I am still alive, and feeling extremely awkward. For fifteen hours last Tuesday into early Wednesday, I sat with my g*n in hand, and couldn’t pull the trigger. I ended up at a local park with several cop cars there as they talked me down. I had to surrender my g*n to the police. Several posters commented on what I thought would be my final post, and I haven’t been able to post anything until today. Thank you for your comments….I don’t know what to say, other than I thought I was ready to die, but clearly I wasnt. Life is awkward and strange, and I’m ashamed.
I am afraid.
My name is Chip. I am afraid.
I am waiting for a decision. I can’t keep this shit up. I can’t fight anymore. I can’t comprehend not being alive, but can’t imagine continuing to struggle. I’ve already lost this battle, just haven’t fallen down yet and died.
This is my Dad and I. I was around 3, I guess.
I miss my Dad. I miss so much. I miss so much, I missed so much. Will he be there when I cross? Will anyone? Will Hooks?
I miss me, whoever I could’ve been.
I’ve had a good life. It hasn’t been perfect, but I’ve been blessed. I haven’t really suffered, in the traditional sense. I’ve never gone 24 hours without food. I’ve had a roof over my head every night. I’ve been blessed. I’ve been totally independent since age 20. I’m 57 now. I’ve done ok. I’ve done interesting work and done some travelling. I was a telephone man for 20 years. I drove trucks long haul for eight years. I drove buses in Oregons capital city for three years, I did medical transport in that time also. I’ve seen things in my travels that many will never see. I’ve seen California’s giant old growth redwoods. I’ve seen every lighthouse on the Oregon coast. I’ve photographed bald eagles, squirrels, horses, nature, everything except people…I never learned to connect with people. But I’ve been blessed with decent health, good financial sense, good work ethic. I am an aquarius, which is to say I am weird. People “wonder about me”, why I dont behave the way they think I should. Chuckle.
I wish I’d learned to connect with people. I really do. Maybe things wouldn’t have come to this. As it is, I have been alone my whole life, afraid to open up to anyone, unable to trust anyone, feeling inferior to everyone.
I lived in New Mexico for a brief time in early 2000. I remember standing in the desert one day, wondering when I’d ever escape my home town of El Paso. I’d moved from El Paso to Chaparral, New Mexico just because I could, but was technically still living in my home town. I wanted out so bad, and was frustrated. I finally left, and now 19 years later, reflect on an adventure that I could’ve never dreamed of. I did a lot in these past two decades, but the thing I am most proud of is the home I made here in Oregon for myself and my two cats. I took in a stray that was dying and nursed her to health. She birthed a litter of five kittens. I kept her and one of the kittens. This happened in 2011. I named her Jewel, and the kitten Hooks. Hooks picked me to be his caretaker. He chose me. So, I kept him and his mommy, and in 2019, at the young age of 7, cancer killed Hooks. I alone have provided their every need since December of 2011. I did good. I am proud of the effort I put into caring for them. These were my best years.
I am inspired by the story of Dr. Sophia Yin. A veterinarian and animal behavioralist who succumbed to depression and commuted suicide. She was a jogger, and told a friend that she “couldn’t outrun the sadness.” She couldn’t outrun the sadness. I can’t outrun the emptiness, the self hate, the self loathing.
So…I … what? What do I do? What did Dr. Yin do? She faced her demons head on and walked her path. She was an amazing woman…and yet there was no respite for her.
I don’t know what comes next, but this, THIS here and now is just too much.
Not suicide related. Just reminiscing.
Home was becoming an inescapable trap. I could only dream of what it would be like the day I’d be able to say “I’m from” so and so to the residents of my new hometown. I climbed the walls, hated everything I laid my eyes on. The same sights, sounds, people, radio stations, no doubt the same thing we all feel at times as we dream of escaping the confines of the places of our birth. I remember writing in a journal one afternoon, something along the lines of “…I need to be shaken, to have the rug pulled out from under my feet, to experience the discomfort of change.” I don’t know what led me to believe that was what I needed, other than a feeling in my gut perhaps. As the days wore into weeks into months into years, the feeling grew stronger. Yeah, you know it – it’s that feeling. “Get me the f*ck out of this god forsaken place.” It was overwhelming, as the something inside me that is me demanded change. It’s the voice that became a howl, and it wouldn’t cease until it received what it needed.
