The Shower
Chapter I
As hot water rinsed away the last of the morning chill, something caught my eye. There on the shower floor was a collection of pubes, my pubes, tucked away behind the curtain as if stashed there by a robin storing material for her spring nest. Recalling a recent manscaping session, my gaze shifted toward my penis, dangling quietly below the recently ploughed field where said pubes had been harvested a few days earlier. And suddenly, there it was, my shame. Eclipsing the paddock of focus sat evidence of poor habits acquired during the winter months.
Pubes swiftly forgotten, the sight of this pasty, bare, wet protrusion of gluttony triggered a sudden upwelling of guilt and embarrassment. Fight or flight kicked in, but as this abscess of poor nutritional choice was attached to me, neither option was feasible. At least not physically. I needed an escape, a mental escape, and quickly. Back to the pubes!
Pivoting one hundred and eighty degrees toward the shower head behind me, I removed it. Nozzle gripped tightly in my fist, I aimed the soothing stream at the unsuspecting group of short and curlies intent on washing away the remains of the previous weekend's grooming activities. To both my surprise and frustration, however, they held fast. Like a group of woke protestors resisting a barrage of water canons, my pubes refused to budge. "Stubborn little bastards," I muttered to myself. "I'll show you." Thrusting my right foot forward, big toe leading the charge, I reenacted the "wax on, wax off" scene from Karate Kid. Success! No pube is a match for that timeless technique of Mr. Miyagi.
As branches float down a surging river during spring rains, my pubes casually approached the drain. Triumphantly, I watched as they met their demise. The offenders now gone for good, I replaced the shower head, then ducked back under the steaming comfort it produced. I stood tall and congratulated myself on a solid effort. After all, how many people would actually dig their toe into a pile of pubes, theirs or otherwise, for the sake of a clean shower floor? That's grit. Work ethic. Commitment to a job well done. Then, as quickly as my gang of pubes vanished after being unglued and dislodged from their stage of protest, my pride fizzled away.
"At 43 years old, this is my top achievement of the day? Scrubbing my own pubic hair off the bottom of a shower with my big toe?" Scoffing, I reached back and increased the heat, hoping the scalding water would sear away the cold reality of my situation. I looked around, first inside the shower, then beyond the sopping wet curtain. The only thing that was mine had just flowed out of sight. Beyond those pubes, everything else belonged to my friends. Friends who, for the past six months, had kept a roof over my head and food in my belly. That final word reminded me of what I'd been trying to ignore. Ah, yes … that. I gazed down again at the bulging footprint of inhaled baked goods. "That's mine too, I guess."
I'd never meant to be there. Not in the house, town or country specifically, but in that situation in general. It was never the plan. So, how did it happen? How did a guy who had travelled for the better part of two decades, learned to function in two languages other than his native tongue, charmed women and made friends across the world become a bum?" Hadn't I accumulated a list of skills and experiences long enough to bridge the gap between where I was and where I wanted to be? Of course, I had! So why? Why was this my life? Living with friends out of need rather than want, scraping by on borrowed money and peanuts thrown at me for the small amount of writing I'd managed to sell, walking the same route every day with my dog despite being surrounded by world-class hiking terrain, and trying to figure out where I wanted to be while lacking the funds to go anywhere. My idea of a workday consisted of cleaning and cooking because that was the only household contribution my broke ass could afford. There was also some journaling about my latest epiphany of self-realisation, as well as frequent perusing of the web, reading over job postings I was too afraid to apply for or browsing through items I was unable to buy. I was going nowhere fast. Living for 'some day'. Paralysed by the fear of failure and thus avoiding chasing my dreams. Hiding behind a mask of calm and my new latest plan, I regularly tried to convince friends and family that I had my shit together... which they most likely saw through but pitied me enough to refrain from saying so.
Was it my ADHD? Perhaps it was my addictive personality that, no longer attaching itself to alcohol, swapped regularly between high sugar intake and chronic masturbation. Whatever it was, I was at my limit. No longer could I stomach being dependent on those I loved. I refused to accept night-out attire consisting of trousers around my ankles and a fresh handkerchief. I was capable of more. I deserved more. I didn't believe it, though. I clearly wasn't going to do it for myself. I couldn't even raise my eyes to the mirror as I dried off out of contempt for how I'd let myself go. Rushing to put my clothes on as fast as possible, I resembled a triathlete swapping from swim to cycle mode, only rather than competing against others for an athletic accolade, I was instead racing against my eyes, hiding my shame before catching one more glance at what I'd become.
Dressed and looking back at my oversized trousers, stained t-shirt and strange haircut hidden under a cap, I tried to feel pleased with the person I saw. I searched desperately for that guy ladies used to find attractive. Those blue-green eyes, there they are! Only, now surrounded by wrinkles. Ah! But the dimples! Oh, yes… cratered into chubby cheeks. The dark, curly hair? That was always a winner! Alas! Now straight and mullet-like from the dry desert climate. I no longer recognised myself. I was staring at a stranger.
Head hung low, I returned to the spare bedroom donated to me half a year prior. My dog, Koru, handsome and full of life, lay on the bed, eyes wide and expectant, tail hammering the wall as if beating a drum to announce my arrival. He's irresistible and loves me more than anyone, including myself. And I love him more than anyone, including myself. I lay on the bed as Koru climbed on top of me. Paws on either side of my head and chest rested on mine, he kept his bum high in the air in order to continue wagging his tail out of excitement for seeing me again after ten minutes apart. As per every time we're separated, which is never more than a few moments, my loving companion rubbed his head and face into and all over mine until his heart was content. Then, exhausted from the celebration, he lowered himself completely on top of me and, with sleepy, fluttering eyes, yawned before falling asleep. "He loves me no matter what. I can't let him down. I need to do better. I need to turn things around. Ah, but I won't do it for me. It just isn't possible right now. I can't, and I won't. I know it." Koru's gentle breathing slowed my racing mind. "Fine!" A sudden burst of clarity brought me back to life. "Then don't do it for you. Do it for him."
So, I immediately began writing this. It felt like the best way to get back on track. Pouring my heart out isn’t easy, though. Sharing the bitter truth locked deep inside in this way is terrifying. Anyone can read it if they want to. It's heavy and intense, but a necessary process to escape this maze of despair. This is my story. I hope you like it.
Before continuing, I'd like to make something very clear. Poor mental health comes in many forms and can be extremely complicated and dangerous. It is an invisible epidemic and a silent killer. If you're one of those ignorant knobs that think poor mental health is a sign of weakness or doesn't exist, you are part of the problem. If you've read this far and are already judging me, then respectfully, fuck you. Stop reading this immediately and instead pick up some literature on mental health. There's plenty of it out there, so get off your high horse, educate yourself and learn to support a loved one who is quietly struggling. Because everybody almost certainly has a person in their lives who could use some help.
On the other hand, if you or someone close to you struggles or has struggled with mental health, I'm glad you're here. Hopefully, by reading these pages, you'll be able to relate and feel understood, just as I do by those who read my words. By sharing our stories, we'll never be alone.
Enjoy!
Mike