Moving On, Standing Still

I’m waiting for the LIRR train. I notice how fast the trains that don’t stop speed by. It feels like such a more efficient way to “move on” compared to the subway. The subway is slow by comparison—and if you survive, you’d probably be maimed.

Now I notice birds flying by. I see pigeons trying to eat the salt off the floor. I worry about them being too cold and hungry. Then I think about squirrels and their constant struggle for food and survival. I hate seeing animals suffer.

This song comes on—”Narcotics”—and I start wondering: what was my dad feeling that led him to heroin? What was going on inside his head? What did the drugs make him feel? What pushed him there and kept him there for so many years? Then I think about my mom—what she must have suffered, dealing with all of it. The more I think about it, the sadder I get. These thoughts keep flooding my mind, and even now, standing on this train platform, I’m fighting back tears.

And then, out of nowhere, I think about how I keep getting erections today. I need to orgasm, but the meds make it so hard to finish. It’s frustrating as hell. I’m heading to physical therapy, and I really hope it doesn’t happen there because, you know… weird.

I can’t get the face of my gym homie out of my head—the one who ended his life. He was a police sergeant and a genuinely cool dude. I feel so sad for his fiancée. She’s deeply hurt, and people are looking out for her, but survivor’s guilt and the “I should have known” feeling can drive anyone mad. I keep wondering: could just one conversation with him have changed anything? Probably not, but I can’t stop thinking: what if he had known that someone standing right next to him was struggling too? Would that have mattered?

But we weren’t on that level. At the gym, we didn’t have those kinds of deep conversations. There was nothing I saw that made me think I should bring it up. Honestly, I didn’t have any reason to tell him about my stuff either. Still, I feel bad. Even though I know deep down there’s no scenario where I could’ve helped him, it’s hard not to think about it.

I’m almost at my physical therapist’s office now. I’ll greet him, smile, joke about random things, and do the work. Even though we’re pretty open with each other, I doubt we’ll talk about this. The topic of suicide makes people uncomfortable, and it’s not something I bring up with many.

All these thoughts raced through my head in just a few moments. Writing them down took longer than thinking them. Even after writing and rereading this, it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface of everything bouncing around in my noggin.