a bi polar kind of LOVE

when we first met, there was nothing more forbidden than the imprint of your beautiful face when i closed my eyes before i went to sleep. there were what seemed like "millions" of other fish in the same bowl we were swimming in at that time. you stole my breath from me the first time you walked by and quick wittingly nudged a joke in my direction. too afraid of the rejection, i kept my distance and tried to not play with your fire. it was the onset of winter as trick-or-treaters painted the town black and orange. i was to leave my shift, but you put your hand on me and told me "no." with that electric pull in your eye, i knew the both of us were doomed to my web of disease.

two years later, we live together and i'm making way too much money. i shower you with gifts and give you anything i can within reasonable measure. we fight like cats and dogs. a part of me is still not ready to settle down as i look about the artificial palm trees & wade through the plastic landscape and inhabitants of our new "home." in a wave of stress, in a wave of unfulfilled love from my mother, in a wave full of self hatred, following the footsteps of an insecure dad - i cheat on you. i am bored and i want out, but i don't have the nerve to tell you. but i need you. you are the only family i have now, my only real friend in this world. what would i do without you? we stay together. we buy more furniture. we buy a little dog. he wreaks the house and our sanity with his demanding demeanor. we are irresponsible and can't care for him, so we give him away. the furniture starts to rot in the sun. the plants that decorated our house die. we yell and scream and fight. the neighbors call the cops on us more than once. we both carry the torch of blame, but decide to move into another apartment looking to start over.

the fights continue, but only now i'm poor. i've lost the job that paid me too much. you still stick by my side. but you've never forgotten. you will never forget. i hate you at the same time. all of the unnecessary conflicts with your dad, my mom, your step mom. sometimes i feel like stabbing my ears with pencils. we are all each other has. we explore the terrain around us. take beautiful pictures in beautiful landscapes. i hold you at night with a tear in my eye. you never see it drop on the pillow. we stick it out and keep going. we fight explosively. i spend money on material objects to wash away your angry presence. the recurring theme is that you are still upset about what i did. i am a broken dog by this point. there is next to no fight left in me. i have tantrums though. we are the loud, yelling neighbors once again. the fights escalate, you hit me, and i leave. for good.

without you, i crumble in northern california. i'm trying to rehabilitate without you at my mother's house in northern ca. i try to go out with my friends and drink to have fun. it ends in one night crying all night long with my comrade chris, disclosing my newfound thoughts of suicide. the other night i drive home from campbell at 3:00am to a park in pleasanton. i gauze at the stars, missing you. wondering where you are. and i cry uncontrollably.

you show up at my mom's home in shambles. you tell me that you have a place lined up in san francisco. i go with you. the future looks so much brighter. our last new start. sexuality has lost its meaning. there is too much hurt and mistrust. it's the companionship that bonds us more than anything. what would we do without eachother? i model in the city, you work at your job. we live within our means. things look like they are working out for the better. i feel a little more whole as i'm able to be reunited w/ chris and carl. she seems to adapt everywhere she goes. but the fights start again, and in this time they are not about the past. they are about anything she sees as a threat. being a model, working in a fishbowl with a lot of beautiful fishes, she has some reason to worry. but not at the way she is doing. she turns obcessive. we are the yelling couple again; only worse because the walls are much thinner than they were in plastic ville. gone are the high ceilings, in are the old spanish tile floors for our kitchen and leaking rooftops when it rains. our trip to paradise is scarred for an entire day of her jealous rants. at this point, he's beyond his sexual urges. there is little to none - as he's on meds and is simply trying to mentally and financially prepare for the baby she is nursing in her womb.

