Category: Rants

This system is broken but not because we can’t see the symptoms; those are remarkably obvious. We ask the wrong questions. We’re so busy asking what words to use that we forget to ask why write? Words are what makes us different from the other apes. Chimpanzees can drink ants through makeshift draws. They masturbate and cheat on their chimpanzee girlfriends and wives. The similarities. Modern humans are more eloquent, not quite refined; we have commandeered the larynx. Guttural groans eventually became poetry. But Shakespeare is not possible without the first caterwauls. The noises that sprang forth from that almost human. Cautiously translated to, “That one is mine.” Or, “I fuck her, not you.”

And now we go to the moon and fear death.

It’s weird, all these things I curated to a greatness in my mid-teens have come ‘round to be the defining characteristics in haute couture. You might know the story of how I went to undergraduate Tacoma with nothing but a box of ill-fitting sweaters, two pairs of size-44 Levis 501’s (that I squeezed into so I wouldn’t have to buy a bigger pair) and 500 LPs ranging from Kiss to Depeche Mode to Iron Maiden to Nina Simone to Queen to Rocky Horror to Miles Davis to the Escape From New York Soundtrack. I didn’t even pack a turntable and wouldn’t have one for my first three months in school. I carried all of those albums into a future I had no idea what would bring; they were how I defined a pretty big part of myself. And in just 12 months I would trade all of those albums, at the Jelly’s on Pensacola for the promise of about 40 “permanent” compact discs.

The lament I have for that moment is not financial. There are far greater “what-ifs” that would have resulted in far higher values lost or found. At best, those albums might fetch five figures if the collection remained intact, and mostly undamaged (highly unlikely). I lost more selling Apple stock too early (I still made a lot, not life-changing a lot). But that makes for a good story. This one always feels like a blow; a long lost could-have-been. Those albums were me. And I traded them all in for the illusion of a new permanence. I rebuilt that CD collection even larger, and the mp3 collection larger still. But I’ve never had something in my personal space like those discs.

I was nine years old when I took my first shot of hard liquor (at an older neighbor’s house). I was almost 12 the first time I got drunk (playing quarters in a hotel room in Hilo). A few days after turning 12 was the first time I puked because of too much alcohol (at the Sheraton Waikiki after roaming amongst the tourists at Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center). I was also 12 (it was a big year) the first time I saw cocaine being used at a high-school toga party I somehow got invited to (I skipped a few grades so all my friends were older). I didn’t try coke until much later when I was 22.

It was an in-service Monday at Kamehameha, which meant students at my school were off but teachers weren’t. I was home alone (my brother was in Catholic pre-school at OLPH, Our Lady of Perpetual Help). All of my neighborhood friends went to public school so they didn’t have the day off, and all of my school friends lived hours away by bus. I decided to play pinball at the bowling alley near my house. Some of the older kids on my block were cutting school and noticed me straggling. It was about 10 a.m. but they were already drunk and stoned.

“Kalan, come here.” It was Kawika, my friend Kamakiʻs older brother. He was 14 and already the coolest kid on the block. Long-haired surfer with a paper route, so he always had money. Everyone wanted to be his friend. All the girls were in love with him. At nine I knew the mechanics of sex, but not much else. Everyone knew Kawika was already doing it. Kawika had singled me out so, of course I went.

“How come you’re not in school?”.
“We’re off today. Some teacher thing. How come you’re not?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Want to party?” He and I didnʻt speak pidgin by default like the others.
I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but it was Kawika. “Sure.”

Inside the living room there were four older boys, two of whom lived on my block, I didn’t recognize the other two. There was a wet, pungent smell that I didn’t recognize as marijuana at the time. On the coffee table was a bottle of vodka, an empty shot glass, and several Michelob beers in dark brown bottles with gold foil and a red logo. I recognized them because it was what my grandfather, my Papa, drank during the day (he drank salty dogs at night). The empty bottles had their foil peeled off and lay in piles on the table. Kawika handed me one of the brown bottles. I had taken sips from Papa’s as long as I could remember (usually to strong encouragement and laughter from the adults), but I had never had one of my own.

He poured the vodka into the shot glass and handed it to me. It looked like water. I recognized the smell from Tūtūʻs red-lettered, The Crow’s Nest glass at her house. It was liquid but instantly burned. I choked, but didnʻt spit it out. There were imagined flames wherever the liquid touched, all the way down and into my chest. My eyes watered. The boys were laughing, but Kawika nodded and smiled. I was in.

My point is certainly not to brag or glamorize, or even to categorize. The point is this, sitting in a psych ward 230 miles from where I was born, can in many ways be traced to that moment. Almost predictable in hindsight. Maybe inevitable. At the very least, there was a traceable connection of dots that might have been broken at countless points, through different, uncountable small decisions, good and bad, over more than half a typical lifetime of a mostly selfish and self-centered path of least resistance. A completely lucid memory of a horrible origin story.

I’m writing this from a psych ward 230 miles from where I was born. It’s not as dramatic as it sounds; I asked to be here. I even asked to stay when they said I was ready for discharge. The sympathetic psychiatrist agreed to leave me in treatment as long as my insurance didn’t object. They did not. Unfortunately, the last five days I’ve been here have been spent in isolation. I managed to somehow contract COVID in a closed ward after a few days here, but remain asymptomatic. I’m a strong believer in the efficacy of vaccines. The other two patients who tested positive apparently are not. I am bored, but they are miserable. For five days straight I’ve been reading National Geographic from the mid-1980’s (the space stuff—even the Earth stuff —is grossly outdated) and Time magazine from the late 2010’s just before novel corona virus meant anything to anyone. Unbelievably bored, but I am grateful. I don’t mean that sarcastically. It can’t be the Wellbutrin, it hasn’t been long enough. Maybe it’s the Depakote.

Had they discharged me over the weekend, or even Monday, that would have meant living on the streets until Wednesday night when my mother returned from Texas to see my son play Jean Valjean in a school production of Lés Misarables (this will be important later). And we all know how that ends. I’ve done it and survived–I’m writing this aren’t I–but being outside means having everything with you stolen when you finally succumb to sleep, and inevitably, always, ends with a death-defying blood alcohol content.

Three times now Iʻve checked myself into a psychiatric facility out of desperation, mostly while in some stage of alcohol-induced psychosis or breakdown. I’ve learned how to say the right things to get admitted. I don’t think I’ve ever been consciously suicidal, I’m too afraid of dying. But they won’t admit you if you’re just desperate. There was a bullshit, involuntary 72-hour hold in those harried weeks after Linda moved out so many years ago. She called the police from work and said I was threatening to jump off a bridge. I was not. I sent her pictures from the overpass near our apartment on my way walking to the liquor store across Mopac (my intent was to capture a stylized disarray). It was literally the quickest route.

I suppose I had been poking myself all morning with the tip of a blunt steak knife before I decided I needed more vodka, but that was just to feel something. Suicidal ideation? Not even close. I wasnʻt imagining any scenarios.

I was at the pool when the police got there, they had been searching for me in the Greenbelt. I saw the helicopter, but I didn’t make the connection until four officers emerged from the underbrush abutting my complex. When they took me back to the apartment, a cop noticed blood on my sheets. And not just drops. So they took me to Shoal Creek. I wasnʻt under arrest, but I wasn’t free to say no. And as I would come to learn the psych ward, like holding cells and pre-trial detention, like emergency room hallways as you wait for a bed, like rehab and intensive outpatient, like life when it’s not shitty or great, is mostly wasting time.