CHRISTMAS IS NOT NECESSARILY A TIME OF JOY WHAT IS THE PLAN

The windows are broken. The bus is wrecked. Really wrecked. It’s not going anywhere near the fast lane.

The world moves so quickly. It can and it does leave the marginal not so much marginalized as discarded, and I am seeing the boys I deal with as stunned again.

I am here to remind them that Christmas exaggerates their fragility, and that they are strong enough — as a community — to get through this.

Get through what. Shut up, Tim.

This is the culture war of the external in full war regalia versus the internal which in the immediacy of the moment will hide naked because they feel they are without defence and hurting at some profound level so they do not get hurt, hurting.

I am writing and posting this in a hospital waiting room where time ticks in the ponderous torture of endurance and King Lear says: Come, unbutton here.

So. How. 2. Deal.

How to deal with a bipolar brain with HIV. How to deal with a kid who is so scared, his heart is beating furiously in his throat.

How to deal with a homeless b-r-a-i-n that has never had any treatment whatsoever and has HIV.

How to deal with a holiday that intrinsically puts the marginal-on-a-good-day into a very real psychotic break.

How to deal with a kid who is coming unglued and articulates that he is knee-deep in dead bodies, all of them the bodies of people he loves, and there is nothing you can do and nothing you can say that will convince him there is no evidence of his conclusions, and they are not real when his brain is telling him they are real.

I say: We will get beyond this.

I know the motions. I know the rap. I know the gig. But these are Band Aids.

Lying to him is a Band Aid. I do not KNOW that we will get beyond this.

There are pieces of this kid on every road between here and California.

Because you are living this nightmare now, Bubba.

Because you are remembering your family who almost killed you. Almost.

It’s not on you. It’s on me. I’m it. And I take the responsibility quite seriously no matter how dark it gets and it has gotten very, very dark. For him.

I don’t want to hear from anyone. It wouldn’t help. You would be in the way. I have to put my warpaint on. This is life and death.

I have immediate decisions to make right here, right now. And I am making them I am not the one in Crisis Bloody Hell. I need all of my resources and all of my soldierships because make no mistake about it — this is where the shit just got real. Just to make it through the day, and no one has jumped out of a very high window. Not yet.

So. Christmas. Brings no joy to my house. It is just another thing to survive. The culture flings a lot of crap at us. But we are still here. It is a huge accomplishment even if you do not agree.

It’s not about you. It’s not about religion. It’s not about the diversity of points of view. And most of all, it is not about Mary, and right here, right now with this phone I tap away at, it’s not about what Mary thinks, feels, knows, or is curious about.

Mary is not here. It’s about a life that has fallen down the rabbit hole. Mary is not going down the rabbit hole to grab this kid.

And do anything with him.

I am.

Me.

I know the rabbit hole well, it is not a mystery to me, I know how to grab him and bring him back. I have to step back myself, and take a very deep breath, and know it is something I dare not NOT do. It will take everything I have.

I do not have time for Mary’s stuff.

Mary Scriver is an adult.

I need her to STAY AWAY. It is what I need, and I need it now. Right now.

I have one trick. It is my Hail Mary Card. No pun intended.

It’s called What is the Plan.

It’s baby steps. Right here. Right now. This minute. This moment.

What is the plan, Tim. What is the plan, Tim. What is the plan, Tim.

Here’s the plan.

Let’s put on your socks.

Then, your underpants.

Then, your pants.

Then, your shirt. Here, let me help you with it.

Then, the shoes.

That is the plan.

One square inch at a time. And the kid is shaking in his hospital gown. He wants to die. He wants them to come find him and kill him again and again.

Then, we are going home with a big bag of antipsychotic drugs. Home and bigger, better plans and bigger, better drugs.

That is the plan.

Why is that the plan, Tim.

Because that is all Father Christmas has in his fucking bag. Is that all there is.

You just keep dancing. Break out the booze, and have a ball.

That is not a plan. Not on my watch. That will not happen because I will not allow it to happen. I am far more centered than any of you can know. I have done this a thousand times. I do not need a motorcycle and a fast lane. I do not need thrills and spills.

I have this. His life and his fear and his craziness and his extraordinary beauty right in my motherfucker’s hands. Right now. I have this. It is adrenalin enough.

Why.

Because it’s on me. It’s not on religion’s shoulders. It’s not about Mary, Mary. It’s on me.

Go away. I do not need your hurt right now. I do not need your advice right now. What I need is for you to STAY AWAY.

As in BACK OFF.

My hands are full. STAY AWAY.

Do I need to make things any more clear than that. You have nothing to say about anything I might want to hear because I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR IT. I’M FUCKING BUSY.

And I don’t give a flying fuck about religion or Christmas or wherever religion comes from.

That is your shit, Mary. Not mine.

Because I have to go deal with these doctors and deal with this hospital and deal with these social workers (all of whom I admire, by the way, because it’s a shitty job, but someone has to do it).

This boy has no idea where he is, who he is, or that his brain is gasoline on fire.

And I have to go do that now before I take this boy who is having a psychotic break — home — and there are really no services for him and NO ONE WANTS HIM. That IS the bottom line. The bottom line just keeps going lower and lower and lower.

His 72 hours of restraint are running out.

The plan is to make it through this day without anyone dying.

That is the plan.

That is the plan.