Save Yourself
I cannot save you / I can’t even save myself. And so goes part of the chorus of Stabbing Westward’s 1998 song, “Save Yourself.” The industrial-metal band is okay as far as Nine Inch Nails wannabees go, but there’s something about that particular song that I find almost emotionally devastating.
It’s about the drugs, of course. And the booze. At least it is to me. Because the song doesn’t mention these things explicitly. But what else, right?
I came across the song in the late summer of 1998, shortly after the album Darkest Days on which it appears, was released. My friend Andrew had recommended it to me. Which is to say, he thrust the CD into my hand as I was flicking through albums in the “metal” section.
“Listen to ‘Save Yourself,’” he said. “It’ll put your relationship with Simon into perspective.
Simon was, at the time, quite gone. There was nothing behind the eyes except for an animalistic instinct to devour all the drugs. And the booze.
A talented musician, he had sold his guitar and amp to support his cocaine habit. It wasn’t easy maintaining a habit as a Subway sandwich artist and doing small deals whenever he got the chance. But he managed it.
I am not your savior / I am just as fucked as you. And therein is the crux. The narrator of the song is in such deep shit that he can’t find a way out of his own personal hell, let alone help someone out of theirs.
I was an alcoholic, for sure. The binge kind. I had no trouble going days, or even a week, without drinking. But whenever I did drink, I couldn’t stop myself. Some sort of valve opened up and I became insatiable. Drink until you pass out or puke. Or maybe both. That was the gig back then. That was where I was at. I had just turned 18.
For some reason, there were four Subways in our little suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. Usually, Simon and I worked at different locations, but this time, for some reason, he was working at my store. It’s weird that the one day we worked together, a guy came into the store looking to sell two Pearl Jam tickets. I could take or leave Pearl Jam, but they were one of Simon’s favorite bands. Whatever, though, I thought it would be fun to check them out with Simon, so we each bought a ticket.
It was June 1998, and the concert was only a month and a half away, but that’s like five years or so in addict time. I kept wondering when Simon would break down and sell the tickets to help support his habit. But, no, by some miracle, they stayed in his possession for the entire time. Goddamn, he really wanted to see this show.
Neither of us drove, so we needed a ride from Hoover to Birmingham. It wasn’t far, only about a fifteen-minute drive. But it was far too long to drive. So Pedro drove us. I felt bad for the guy. He liked Pearl Jam almost as much as Simon. Certainly more than I did. In fact, several times Simon had tried to get me to sell my ticket to him. And I really should have done it, but damn it, this was likely Simon’s last concert, and I wanted to be with him. I wanted to experience it with him. The drugs or the drinking or both were going to get him soon, I just knew it.
The concert itself was good enough, as far as these things go. For me, the highlight came when some crazy teenage guy without a shirt tried to rush the stage, and got tackled by security. What did he think would happen if he was actually able to reach the band. That they’d let him sing a song? Would Eddie Vedder give him a kiss on the cheek?
Other than that, I took in brief glimpses of Simon. The guy was smiling like it was Christmas or something. He was so happy. He was going to be dead soon.
But, fuck, what do I know? He didn’t die. He’s still alive, in fact. Oh, he certainly came close. Eventually, he went back to church and sobered up. He didn’t stay sober, though. However, he seems to have found some sort of balance now. He’s in Austin, Texas, now. He plays guitar and drums in country and western bands. I check on him every now and then.
The mind begins to advance toward strange colors of survival.
Balance wasn’t for me. I had to get sober and stay sober. It took until 2016, when I was thirty-five years old. I didn’t hit that rock bottom thing I’m always hearing about. Or I don’t think so, at least. My last drunk was two bottles of wine before my wife drove myself and a friend to the wrestling matches in Hagerstown, twenty minutes from our place in Frederick, Maryland. I made a complete ass out of myself. Yelling louder than everyone else, slobbering on my wife. I had a younger friend with me, and I could feel his embarrassment.
Couple of months later, and I was in a mental health program. It was a month-long partial hospitalization. What this meant was that I was technically under the hospital’s care, though I could go home on nights and weekends. I was in for straight depression, though others were coming in from a stay at the inpatient psych ward “upstairs.” They had bipolar and even schizophrenia.
It just didn’t make any sense to drink anymore. Not if I wanted to stay sane, not if I wanted to get better. Can’t do much about a depressed person sucking wildly on a depressant.
Still, I didn’t “save” myself. Too much religious nonsense wrapped up with that word. Grace. God’s grace. Yer getting into heaven, loverboy.
What the hell am I reaching for here?
A couple months ago, in the breakroom at the supermarket where I work, I was scrolling through Facebook when I was suddenly ripped from my forty-something body and thrown into the body of my nine-year-old self. What caused this strange transformation? A meme with a picture of a group of old cereal boxes from the 80s. My breath became shallower and I understood nothing, in the most glorious sense of the word. This was my world before booze and suicide attempts and desperate depression. This was a world without sex or middle of the night thoughts of dying. This was the world of Joon-Jad and other heroes that I had made up.
For a moment, I almost understood.
Patrick King has had short stories, essays, and a novel published in various places online and in print. As P.S. King, he’s had two short film scripts produced. He’s written about films for Dread Central, Daily Grindhouse, TheRetroSet.com, Battleroyalewithcheese.com and Mugwumpcorporation.com. He is the former film editor at CulturedVultures.com.