Well, the hobo’s watch stopped at five o’clock, I feel I’ll never find him
Oh Dear John, where are you? I know you’re out there somewhere
Well I got a hurricane in my pocket, though no one will believe me
They poured a bucket of tar on top of a flower, somehow I knew they’d try it
To deny it, and defy it, and to buy it
Dad was a good, kind man. As his first born son, I feel I have the right to say he was also full of shit at times, but he was decent. Genuinely decent. Since I’ve assumed my place as his flesh and blood clone and he is a pile of dust in a coffin, (wearing a stylish suit and tie, I might add) I know he was full of shit because now, I am him, therefore also “full of shit.” On a good day, I see Dad’s decency in myself, on a bad day, I’m just full of his genetic shit. I didn’t back then, but nowadays, I have no choice but to love him. He tried. Carrying all his flaws and failures, he did what he could with what he was given. He never walked out on his family, he was always there for us to beat up on and dump on, to disrespect and lie to. He never turned his back on us, even though he never quite mastered the art of fatherhood to a degree that satisfied me. There’s a lot to be said for his never having left us, despite the rocky marriage he and Mom endured.
A significant difference between him and me is my lack of stories about New England. New Hampshire, to be specific, where he was born and raised. Dad had a memory for details. It was frightening. I’ll never forget how he was able to locate vehicles owned by people who had dumped trash on his two acre spread simply by memorizing the tire tracks they left in the soil, then driving around to suspect homes and analyzing their tires. He could do this, and on several occasions, the owners of the garbage returned, humbly and apologetically, to clean up the messes they left. Dad was intimidating, and you tended to fear him…of course, nowadays, he would’ve gotten himself shot – we’re a bit more volatile in the twenty first century, and less prone to do what a crazy but intimidating old man asks us to do as he stands at our door accusing us of dumping rubbish on his property. But his mind for detail led to several of these retrievals by the guilty party. He grilled me once about an injury I suffered while trying to climb atop a pavilion at a local park. I made up my best lie. (I was twelve. Cut me some slack.) He listened, and said “Hmmmm. Are you sure?” and I proudly said “Yes, that’s how it happened.” He then drove me to the pavilion, and said “Well. You can stick to your story about falling off a curb while you tied your shoes if you want, but I know whatever happened, happened here.” I about shit myself. How did he do that??
New England in the fall….absolute magic. Imagine a quilt, of red, brown, gold, beige, green, yellow, and all their accompanying shades, that spreads on for as far as the seeing eye can see as the leaves change color. It is indescribably beautiful. I experienced tree induced claustrophobia for the first time during my first visit, as everywhere I turned, trees grew. I was 26. Thirty one years ago. Uncle Wayne, in his first trip to my neck of the desert Southwest woods, where there are two shades of brown for color, told me to “come up in September, and make sure to bring film.” I’d seen photos, who hasn’t, but when you’re there, in it, surrounded by it, well, it’s breathtaking.
Well let’s go dancing
Let’s go dancing
Said the firefly to the hurricane
Said the pouring rain to the open plain
How many times?
I can’t say the house where Dad and his family grew up was just as I pictured it. I tended to tune out his stories after a while, because that’s what son’s do to their dads. I do remember him describing it as “L” shaped, and having two stories.
One of Dads stories:
“Chip, I complained to my Dad about how cold it was that morning as he and I cut wood behind the house. He wasn’t in a good mood, so he told me to jump. I gave a half-hearted jump. He said “Again.” I jumped again, wondering what he was doing. Your granddad thundered ” I SAID JUMP, DAMMIT!” and he took his ax, turned it around so he was holding the blade in his big bear claw of a hand, and started hitting me on the back of the legs with the handle. I started jumping, and didn’t stop. He kept swinging. I kept jumping. After a minute, he stopped, and asked me “Well – are you still cold?’ Through my tears, son, I said “No.” He said “THEN START CUTTING WOOD WHENEVER YOU’RE READY.”