the baby is born to an audience of two: her mom and dad. their combined love is immeasurable. he is still coping with the pressures of being in this intoxicating relationship. he is not ready to be a dad. he is still working in a fish bowl. they don't even have a car. he goes out with his friends and tries to throw it all away, mixing depakote, xanax, a binge alcohol session topped with crystal method and marijuana. he self checks into the hospital, believing the end is near. this is the beginning of the manifestation. the disease has now taken control. he is nearly losing control but has some help from his family. that same hand they offered to help is used to backhand him in the face for choosing to stay with this woman. j & c are all alone in the world. c's dad has cut her off as well. just j, c, and scar. this eats at their well being on a daily basis. mom and dad from both sides are less than 30 miles away, yet they see them both under a handful of times within the year they had moved to sf. the whole point of moving to sf was to start a family and to be closer to family. they are the rejected children. the mom and dad they have are part of the me-first generation. they got what they did when they did, and they have no indication of wanting to share. even though both of them got their helping hand in raising j and c... it is at this point j & c realize they are all alone in the us with jobs that pay under 40k and a baby to feed, clothe, and love.

san diego seemed like the perfect haven. far enough from everyone. nothing but real palm trees. more real people. family oriented. the intention was to stop causing so much chaos in san francisco and just move somewhere to where they could raise their daughter in a healthy environment where cost of living was cheaper. at this point, jason is a walking zombie. he works 9 hour days at the fish bowl that are supplemented with 5 hour round trips to los angeles auditioning for model jobs. cat hates her job. they fight every night they are together. they yell, they scream, the baby is now in the middle yelling and screaming between fights. they are the loud couple again in this complex.

the end of the rope is now here. they couldn't afford to live in san diego. i miscalculation in transportation on their cash flow would later reveal a negative 1,000 monthly dip. jason's savings are being depleted by the day, as he tries to do the best he can. they are scared but know what must be done. it is now time to separate.

but they can't. who else would they ever have in this world but each other? he was a day dreamer, a flyer, a cloud in the sky. she was an intense hawk. a survivor. a huntress. they formed as one continuous clash that never found its peace, except in eachother's arms.

he remembers scratching underneath his right eye hoping to make a scar to show a battlewound much like the same of his favorite video game character, sagat. funny that in his later life, he took up the same fighting style of muay thai kickboxing much like sagat. although he never needed an eye patch, he had his own self inflicted scar across his chest just as his "hero." today it reads:
catharina

like liar, like thief

being a passive spectator will get you nowhere in life. of anyone, please trust the anecdotal rant that follows. raised as a soldier by dad, and as a puppet by mom, i learned to simply not give a shit. as explained in my first memory, the intrigue of anything new was met with a hollowed gaze of wonder and meaningless contemplation. in seventh grade, i was a pretty damn good basketball player. my own criticism of my game is that i never took my skills and utilized them to their full ability. to be a great player, you need to have blood on your hands by the end of the drill/game. mine were always covered with powder. the futon i had lay directly underneath a rotating fan. when taking a much needed break from street fighter 2 and getting a rest before the upcoming basketball game.without any inquiry, i'd try to track the blades of the fan from clockwise over while seemingly entering a trance of... nothing. there was no sadness, there was no pain. no contemplation for the future. i would just sit and stare at this fan for hours on end. my mom would barge in the door and gleefully proclaim that her son was getting "psyched up" for the game (whatever the fuck that means).

when i look into why this lack of emotional state or empathy arose in me during these early times, i can vaguely retrace how i was raised. dad was an intense man. there was no fucking around. one time i was making my brother cry in the back of our ford bronco when we were driving to disneyland with my friend adam. i was showing off obviously like a dumbass. without warning, my dad pulled the vehicle over and stormed out to face us. i can still remember the terror in adam's eyes. me? i just stood there b/c i knew it was coming. nothing said, no wasted motions as he reached for my collar, dragged me to the edge of the open window, raised me up and slapped the shit out of me right across the face. upon arriving to see mickey and minnie, my eyes were puffed up in tears as i felt like i was walking on egg shells. i didn't know if i could joke with my brother anymore. i didn't know if it was appropriate to joke with my friend adam as a host. i had no clue what my dad was thinking. i simply followed his march as a soldier who had been disciplined would.

mom just fucked with my head in a different way. and her games extend up until today. dad's were more noble. they were card games laid out on the table that quite simply read "don't fuck with the bull, or you will get the horn." mom was a snake. she read my diaries. emphasized my weak points, attacked me methodically. confronted me with a kind smile while hiding her metaphorical knife which inflicted emotional breakdown once stabbed into my wounds. she blamed my depression on my stolen bike that year in 7th grade.

