D.E. Johnstone

The Quandary of Breath

He takes his breath to task – tries to make it work for him. He heaves
in and out until his heart weeps. He’s been told breath is the key since
it comes from his gut but now, its shallow reserves only make him
weak. I breathe for both of us and squander the silence I need to bed
his chaos. He is Odysseus, lured to cryptic shores by his inner lyre
promising both respite and extinction. The choice is blinding him.

& If you do relapse, don’t give up. Go wild with a hobby for one day.
Which wild hobby should we pursue today? The one where we
renovate the house that binds us in destruction, or the one where we
plan a getaway from which we’ll never return.

He documents his tarnish, his lost and never-realized loves, the
inaudible resilience, and the balm of giving up hope. Each note he
sings quivers through his lips and nestles a safe haven in his soul.
Every note he writes swaddles a breathless need in me. I caress his
messy frailty late at night when everything else has ceased to exist.

& The true goal is leading a good life. Your goals will be specific and tailored
just for you.
What a relief – all those specific goals, neatly mapped out for all
those poor haunted souls soaked through to the bone in anguish.

It’s far easier to inhale and ride the sweet wave of torment into the
mystic territories of his mind. Just lead me to his jagged edge and let
me hold him. I’m frightened for his soul and mine recedes with each
breath he takes – with each struggle he succumbs to, with every
regret he cradles. A blaring white light pulsates from his heart. The
glare mocks my faith and reels me into a feeble life raft. And we wade
through a beautiful doom clouded with vapors of despair and
longing and whatever else Dickens wrote about that smothered the

hopeless. A savage tenderness beckons his inner child and tosses his
insatiable appetite into a livid ocean.

& You need at least 10 sessions to experience the true benefits.
“How many times do I have to do this?” It’s been years. He’s tired
and angry, drowning in rhythms running haggard in his belly, sobbing
for angles in self-doubt. I’m tracking the end of times – the day when
I can finally open my eyes and believe that nothing will go wrong, if
only for a second. “Let’s pretend everything is normal,” he tells me.
“I’ll do the laundry, but I can’t promise it will be clean and I can’t
cook but I’m making dinner and I can’t be a sane human being but
I’m going to pretend I am and this one drink, one puff, one pill, will
make that possible….” Forget the suicidal cacophony of too much
feeling – we’re gunning for oblivion.

& Have a plan for when things get bad, because at some point, they will.
There is so much more, he tells me. A paper trail of his faults that
could fill the state of Montana. Our mutual demons’ cravings
overtake us and offer celestial devastation. I crave his happiness and
he craves my acceptance of his demise.

& Remind yourself that cravings will pass.
Where do cravings pass to and what do they become? No one tells
you that. It’s a secret. “Release me,” he pleads. Like that Englebert
Humperdink song we both hate so much. “I’m drowning” he tells me
just before the spin cycle. “My cheap gilded cage has devoured me.”