Somehow or other, I was able to arrange an airline ticket to and from Boston for a family reunion up the road in New Hampshire. Big happenings. I’d finally be able to match faces with stories, meeting aunts, uncles and cousins I’d never met. Wayne, James, Terry, Ariel, Marilyn, Sharon and Ned were aunts and uncles who had only been imagined, and now I was going to meet them, along with their mother, my Grandmother, Eleanor. My grandfather had already passed on, however I did get to meet him once, many years earlier, when he visited Texas. And, of course, there was the “L” shaped house they all grew up in. Think an episode of “The Waltons.” Very similar scene, except there wasn’t a John Boy. This was my first real trip anywhere, other than a few jaunts across the border into Juarez, Mexico from my hometown on the Texas/Mexico border. At the airport now in Boston, Massachusetts, the rental car shuttle driver asked me where I was headed, and I proudly declared “Chester ,New Hampshire.” If I’d been thinking, I would’ve pronounced it “Chest-ahhh“, as the locals tend to do. (You don’t “park the car at the bar” in Boston, you “paaaahk the caaaah at the baaaah.”) In that moment, I became a traveler. I became not a caged animal seeking his independence and freedom – I became someone who just stepped off a 707 and was heading deeper into New England. I never felt so free, so empowered, so different. He rattled off directions, dropped me at the rental car counter, and left. I didn’t remember a word he said. Something about “…something to somewhere else, to somewhere else, to somewhere else.” Who cared. I just FLEW to Boston, ( or “Bwaaaston” as its often pronounced) and was about to pick up a rental car. Me and the Red Sox were just a-hangin’ out in Bean Town.
I spent a few nights with Meredith, a cousin. She and her husband Glenn lived in Pembroke, New Hampshire, near Chestaaaa. I remember standing in a field outside their home that first night, listening to worms eating leaves…surreal. There was an infestation of gypsy moths, I think they called them, and in their early stages of life apparently they took the shape of a worm that eats leaves. And that night, as young impressionable me stood, two thousand miles from home and all its pain, I listened to them eat. A sterophonic symphony of leaf eating, in the dark, so far away from all I’d ever known. I’d never felt more alive, more conscious. This was a dream of which I could’ve never imagined.
Well, I stopped a freight train with a grain of sand, can you hear it crashing?
I split a mountain in two with a flake of snow, still they won’t believe me
Well the tales were tall the stories were old, yet somehow I believed them
So what do you know about revolution? When all you’ve taught is patience
And waiting, and making a statement
26 might be a little old to have a hero, but I had one. Tom Brunansky, a baseball player. He played right field in El Paso, Texas during his minor league career, and his major league career brought him to Boston for a while. My hero once hit four home runs in a game in El Paso, and missed a fifth one by about ten feet, according to the radio play by play announcer. He ended the day with four homeruns, a triple and nine RBI, which is just a bunch of goofy baseball talk for “Honey, you WON’T believe what I did at work today!! Get the kids, we’re going to McDonalds for burgers!!” Not a bad days work, and that game solidified his place in my heart as a “hero.”
I picked up a local newspaper my second day in New Hampshire and opened it to the sports section, and saw that the Detroit Tigers were in Boston to take on the Red Sox that night. Whoa. I hadn’t planned to go to a Sox game, it just kind of fell into place…so, I got in my rental car and headed south to see the Sox, and my hero, Bruno.
I parked and made my way to the ticket window. The atmosphere, the people, the anticipation…I was delirious. Alone and free. Free from all the pain, all the rage and disrespect and insults. Two thousand long miles from it. Here I was, Mr. Independent Child/Man of the World, buying a Red Sox ticket.