i remember that bike like no other. we were a poor family w/ 3 boys who had made the jump from dublin to pleasanton... where the schools were supposedly nicer and the grass was supposedly greener. in middle school, you were too young for a car so the next best thing was to make damn sure you had a bike that ultimately was supposed to be a reflection of you. this meant one thing and one thing only: it better not be a fucking huffy. gt bikes were near the top of the line. at paquette's i found the dream bike. it was a fire red orange with a "splatter paint" effect added to enhance the logo of it being the "outpost" model. it costed $300.

my birthday was coming up, and the deal was that if i put in 1/3 of the price my parents would cover the rest. i don't know how they did it, but they genuinely wanted the best for me. they saw through my interactions with friends and the neighbors that a bike was a status marker. they didn't want me to be the scrub of the school so this plan was put into effect. i worked my ass off for that $100. mowing lawns, pretending to be a boy scout and selling candy door to door, washing cars, anything that i could do to get that money. i should have mentioned that even though we made the move from dublin to pleasanton, we were poor by pleasanton standards. we ate fast food dinners. it was a friday, and nothing was a better evening than finding out we were going to be eating mcdonalds. i remember sitting in the front seat of my moms new car, and her handing me the food. while stuffing my face greedily with french fries, i noticed the clerk had put the change in the bag. a $20 bill just kept calling my name. this would put me over the $100 mark, and without hesitation i grabbed it and put it in my pocket. at that moment i was officially a thief, from the people who fucked up as parents but were doing the best damn that they could.

that was not the end of it. dad's partying was spinning out of control. the nights before i remember waking up to thumps in the wall in the middle of the night. in a groggy state, i peaked into the living room to see 2 policeman restraining my dad who was in some sort of alcoholic rage. my mom was crying. i had no idea what was going on. dad was not trusted with money because he spent it all on booze. he was given a strict allowance of money to last him through the week, so his money was tight. the night of the mcdonald's, as i put my stolen money in with the rest of my horde of cash i could hear screaming, yelling, and crying. my mom was blaming my dad for the money being gone - insinuating that he had been drinking and was using funds that were not available to him. my dad, enraged and rightfully so, was smashing holes in the door in his own defense by saying he did not have anything to do with that missing $20. as a thief lying in the shadows, the thought to give the money back never crossed my mind. fittingly, the bike was stolen that next summer. my depression blew up to an unprecedented level for me at the time. it wasn't necessarily because the bike was gone. it was due to the process of me getting that godforsaken bike, and the trouble i had caused my parents. i hated being poor, and i hated being a thief even more so. so in a sense, my mom was right in that ever since the bike was stolen my whole persona changed. but it wasn't the bike. it was the recognizable, vivid loss of innocence and the eye opening experience of having a thief take something from you in a deserving manner. i deserved to be punished.

another incident i can recall was when my dad had entered my room in a surprisingly vulnerable state. steve & i shared a piggy bank full of change. we noticed dad had tears in his eyes but we did not know what was going on. at this age i'm able to recognize that he was on an alcohol binge. conversation was cut short, and he asked if we could help him out. seeing his vulnerability, we would have given our lives if he asked us to at that moment with full eagerness. he simply asked us if we had any quarters in the piggy bank. with enthusiasm to please, we emptied that fucking brown pig quickly and upon unveiling the collection of half dollars, silver dollars, quarters, and even some leftover dollar bills... a small half smile of pain came over william. with much shame, he took the money and helped us re-pack the brown piggy. he feigned interest in our video games until our attention was "off" of him as he slid out of the room to the liquor store. my attention was never off of him.

in a paralleled frame of mind, i imagine a suicide would be a collection of non stop images from my past that would haunt me unmercifully until i mustered the strength to pull the trigger. being a thief to my own family, i can empathize with dad. william, if you are in any way still connected to this universe - know that i forgive you. and at the same time, please forgive me. i'll miss you until the end of all eternity, my flawed protector... i have inherited your life.

