#john o'callaghan ( the scripturient )

[jolteonwrites]

journal entry of john o'callaghan, aged 23, circa 2012. several days before the events of 24 floors.

will someone just come and take my heart? set it down in front of moving cars.

It would hurt less.

I see my life in flashes and phases. Happiness, sadness, disappointment, loneliness, excitement, fear, shame. The joyful moments are so fleeting but the sadness stretches on forever, reaching an eternity that fills me with guilty, awful dread. I know I should feel grateful. My life has worked out so magically special, I have the best job in the world. I am grateful for this, I am.

Why isn't it enough?

My family loves me. I tour the world with my best friends. We have fans across oceans. Some of them don't even speak much English. They adore what we create anyway. Music transcends all barriers.

And it's not enough to break this curse attached to me. The joy is temporary, the sadness is everlasting.

It might be my own fault.

I seem to carry death with me in my pocket.

I know it's there because it's very heavy and it gives my soul a dull, constant ache to drag it wherever I go.

Life is not how I thought it would be as a child. And that is not to say it's not a magical gift every day, to be here, to feel, to be. It's mostly pensive and blurs together. But when it's painful, it rakes through like the most jagged blade, slow and deliberate and forceful and so fucking terrible.

And it's lonely.

Oh my God, it's fucking lonely.

I want to be okay with alone but I yearn and it takes up a space in my throat and I can't speak.

I'm not sure my friends 'get' it. Their brains don't work the same. When I find someone that does... they don't stay for long.

What does that mean? I think it was my fault.

I think it was all my fault.

Who am I? Where am I going?

I think I've been asking the wrong questions my whole life. And my pockets are heavy.

This life feels like a living death.

I don't think I want to be here any more.

[jolteonwrites]

𝘑𝘖𝘜𝘙𝘕𝘈𝘓 𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘙𝘠 𝘖𝘍 𝘑𝘖𝘏𝘕 𝘖'𝘊𝘈𝘓𝘓𝘈𝘎𝘏𝘈𝘕, 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 35, 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 2023. a livingroom in new york city.

Never really had a sweetheart to come home to and I don't know why that would change now at 35. I've had little crushes before but that's not anything real. This didn't feel the same. I only ever heard those three little words from my family, or in a song... or from a girl I regret hurting every day. When she said it, all I felt was dread, remorse, regret... longing. But not for her.

When he said it, my heart leapt. And what does that mean? Wherever he goes, I follow. He's shown me every scar and let me kiss it, and to my surprise, I've done the same. He wasn't around for a month and it hurt so badly that I did not know how to contain it. It spilled out over me and I left a poisonous trail of it all over Arizona. Poisoned myself trying not to feel it.

Am I still acting as his friend? And how terrible would that be? This soft, delicate being who needs a friend more than anything and agreed to casual? I didn't realise I was the one with the warning signs. I don't know what this is but he needs a friend so I'll crush it down and just be what he needs.

[jolteonwrites]

𝘑𝘖𝘜𝘙𝘕𝘈𝘓 𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘙𝘠 𝘖𝘍 𝘑𝘖𝘏𝘕 𝘖'𝘊𝘈𝘓𝘓𝘈𝘎𝘏𝘈𝘕, 𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 35, 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 2023. a livingroom in new york city.

I can be your punching bag.

Kick me, beat me, rip me all to pieces.

Take all that hurt and throw it in my face.

I'll be there. Bleeding, bruised, missing limbs.

I'll take all your hurt and I'll find someplace else to put it.

Let me be your punching bag.

I want to see you shine yellow again.

So wound me. Twist the knife. Slice the artery. I'll clean it up for you after. I'll find someplace else to put it.

When you're free, I'll be okay.

Don't mind the blood on my teeth when I smile. I'm finding someplace else to put it.

[jolteonwrites]

𝘐 𝘕𝘌𝘌𝘋 𝘛𝘖 𝘊𝘈𝘓𝘓 𝘐𝘛 𝘘𝘜𝘐𝘛𝘚 𝘉𝘌𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘐 𝘓𝘖𝘚𝘌 𝘈 𝘍𝘙𝘐𝘌𝘕𝘋

John's been obsessed with a lot of things.

His music, his career, his regrets, his worries, his everlasting sadness, the substances that help him ignore it.

He's never been so obsessed with a person before. Something tangible and soft and warm to hold. Something that listens and talks back. Something good and gentle and kind. Something breakable. Something to help him ignore it all. That's what it was, really. Conversing with Joe kept him distracted. He was something to use up until he was empty, just like everything else John found to distract himself.

John didn't want to leave him empty, though. He wanted to give, give, give. He wanted Joe to have everything good, take all the goodness from himself, wherever it hid within, and give it to him instead. Until John was empty. He would rather that than hurt anybody else ever again.