She was in line ahead of me, and man, she had nice hair.
Long and dark. She bought her ticket and went in, not without first flirting with the man behind the ticket window screen. I bought mine and also went in. Finding my seat, I sat down and started taking in the sights. I was sitting in Fenway Park. This is hallowed ground in terms of baseball history, one of the oldest stadiums in the country, the ghosts of legends still roaming its fields… I almost stopped breathing. This couldn’t be happening to me, yet it was. Given the choice of entering Heaven or Fenway Park, well, it should be obvious which I’d choose. An older couple was sitting next to me, and we began chitting chat. Their English accent struck me immediately as yet another reminder that I was now a genuine, bona fide International ManChild of Mystery, in a far away land, moments away from some sort of unimaginable life changing experience…or maybe just a baseball game. Tom Brunansky warmed up on the field in front of me. There he was! My hero! He played catch with another player as I sat in humble admiration. I awoke from my reverie when he laughingly called his catch buddy a “******” after he threw a ball into the ground in front of him, making him squat uncomfortably to catch it. Did my hero just say “******?” Chuckle. Bruno. My hero, the human being with all his prejudices. Oh well. There he was.
So, as the game went on, I found myself explaining it to the gentleman next to me, as this was the first time watching baseball for him and his wife. This went on for one inning, when I was asked to move from my seat by the seats rightful ticket holders. I’d misread my ticket, and embarrased, I wished the couple a good evening and headed for the OTHER section E. Duh.
And I sat down, right next to her.
Well let’s go dancing
Let’s go dancing
Said the firefly to the hurricane
Said the open plain to the falling rain
How many times?
In retrospect, it made sense. She bought the general admission ticket just before mine, so yeah, of course, here we were. God almighty, she was so pretty, long brown hair, down to her waist. And that SMILE. My seat was still vacant, because most Sox fans know how to read their tickets, and well, hey. Live and learn.
“Hi Chip, I’m Katherine!” she offered after I introduced myself. And the chitting chat began anew, only this time, my pulse was just a-racing, and I wasn’t having to explain the difference between balls and strikes, hits and outs. This lady knew baseball better than me. A lifelong resident of Boston, she regaled me with story after story of Red Sox games and players of days gone by. I heard some of them, and dreamt of kissing her during others. A gentleman never asks a woman her age, and neither does a man/child, but I’d guess she was at least fifteen years my senior. We talked, we listened, we cheered, we sat and … we grew bored with the game. So, during the seventh inning stretch, we left. We walked to her place, about a mile from the stadium. Along the way, we bought hot dogs from a street vendor. We sat on a set of stairs of a random apartment building, on a warm September night, eating hot dogs, while the lights of Fenway Park burned brightly in the distance, and the occasional sound of a multitude of cheering fans drifted up and over the Green Monster and into our excited ears. This memory is so clear and vivid today, thirty one years later…it is one of my fondest memories, and nothing will ever change that. There I sat, on hard stone stairs, in a different world in a distant universe, as an evening I would’ve never dreamed possible unfolded before her and me. Oh god. Oh god. I miss that night. I miss it so fucking much.
“one of these days, I’m going to cut you into little pieces.” – pink floyd
We spent the evening together. I left around 4 a.m. and drove back to New Hampshire, dizzy and exhilarated, awash in unfamiliar feelings, none of them unpleasant. The flames of pain from a land called “home” burned much less brightly now, replaced by waves of euphoria and excitement. I couldn’t believe what I was experiencing, what I was living…a blessed night for an insignificant little kid from the desert, trying to fit into the body of the man society expected him to be. I still haven’t mastered the fit, I feel more like I’m stuck in the dressing room trying to find the sleeves of this awkward shirt I’m supposed to wear, trying to find the zipper on these ridiculously confusing pants of maturity I’m expected to put on. Oh look, maybe if you’d take off these shoes, your feet would fit into the legs, dipdink.
Katherine told me she’d never forget me, that I’d always have a friend in Boston.
