth use under its belt. The counselor, Jeff, had seen some shit in his day. And, here he was, directing our group, as though he could provide hope. I didn’t need an ex(?) meth-head telling me how to find hope and lead a healthier, more mentally stable lifestyle. Then again, Jeff had as much of a chance of getting through to me as my psychiatrist had—which was very little.
“Hi, Tom.”
Everyone said “hello” as a group at varying volumes, varying cadences, varying speeds—it was a cacophony of uninterested, curious, and overly enthusiastic voices. I was enthusiastically uninterested in anything having to do with this group. And I was crawling out of my skin. I was on the verge of tears. On the verge of screaming. On the verge of laughing. On the verge of standing up and walking out without saying a word. So, of course, I sat there, hands on my knees and acted uninterested and calm. Like ya’ do.
“Tom, why don’t you share with everyone about why you are here with us today?” Jeff smiled.
God, I wish he’d stop smiling.
“Tell us a bit about yourself, share any diagnoses if you’re comfortable. Just…talk. Feel free to say whatever you need to have heard.”
Do you want to hear the fire alarm going off in my head?
The screeching of my inner self?
<
br /> Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup.
“I’m Tom.” I shrugged. “Anxiety. Depression. Not particularly into drugs but not particularly against them. Alcohol is just dandy. I’m here because a few weeks ago—”
“They try diagnosing you with bipolar yet?” The guy sitting across the circle from me asked suddenly, scratching at his forearm. “They told me I caught the bipolar.”
It’s not a contagious disease, dude.
“Mmmhm.” Some skinny girl who had probably seen her share of meth pipes nodded from next to the first guy. “We all been diagnosed as bipolar at some point or ‘nuther. They like to tell you that shit.”
“I’m not bipolar.” I replied, bored.
“BPD?” The girl asked.
“Schizo?” The first guy.
Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup.
“Anxiety. Depression.” I reiterated.
“You must have one those fancy doctors, then.” Another guy in the circle added helpfully.
The only other attendee who hadn’t spoken up, some other white guy, didn’t bother saying anything. He just watched me.
I shrugged, my hands never leaving my knees. I couldn’t take my hands off of my knees because then I would have to clench my hands and that’s when the anxiety really starts to take over.
“Let’s not overwhelm Tom on his first day.” Jeff chided everyone. “Let him tell us what he wants. All the questions aren’t necessary.”
“I was done talking.” I said.
Everyone just looked at me.
Then the lights went out and I could hear the heat stop blowing.
“This booty-ass place.” The first guy grumbled.
Then the lights came back on and the heat started blowing again, as though the black guy had said the magic words. We all sighed, internally upset that we didn’t get to just leave. I folded my hands in my lap and stared at Jeff, waiting for him to guide us all onto the next thing. He stared back.