Furious, impotent and sorry
The night kept coming on in and there was nothing I could do.
-- Charles Bukowski
He was always breaking stuff. He broke bottles with baseball bats and threw chairs off of balconies. He threw other people’s CDs into the basement wall to watch them shatter. He smashed coffee pots against concrete and threw our potted plant down the stairs. He crashed a car into a bridge and had his arm in a sling for weeks. He used to slink around after destroying something, hoping no one noticed and no one would ask him what happened.
Everyone thought he was who he was because of the breaking. He was known by his breaking and disliked because of the smashing and the sense of raving, naked destruction. But to me it was the always slinking and guilt, the embarrassment and the sinking feeling that showed in his face that made him who he was. It wasn’t the madness, it was the shitty feeling of having fallen down again, just like everyone thought he would. It wasn’t the insanity. It was the helplessness and shame.