“would you send me packing, or would you take me home?”
“i never had the nerve to make the final cut.”
“what have we done?” – pink floyd
I never saw Katherine again. We shared what was for me, an amazing night, a night on a plane of existence I’d never visited. It still resonates within my heart how pretty she was, how fortunate I was to have arrived at the ticket window seconds after her, how fortunate I was to be able to explain to a couple from across the pond that three strikes means you’re out, how fortunate I was to sit on a staircase and eat hot dogs with a woman I’d just met, how fortunate I was to see my hero once again while he spouted indignities that, in todays climate, probably would’ve earned him a serious reprimand and all manner of criticism on “social media”, with its pious, self-righteous, artificial morality of convenience.
I think about her often, mainly every time I hear “…Boston Red Sox” on tv or radio. I don’t miss her, I just think about her. I wonder if she thinks of me. Sigh.
“you believed in their stories of fame, fortune and glory. now you’re lost in a haze of alcohol, soft middle age…the pie in the sky turned out to be miles too high…and you hide, hide, hide…behind brown and wild eyes.” – pink floyd
There were many memories on this trip. Uncle Wayne, Aunt Noni and cousin Amy and I went to “Magnetic Hill” in Canada, an optical illusion that makes cars appear to roll uphill. The family reunion, where Dad started a food fight, and its rumored that I told the group of people there that he wasn’t “well endowed.” Whatever, Dad. Riding a horse through the woods with Amy and hanging on for dear life as it broke into a gallop….dear lord – I’m a city boy – I can wrangle cats, but that day, I was a city boy on a horse, with my long hair flowing in the wind behind me holding on for dear life while thoughts of traction and wheelchairs danced in my head. Ahead of me, cousin Amy laughed and urged me to keep up with her and her horse. She is a horse rider. I wasn’t and will never be. I was terrified and excited simultaneously, time standing still as this magnificent horse bore me on her back through a realm of consciousness fraught with trees and change…Oh man. Oh man. That was…invigorating. I’ll never forget that, either.
Well, I stopped a freight train with a grain of sand, can you hear it crashing?
I split a mountain in two with a flake of snow, still they won’t believe me
Well the tales were tall the stories were old, yet somehow I believed them
So what do you know about revolution? When all you’ve taught is patience
And waiting, and making a statement.
The day to leave came too soon. The journey back to hell. A return to the scene of the crimes, the indignities and anger, the dismissals and scorn, the journey back to a lifeless region I called “home”. It was grey, overcast and sprinkling in Boston this morning. My heart hurt. It hurt bad, the way one’s heart hurts after waking from a pleasant dream only to recognize…the ordinary, the usual. I boarded the plane, and sat down, and stared out the window. I popped in my headphones and pressed play. “Let’s Go Dancing”, by Drivin ‘n Cryin. If I had to live on a desert island with only one song to keep me company until I expired into worm food, this would be the one.
I heard it on satellite radio today, and I had to sit. I had to sit down and absorb it. Its a nothing song, I’ve never met anyone who liked it, its just another song in our vast catalog of music. Sitting here, today, six years and a quarter century later, listening, I closed my eyes … and suddenly I was pressing play as my plane taxied to the runway at Logan International Airport a quarter century and six years ago, and halfway through the song, as the grey canvas of Boston sank beneath our floating metal tube, we broke through the low cloud bank into a brilliant, sunlit blue sky that would accompany me home. I had to sit today, and listen, as these memories jumped from their cobweb covered corner and ran through the confusing maze of mind that I am become. These memories are strong, they are beautiful, they are mine. There is no power strong enough to rob me of them, no pain to which I will surrender these beloved memories of my first tenuous steps out of pain, and into splendor. No one, barring death, may interfere with my memories.
Death. And even then, what? Still, as always, there is no fucking answer. Not for me, not for you, not for anyone. We’ll just have to wait and see, wait for our day to be beckoned to whatever awaits. Where is thy sting, o death? I defy you to send me to eternal punishment after being cast, unwillingly, into this insane theater of pain. Come for me, now, today, I give you my permission, knowing you don’t need it and you laugh heartily at my naivete and arrogance. Come. I am ready.