And yet, he knows to carry on their conversations is to keep pushing the glass closer to the edge of the table. He knows this is dangerous, because no matter what he gives Joe, he is still using him somehow. He should be the one to stop it. He starts and he can't stop, but there's still time to pump the brakes on this before someone gets hurt.

It's a thought he sits in silence with every so often, fingers hovering over the name Joey Keery on his call list.

This has to stop.

He has to call it quits before he loses a friend. Another good, kind, gentle, breakable friend. The glass is hanging off the edge.

He hits call anyway.

[jolteonwrites]

𝘐𝘍 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘎𝘖𝘖𝘋 𝘋𝘐𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘕𝘎, 𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘕 𝘐'𝘔 𝘎𝘖𝘕𝘕𝘈 𝘓𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙

It starts in high school.

It usually does. John drinks at parties, tries it all. Beer, cider. Gets bolder, goes for vodka, whiskey, tequila. Some red wine that's somehow worse that all of those combined. He tries his first blunt at fifteen and he's never found sitting in a circle on the floor so funny before.

And that's all it is. He does it with his friends. It's normal. He's experimenting.

Then he goes to college. It's just the thing he's been expected to do. His mom is proud and his dad is pleased. John's just trying to get through it, wade in as deep as he dares to go and hopes the anxiety and wears off eventually. Maybe if he sticks it out long enough, he won't feel lost any more. Lightbulb moment. It doesn't come.

He's a lot more free here than at home. Doesn't have to cover up being wasted when he gets home at 3AM, or lie about a hangover. He can just be. So he drinks more. Every weekend, even. It's part of the college experience. He blacks out more times than he can count across two semesters. It helps him make friends. He doesn't rot in his dorm room if he's got some liquid confidence (he also doesn't make it to most lectures either, but his dad doesn't need to know that). He usually wakes up from it sick to his stomach and filled with dread, eyes heavy as he stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn't feel any less lost. The 'college experience' feels a lot like how John figures it feels to be jilted. Aren't these supposed to be the best years of his life? Why is he in a cold sweat about the future and all the stupid shit he said last night? He grips the sink until it doesn't feel like retribution any more.

I swear I'm not an alcoholic, I'm only nineteen. I've seen alcoholics and they don't look like me.

Being in a band opens a lot of doors, John finds. Behind those doors, there's usually people using drugs of some description.

He's not stupid; he knows the risks. Got all the talks about it at school. It's a shame, really, he thinks. How can something so awful be so wonderful?

He floats above his worries on uppers until his wax wings melt and he goes lower than he's ever been. It's hard to swim back up when he's so deep he can't see the surface. So he tries more, tests more limits, gets a different kind of high. Coke helps the most onstage when he's really worn out (van sleeping with four other boys and however many crew they can fit in the back doesn't make for the healthiest lifestyle).

He ends up digging a grave for some other lost soul this way. He almost climbs into his own in a hotel room in the dead of night a few months later but something stops him. Something like a ghost. He doesn't take any drugs for a while after that.

I swear I'm not an addict, I'm only twenty-three. I've seen addicts and they don't look like me. He's a number of years away from being a college drop-out now (and a disappointment to his dad), touring with his friends. It's a big, fancy bus and not a van and that feels like they've really made it.

He still can't talk to girls that well and still feels like he's making life up as he goes along, but maybe that's okay. He can sit in the feeling of being lost and be at peace with it. He's hurt himself a few times, hurt a few others a lot more. Took another knock every time because he didn't mean to do it and he doesn't know why he can't wise up a little bit.

It's okay though, because he has the best job in the world with his very best friends and that usually makes things feel okay again. He's got a bottle in his hand most nights on stage. Sometimes he loses his balance, just sings on the floor. Nobody says anything about it. Why would they? It's the lifestyle. He's still there, he's not blackout in a green room unable to perform.

The beer helps him sleep, anyway. He has a lot of trouble sleeping on the road. Anywhere that's not home, really. Beer usually knocks him out, as long as he drinks two or more. It's not always the most restful experience but at least he's not lying awake until it's almost time to get up again. Saves time if he drinks onstage for the good part, still has enough buzz to take photos with the kids, and then he can go to bed later with no trouble.

He only stares at his bunk ceiling for a few minutes before he nods off most nights, as long as he's drunk.

I swear I'm not an alcoholic, I'm only twenty-six. I've seen alcoholics, and they don't look like me.

John can't stop hurting everyone he knows.

He can't stop striking the match and letting it fall onto the gasoline; it torches everyone while he watches. It burns him around the edges, but he has to walk away mostly in one piece. Knowing.

When his friends can't keep up, he makes new ones. When the party inevitably ends, he gets an invite to another. He can't and won't sit in the pain if he doesn't have to, and he's not suicidal so it's okay. It's just a good time.

Everyone thinks he's better now so he can make that true, as long as he doesn't think about anything he's ever done. Whenever he hits the bottom, he sees her face. A blur above the surface, someone that he would call. But he doesn't. There's nobody left to call. Who could want this?