look into the eyes of a bipolar one of these days. you'll never see such an array of conflict. lights, engulfing black energies, angels, demons, god, the devil... they all have their laughs in the non stop spin cycle known as life to a person diagnosed as bipolar. these are my final words as i will eventually be ending this personalized hell. i've reached the end of the road. i'm not the brightest guy but i've pretty much figured out that i'm not fit for the world that unravels around me. being stuck inside of my head, even if for just a day, is the step behind that my fellow "comrade" needed as he advances and i fall further behind in the race of accumulating cheese. 

i'm not sure if i'll have the balls to point the shotgun to my head in the way my dad did. for some reason, i feel i owe it to the very few around me to at least have an open casket. but enough of this self pity for now. let's uncover the root of this mayhem & maybe even debate biological vs. conditioned before it's all said & done.

my first real memory is being around six years old. i don't know where the prior five years went lost, but six is what i can recall. it gets specific because we had just moved into our house in dublin. dad was always busy. meaning he was a construction worker who woke up at 4am everyday. i should know this, because right before i got the belt (and this was often), he'd remind me of how fucking tired he was and how he got up at 4am just to get to his shit job. being busy - he was always aloof in the garage. that fucking garage was his last haven for the late adulthood that he apparently missed out on by having me pop out of my mom's womb. everything that was of importance to him lie in that garage. the rifles, the shotguns displayed, his baseball bat, his hats, buckets of fucking paint, cement bags, his football, his weight set, the rack of the deer he shot down, stuffed duck trophies, his tools: drills, saws, wrenches, anything you'd need to build another fucking garage he had available right there at his reach. the walls were decorated with more hunting trophies, a raiders flag (even though he was a converted 9'er fan the rest of his life - he said al davis was a bullshitter). right by the door was a cheesy as hell poster, the kind you'd win at a fair. it was an over sized image of an overflowing beer that read 'mug shot' on top. in that pitcher of beer was a photograph with more depth and soul than you'd ever imagine, especially of something coming from a fucking drunkard local carnival in the east bay area in the late 70's. with his toughguy half smile and my mom's confused wide eyed grin, they were cemented together through that picture as a young couple trying to make the best of life at that carnival, and the proof would hang on the wall in his haven/garage. between being busy at the job he hated, drinking as soon as he got home, and spending time in the garage with his buddies - i'd still have to say William Richard Stewart was a real fuckin' man. not some poser chump that a lot of other guys are/were at the time. this guy was as tough as nails, walked around with a chip on his shoulder, cared more to look like a badass than a heart throb. he had facial hair that did nothing but cover his prettyboy looks and he wore his daily hats low to cover his bright blue eyes. his looks obviously were the source for his rough upbringing in a ghetto neighborhood where fighters were ranked in high school through brawling right outside of class. having an older brother who was a brute that stood over 6'3 and a solid 200plus pound frame, william fought with his heart even though he wasn't as physically gifted at a mere 6'0 180. the fact that not even drinking with an intent to die would diminish his looks into the later years still baffles me. hoarding jack daniels & smirnoff bottles like a savage in his later years only gained him an honest 5-10 pounds. he definitely wasn't shredded or anything, but he still maintained his old man strength through hard labor and living a fucking hard life in general. he wasn't one to be fucked with, and even with those bright blues and a slight hunch in his shoulders the majority of on the fence trespassers did not want to fuck with him, because as he always told me "they might be able to take me, but they know that they'd at least get hurt." despite his lost self esteem when he was older, he was still a source of high praise from the girls i brought around. he was 24 when i was born.

getting back to my point about my earliest memory: dad was out in never never land chopping it up with one of his lackeys, slamming some budweisers down with the music cranked up. mom must've been in school. i don't remember her in the dublin house. steve usually was by my side but he wasn't for this particular moment. the sun shined through the window. i lay in the empty white room. it was my first perception of light, how it entered effortlessly through the cracks of the window. i had no emotion in my body or mind. as a scientist probes his discovery, i simply stood in an observing phase. light bended as i looked at this ray from another angle. the carpet suddenly had a yellow circle on it, which could be manipulated by my shadow. i sat down and stared. partly in awe, partly in a state of not knowing what to think. this single incident would sum up the later years and story of my life - a careless observer without the capacity to analyze future events while being stuck in a particular moment. numb.