“tell me true, tell me why, was Jesus crucified, was it for this that daddy died?” -pink floyd
And yet, as I rail and posture, howl and scream like the fool I am, you will sit, as I did, and you will wait, biding your time, in your infernal arrogance. You live by noones schedule, not mine, not Katherine’s, not Bruno’s, not Jesus’s. You will call, and I, we, all will answer. As for this day, I sit, and bask in MY memory, and I wait for my opportunity to go dancing … with death.
Oh let’s go dancing
Let’s go dancing
Let’s go dancing
Let’s go dancing
How many times?
Lets Go Dancing by Drivin ‘n Cryin
…except for the final will to act.
Things are becoming too much for me to deal with in my weak mental state. Since I lost my cat, my love in 2019, since losing my job last April, since I decided to lock myself in my apartment and smoke pot in an attempt to hide from all of this, things have just become too much to deal with. I am anxious all the time, panic attacks are frequent. I am seeing a counselor who is hell bent on making me give up suicidal ideation. He will not succeed. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, and seriously – what is there that is worth sticking around for? The past month I’ve spent many nights preparing to exit, frustrated by insomnia and anxiety. Each time I find flaws in my plan, and make mental notes on what needs to be done, and I think I’m finally at a place where I feel confident that my final wishes will be taken care of. They are my cats, and the disposal of my body and personal belongings. The cats are my most pressing concern. I have found a friend who has agreed to come and pick them up and transport them to the shelter if something happens to me. I was actually able to broach the subject of suicide with her briefly when we spoke about the cats recently. She may not fully understand how close I am, but she knows it is on my mind. I have a huge portable kennel set up in my living room, big enough for the two of them, a litter box, food and water, and a big soft blanket. The cats can rest comfortably inside I have a large red folder in plain sight of anyone who enters my apartment containing my final wishes and information about my prepaid cremation. These are the things I care about the most. My belongings can go to the garbage. I don’t need anything special.
I cant think straight anymore. I let things get out of hand, and now I am an absolute wreck. I need order, I need structure in my life, I need my little boy back, and he is dead, gone almost two years now. I am lost. I am totally fucked up.
My plan is to place the cats into the kennel, with food and water. Then, I have drafts of goodbye messages on my phone, ready to be sent to three siblings and my friend who will pick up my cats. All I need to do is send them. I will then make a phone call to the counselor who is trying to make me avoid suicide, asking him to send the police to my apartment, that I am in danger of hurting myself. He will not hesitate to do so. I estimate it will probably be less than one hour from the time he receives my message to the time cops are at my door. I will leave my front door unlocked, they will at some point enter the apartment, see the bright red folder that reads “IF I’M DEAD OR INJURED” on the front cover, as well as the kennel with the large manila envelope sitting atop it reading “WHAT I’D LIKE TO HAVE HAPPEN TO MY CATS IF I’M DEAD”. I have attached contact information for my friend who will pick up the cats, and if she can’t make it today, they at least will be comfortable inside until she does. She is the executive director of the local humane society. I trust her implicitly, and she will not fail my cats – she loves animals. I will go into my den, close the door, take a hit of some good weed, and one, two three, pull the trigger, sitting in my recliner. From that point on, I have no idea what to expect. None whatsoever. I pray for oblivion, and silence, a total lack of awareness, a cessation of sensation and conscious thought. I believe that when the human brain stops, all conscious thought and emotion stop with it. It’s only logical. What happens after that is an absolute mystery to me. My life will end in less than one second. For anyone with doubts, google Bud Dwyer, and watch the video. He shoots himself in the head at a press conference, and it is quick, and it is final.
I am afraid. I am afraid.
I do not want to do this, but things are falling apart, and I am woefully unprepared to deal with this level of anxiety andill depression. I have been fighting a losing battle for over thirty years, and well, I’m frankly just exhausted.
