"Yer Blues"

This is going to kill me... I won't kill myself, but this whole thing is going to swallow me alive, it already is.
I never understood how those rock stars ran away with a band and lived on the edge but now I'm starting to see why and how they did it.
Twenty years from now I'll be telling my story in a home for the criminally insane to an author writing a book about me. I'll be beyond depressed, have no family, and my best friend will be Fred, the schizophrenic guy who will randomly get into fits and try to KILL me! I'll be on Valium regularly and have nightmares of people from my childhood huddling over me with gigantic hands trying to smother me. But no, that's not the worst part. My manic depression will eventually alienate me from all other human beings except medical personnel. And the doctors and nurses will even start to grow afraid of me. They will only visit to administer me medicine. And to combat the incredible, despondent loneliness, I will begin to talk to myself. My imaginary friends will reside inside of my mind and feed off my growing psychosis. Taking one of the only good parts of my life, I'll remember my beloved Beatles and begin to talk to them... They were the ones who were always there for me. If I needed support or just somebody who I thought cared, I went to Paulie, Johnny, Georgie and Ritchie. They'll come and go as my mind so pleases. Somehow, it seemed like they cared more than anyone else. In a state of deep misery, "Yer Blues" made me feel like John knew exactly what I was going through. "Even hate my rock n roll..." I knew exactly how that could feel. The one thing that made my life seem worthwhile, at times could not even bring me back to reality. But even so, it was always there and was one constant thing I could fully rely on. Anywho, the Beatles and I would sing songs together and sympathize about the nasty trash called life. I understood "Yellow Submarine" like it was a story of the world with all of its "blue meanies". The "blue meanies" try to stamp out what is truly good and happy in the world; a prime example of hatred and its accomplices. They are the antithesis to peace and love. The Beatles were peace loving gurus who taught the "blue meanies" how to love and be peaceful. Of course, Jesus, my best friend was right there by my side. I didn't think I had to mention him since he was a give in, but in today's world spirituality is found seldom. He was the one who heard my crying pleas and answered them. He was the first person trying to make the "blue meanies" repent and become good. He is probably the reason I haven't completely self destructed. But nevertheless, pain will never go away and it continues to bang at my front door. Ever so slowly, life will pass me by. Without family or friends, I will age. Anyway, I figured I can be just as happy by myself without anyone to harm me or make me feel worthless. Half of the men I knew my entire life, well more like three quarters, ended up being low lives essentially like my own dad. Half of them were cheating womanizers and the other just plain old abusive people. I know there are good men out there... I've met them... it just seems that I don't attract them. Hell, I don't even know what is what anymore. Maybe it IS me. Maybe I am the one who has the problem. But regardless, I will not be able to change the past. With every wrinkle that forms on my wearied body, I'll remember the Otis Redding song, "Try a Little Tenderness". Now that life has passed me by, what I remember is music. I can pick up my guitar and strum those strings until my fingers bleed. Once I start playing I become completely absorbed into it with no escape out. It is a feeling of complete security that envelopes me. My guitar, Dhani is such a good friend. Songs of all sorts drift in my mind. Songs that I used to listen to when I was happy will make me cry and the songs I listened to when I was beyond myself will all make sense. Funny though, the songwriters I can relate to have long died from drug overdose/suicide or one of the same thing. It could also have just been plain old human hatred that killed them. Like poor John Lennon, you didn't deserve to die...
Through it all, I won't remember all the places I've been, the few people I've actually loved. Those memories will be swept away in the dust pile with the painful crap life has handed me in a gift basket. Those I was closest to, I have long driven away with my mental swings. They won't understand that I don't mean any of this; it's just the result of living in hell a bit too long.
I once had dreams of becoming some kind of musician. When you're young you have all sorts of ambitions. I wanted to actually meet Paul McCartney, induct someone into the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame and even live in England. You grow up and then realize dreams will never happen. It's a sad life cycle.
When I'm not staring at the infinitely mesmerizing walls or talking to absolutely no one, the silence will deafen me. Why? After years and years of coping and trying to rid of this mind crippling disease, why hasn't it gone away? I would think this medicine they give me could at least take the edge off and make me feel a little less awful. I guess the problem is me after all. There was always that monkey on my back ready to strike when the tide was low. He'd laugh menacingly, teasing as if I could really stop him. The little devil, he wasn't even cute.
As I wither away in my little white room covered in posters of Abbey Road, A Hard Day's Night and the crucifix hanging over my headboard, I will at least be surrounded by things that are comforting: my music and my God.