From a Hollywood Bathroom

I guess it all started when I lived with my parents after the last time I fucked up my life. My dad had a lung operation years ago, and while he understood how necessary cigarettes were for my sanity, he couldn't bear the smell of smoke in the house. So, I would sit in the basement bathroom with the shower on and pretend that the steam would somehow mask the odor. He knew every time, but I was convinced that one day my plan would work, and the little particles of carcinogens would magically attach themselves to the droplets of steam and waft off to anywhere but my father's nostrils. My mother always warned me that if I didn't stop, he would get upset.

My dad was in Vietnam, where he developed a severe case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (which wasn't discovered until twenty years later) from witnessing and contributing to the deaths of hundreds of innocent human beings. Because of this, he had a tendency to turn to physical violence when faced with stressful situations. Looking back, I was such the instigator. I always loved to play the victim.

Anyway, I find enormous comfort now sitting in bathrooms with the shower running. I know it's wasteful, but it's worth it. The noise seems to shield me from the rest of the world. Time stands still, and I can cope with life, or rather the lack thereof. Unfortunately, when people start to question my behavior, I freak out and try to replace it with something else. Right now, that something else is Ativan. I have two left. I'm saving one for the flight back home.