I Only Get The Help I Don't Want
Rose McAteer
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Posted Sep 29, 2024
This song is an amalgamation and stylization of my feelings about being disabled and chronically ill carefully hidden under a layer of metaphor.
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The mirror cracked,
a long time ago
the faucets drip
the pipes are rusted
the wallpaper, faded and torn
the windows are covered in dirt
the foundation creaks
and termites eat away at the front porch
rendering it weak and unfit for use
none of the locks on the doors work
sometimes, the wind blows them open
with long, wailing gusts
the sparse contents of the refrigerator are moldy
the stove leaks gas
the whole place smells like formaldehyde,
for some reason you cannot place
There was a breeze yesterday
today it’s still
I keep on crying, I can’t stop crying
as if my tears will water the earth
and do some good
I bring the pipe to my mouth
with a ‘click’ and the glow of a lighter
the smell of smoke fills the air
my eyes are heavily lidded
my reclining posture in the chair relaxed
even though I am prescribed medication for my
ADHD, Depression, and Bipolar disorder
weed seems like the only thing that really helps
There was a breeze yesterday
today it’s still
I keep on crying, I can’t stop crying
as if my tears will water the earth
and do some good
The house is 23 years old
no maintenance has ever been done on it
in the front yard are scattered remains
leftover from an attempted garden
a leaning trellis, a rusted trowel
some straggler flowers and many more weeds
all lay on or grow from the ground
a pair of gardening gloves are hidden under the leaves
the front yard has the appearance
not of slow, steady decay
but of abandonment
In the backyard an elm tree towers
rosebush blooms hang, heavy and graceful
the dreadful, eerie silence of the house itself
softens into the rustling of leaves,
the low hum of insect chatter
an occasional birdsong
There was a breeze yesterday
today it’s still
I keep on crying, I can’t stop crying
as if my tears will water the earth
and do some good
My name is Mike
my name is Mike
my name is Mike
No matter what they say
I repeat the phrase,
over and over again,
like a prayer
my name is Mike
my name is Mike
my name is Mike
the girl I was is dead
the girl I was is dead
the girl I was is dead
she died with that old name
her ghost, though-
her ghost fucking haunts me
everyone looks at me and sees her
no matter what I do
There was a breeze yesterday
today it’s still
I keep on crying, I can’t stop crying
as if my tears will water the earth
and do some good
The floorboards in the house creak when you step on them
in the attic, shafts of sunlight filter in through holes in the roof
as you turn to leave
an angry inhabitant of the house, a hissing squirrel
comes out of a dark corner
and makes his displeasure known
the chattering alerts a few small birds
who fly out through the holes in the roof
there are no boxes of clutter,
no unused furniture
no old clothes or appliances
the attic is empty
in the attic, there are no signs of anyone ever inhabiting the house
at all
There was a breeze yesterday
today it’s still
I keep on crying, I can’t stop crying
as if my tears will water the earth
and do some good
I have no money, so I can’t buy weed
which means I am once again
contemplating suicide
doesn’t seem like such a bad deal
you give up everything
your whole life
friends, family, lovers, possessions
you give up your past future and present
you give up all of it
and in return
you get
well. Nobody really knows
a coma-like existence
forever outside the periphery of consciousness
a white light?
Heaven, hell, god?
What if I shoot myself in the face
and end up on the banks of the river Styx
without a coin to pay the ferryman
then wouldn’t I feel silly?
There was a breeze yesterday
today it’s still
I keep on crying, I can’t stop crying
as if my tears will water the earth
and do some good
You don’t want to go into the basement.
The basement gives you the creeps
the thought as you walk across the weakened floorboards,
of them snapping and crashing down into that
dingy, damp, dark, unfinished basement
well
you make sure to be extra careful with every stride
you take a step closer to the basement door
you don’t know why you’re doing this
a sort of dark miasma,
an intuitive sense of evil,
radiates distinctly from the door
it is the only one in the house you found closed
you try the handle to see if it is locked
it isn’t
you are now frozen
with your hand on the doorknob
suddenly, with certainty, you know what is down in the darkness below
you let the doorhandle go and your arm drops, listless, at your side
you do not take a step back
you do not start walking towards the door
you do not get away from the basement
away from the house
away from the ghostly memories leftover by whatever once inhabited this building
you do not run far and fast
as far and fast as you can
until your lungs scream for air, your legs burn
and sweat stings your eyes
you don’t do any of these things
instead, you stand as if transfixed
and watch as, entirely of its own accord,
the door opens
There was a breeze yesterday
today it’s still
I keep on crying, I can’t stop crying
as if my tears will water the earth
and do some good
Smoking cigarettes helps make sobriety tolerable
how long has it been since I last left the house?
I don’t know how to be a man yet
even though a man is what I am
does being a man mean doing right?
Does it mean working hard?
Does it mean I have to use 2-in1 shampoo and conditioner?
If it means being emotionally stunted,
I think I’m already there
I feel like I’ve heard of ‘men being in crisis’ and ‘masculinity is in crisis’
that’s perfect
my whole life is a crisis already
so I don’t mind
I stub out my cig in a glass ashtray
I stand up from my seat and stretch
I walk to the staircase
I walk up the staircase
I smile
the door opens without me having to lift a finger