The Bloody Doors Off

I wrote this 5 months ago, but didn’t put it here. I think it’s a good idea to save it, for future reference.

I’ve named my despair Howard. Not because I wish to be cute or because it’s funny, I’ve named it Howard because someone once told me names have power. And if you can name a thing, then you can tame it.

But it’s not really true, is it? They named the things that grow inside us, the tumors that eat away at our life, cancer. And there’s cancer research, and cancer treatment; but you can’t yell out “hey cancer, I know you, and I don’t like you, so fuck off!”

I don’t have cancer. If I did, I would name it Gemma.

No, I ride alongside Howard. He’s there most days, in some form or other. Sometimes a scratch at the base of my skull, or a knot in my stomach. Most of the time he resides in my head. He’s made himself at home, it seems.

I have moments when I forget Howard is even there. I will be packing up my shit, or reading a few pages of a book, and the absence is wonderful. And in those moments I briefly flirt with the idea that Howard’s gone off, maybe on holiday, down to the bar for last orders, where he’ll get stupendously drunk and step in front of a cab speeding through the Entertainment District.

But he always finds his way home. Damn the HAILO app. Damn me for opening the door to him again.

I’ve never liked Howard as a roommate. He’s messy, clingy, and kills my energy. His nothingness sometimes rushes into my head, squeeze my temples ache and flush my skin.

He can’t pay the bills, he can’t clean the mess, and he sure as hell can’t protect me from the rain, for he is the oncoming storm.

Howard is my despair, and that despair is entropy. You can’t escape entropy. It always wins. It’s the laws of physics.

But it won’t win tonight.