This is my plan. I don’t know if it will come to fruition, but it is the most efficient plan I can come up with, and I pray for the courage to execute it when the time comes. Today would be nice. Tonight would be nice. Oh god. I’m a mess. I want out of here. I miss my little boy so much. I love you Hooks, I love you so much Handsome Perfect.
I am not well. I am not well. I wonder what this night will hold…Earlier today I wrote an elaborate email to a friend that I recently spoke to about my suicidal thoughts. It is a goodbye message. In a few minutes I will write one for my siblings, and they will be saved as drafts on my phone. This is all just too much for me. If things get bad, I’ll only need to press send. I am so anxious and afraid I’m shaking. I’m nauseous. I can’t think clearly. I want peace.
I am really trying. I am really struggling. I am struggling through a grief process that should’ve happened almost two years ago, but I only delayed through heavy marijuana use. In late January of this year, it caught up with me, and I had to quit because of problems sleeping. I’ve been clean now for almost two months, and in some respects things have improved, in others not so much. All the mental health issues (depression and anxiety) that I’d been keeping at bay with weed are now front and center, demanding attention. I feel naked and defenselss against them. I am unemployed also, just a few weeks short of one year without a job. I’ve never been in this position before. I am having difficult finding the strength to right this ship. I have plans on paper for what needs to be done, checking for various jobs and beginning the application process, updating my resume and practicing interviewing skills, but so far have only managed three applications with a major grocery store chain for a job as an online order fulfillment clerk – walking around the store filling orders for people. One of these jobs looks promising, I passed their background check and have filled out paperwork for orientation, I’m just waiting for a call from them. I’m desperate to escape my apartment, where I’ve spent the past year in a drug induced haze, trying to avoid the grief caused by losing my little buddy May 1 2019. Apparently what the experts say about grief is true – you can’t avoid it, no matter what you do. Drink, do drugs, indulge in wild sex, it will be there waiting for you when you are done, and it will crush you. I am being crushed right now. Obliterated. There is a positive side, and its’ that I’m beginning to move through the process and that means that with each passing day, something resembling normalcy is waiting. It has to be. It just has to be. I did something so unbelievably different just a few days ago, I stepped so far outside my comfort zone. I was at a local park, and there is a group of rhythm junkies that meets there once a week to bang on their drums and socialize. Introvert that I am, I approached them and began making conversation. I was terrified. Before I knew it, one of them handed me a set of maracas, and I was joining in the chaos of rhythmic jungle beats filling the air. I have never played drums or any percussion instrument, but have been banging on things for my entire life. I have pretty decent rhythm, and several of these folks complimented my maraca playing, and it was just a wonderful two hours. Just beautiful. Only a few weeks earlier, I met a guy at this very same park who was sitting alone and banging on a djembe drum, and I sat and talked with him. He inspired me to buy a set of bongos, which I have been practicing on…I’ve put off this dream for too long, and am going to try to make something of the little bit of god given talent I received. I’ve made a couple of new friends with whom I text, I’ve found a grief support group to attend, I am beginning some drug counseling classes very soon, today in fact one of them begins. I am trying. I am mother f*cking trying to straighten things out. I realize it’s going to be difficult, because this pit I am in is pretty treacherous and it didn’t happen overnight. The only way out is slowly. However, I’ve been having these “trial runs” for suicide. I have “put my affairs in order”, so to speak. Ive created this folder with my meager final wishes inside. It is bright red and says “If I’m dead or injured” on the cover. It’s in plain sight inside my apartment, designed to be seen by law enforcement of my landlord, should something happen to me. There is a prepaid cremation plan, and several letters to friends and my landlord that indicate some final wishes, instructions on how to dispose of my belongings, what I’d like done with my cats. I’ve sent copies of my final wishes and my meager estate plan to my family. I don’t have much of anything to offer, I just want them to know that they don’t need to go through the hassle of paying for a funeral for their lost brother. They live out of state, and I’ve made it clear to them that