He's sick in the mornings and he doesn't dwell on thoughts of her, or he'd start too early in the day. She burns up in his mind. He didn't mean to devastate her life more than a man before him already had. Nineteen's so far away, but he's still looking at a boy in the mirror who doesn't know where to go. His knuckles turn white on the rim of the sink, and he thinks he might smash the glass to pieces if he weren't so scared of blood.

I think I might be an addict and I'm almost thirty-three. I've met so many addicts and they all look like me.

[jolteonwrites]

JOHN CORNELIUS O’CALLAGHAN V

introducing a secret-specific biography in the life of john.

John had a difficult relationship with his dad growing up. His father was never happy that he dropped out of college with no real plan, to become a musician of all things (despite the fact that that actually turned out rather well). Throughout his school years, John was frequently berated by his dad for not being more like his younger brothers. For not being more focused, more advanced, more studious, or just... better. It built unfair resentment towards his brothers, and put up a stiff wall between him and his father, and it was still there even now. 

John has struggled with a drug addiction on and off most of his life. He started smoking weed in high school, and the experimentation continued from there. At first it wasn’t a problem. Recreational, he would say. But as a man who suffered greatly at the hands of OCD, depression, anxiety, and insomnia related to both things (often on tour), the drugs would later become a vice. Depression fueled the drug-taking and drug-taking fueled the depression. It was a vicious cycle that he didn’t care to break himself out of, and he came close to suicide once or twice. Those things, however, aren’t really so secret. His friends know, his fans know. He’s over that now – so he says. What people don’t know is he’s falling back into old habits. That’s not to say he’s not better than he was. He definitely is. But the fear that he might not stay better scared him, and he quietly began taking drugs again. He still smoked pot occasionally, but he’s secretly dabbled in taking cocaine again. It’s not often; he tells himself it’s not something he needs, it’s just a little pick-me-up. Just a cup of coffee in powder form. That’s fine. Nobody needs to know about it. They’d just worry.

John has plenty of regrets in his life… he’s sure he’s hurt more people than he cares to remember, a lot of the time without meaning to. He’s slept around a little... or a lot. He had an almost-relationship with a girl that he would’ve loved to be in love with, but he wasn’t and he couldn’t and she left. But he’s fairly open about that too, at least the bare minimum details of it, and while he doesn’t like to think about it, he also doesn’t mind that people know. It’s somewhat cleansing to share it. He would hate for people to assume the worst of him because of those things, though.

There are other regrets, however… regrets he doesn’t talk about and doesn’t want people to know. In the worst phases of his depression, he would drive drunk. Not all the time, but late at night, sometimes… he crashed his car once. It wasn’t really a crash, just a little bump, and it was easily fixed. But it could’ve been worse. He doesn’t like to think about that.

He doesn’t like to think about playing shows on bad comedowns – doesn’t like to think that he might’ve let people down by not giving them the best show possible, so he’d just do more coke to hype up and make it better. He’d have a beer, and a whiskey. Wake himself up and put on an exciting show. He’d cry and puke in the bathroom later if he felt really terrible, just as long as the show was good. He doesn’t like remembering those days either.

He also doesn’t like remembering this girl… Christina. She was a friend from high school, and then college, for the short time that he actually attended. The first few times John ever tried cocaine, it was with her. They lost touch for a while, for a few years… it was 2012 before he saw her again. She was just as attractive as he remembered, and twice as cold. She wasn’t John’s type, and he’d never liked her attitude, but they slept together. They did coke together. Just like old times. There was some kind of nostalgic pull and John couldn’t shake it for a while. She’d always been somewhat cruel to him when they were teenagers; she had scoffed at the idea of him making it in a band. She didn’t have so much as an apology when they met again and he had made it. He was there. He’d done it. Musician was his official job title and maybe they didn’t make a whole lot of money but he was damn proud of himself. The new status seemed to attract her to him a lot more but John didn’t care for it. He didn’t want to date her, and she didn’t want to date him… she just wanted to be around him. Be seen around him. Meet people through him. John almost didn’t feel guilty any more for being the one who got her hooked on cocaine in the first place – almost. When he slept with her, he felt no remorse in cutting her off afterwards. She had her good qualities but she was toxic and cruel and it felt like justice when all she wanted was to say sorry to him, and he wouldn’t take it. He was proud at the time… felt like he was doing himself, and her, a favour. But it wasn’t something he wanted out in the world. He knew it looked bad. The guy sleeping with the girl and then ignoring her after telling her what an unappealing person she was. It wouldn’t do John any favours for people to know that story. He still thought about Christina sometimes and wondered where she was at. Her parents lived in his hometown and he saw them occasionally when at home.

John had all these regrets, parts of himself he kept locked up and quiet. People knew things about him but they didn’t really know. They didn’t have the full story. And honestly? He’d rather they didn’t.