I don’t want them to have to lift a finger to clean up what I leave behind. My ashes can sit in an urn that remains unclaimed forever, I don’t need or want a funeral or any kind of memorial service at all. My ego isn’t that powerful. I could care less about any of that nonsense. At this point, the only ones who will be inconvenienced are those who will have to clean up my body and bring it to the funeral home to be cremated, and my landlord, who will have to clean out my apartment. A crew of two can have the job done in no more than two days. I own very little. I call it an estate plan, but I possess an estate about like America has no financial debt. I have a few bank accounts and retirement plans, and my siblings are either beneficiaries on the retirement plans or co-owners of the bank accounts. Problem solved. No complicated wills or trusts to probate or deal with. What a bunch of nonsense we force ourselves to deal with all in the name of managing our “stuff.” What fools we are, how we chase shadows in search of contentment like puppies chasing their tails. The pain I’m dealing with is beginning to override the love for my cats. I’m beginning to see that I may not be able to continue to be here to take care of them. My issues are pretty severe right now, I am hanging by a thread, and while my goal is to see one of my cats through to her dying day, I have serious doubts about being able to do it. I know cats very well, and they are resilient animals, and she will survive without me. It will be an adjustment, but she can make it if she needs to. I don’t like to say that, but I am approaching a tipping point, and I’m not sure which way things are going to tip. I carry two notes in my wallet. One is a suicide note, of sorts, the other is a wallet sized version of my “If I’m dead or injured folder”, indicating that I have two cats at home and who to call to deal with them. I’m writing this not in the hopes that it will be read, more so just to get things out. To reinforce to myself that, while I am making a genuine attempt to return to a version of myself that is sustainable, things are also pretty dark right now, and suicide is looking more and more appealing. I’m seeing a counselor who is supposed to be helping me overcome suicidal thoughts. (I went to the ER in February for insomnia and mentioned that I had written suicide texts on my phone to my siblings but hadn’t sent them. They freaked out, so I got to go see a counselor.) I have had six sessions with him, and he is extremely concerned. He wants me to check into a psychiatric hospital, and tells me that he feels that suicide is right around the corner for me. I lied to him about the method I’m thinking of, telling him that I live near train tracks and also know of a particularly high bridge that would certainly do the job, which are both true. The reality of it is I have a loaded .357 waiting to go. It is in my nightstand, and is the only reason I own a weapon. I dare not tell him I own it. I went through this same exact counseling in 2018, and told the counselor then that I owned this gun, and they made me give it to a friend so as to keep it away from me. I did, and while I eventually got the gun back two months later, I am not willing to part with what could be the best friend I have. My little security blanket, my insurance policy against the mind that is struggling to remain intact as mental health issues slowly erode it, like a mental cancer. Mind you, I am trying. I want to live for … something. I am learning to play my set of bongos. I am going to find a job, doing something, anything…I need it desperately. I have a license to drive trucks and buses, and have done many years of medical transportation…but I need to begin slowly right now, and will take a job at a grocery store if one is offered, just to begin to rebuild some routine. I am riding my bike for exercise, even going to church, not because I believe the teachings of the ridiculous catholic faith, but as a platform to connect with something beyond myself. I am trying. Noone can take that away from me. I’ve done a lot of damage to myself since I began smoking pot again in 2017, following twelve years of absolute sobriety. Twelve long difficult years, that I threw away. It cost me a job I loved, one that could have easily seen me into my retirement years, had I not made the bad choice to begin smoking. Marijuana was a fun ride for many years, and I know it is beneficial to many, and I don’t disparage it one bit, other than to say that for me, it has been a disaster. It has gained me nothing, and cost me dearly. I wish I could continue smoking it, but I can’t, it just doesn’t serve my best interests to do so, and so that is that. I’ve never been this close to suicide. I don’t know if I can do it, but I am prepared. I began a new med routine today, trying effexor for anxiety. I had a tele-med visit with a prescriber yesterday, who asked me about suicidal thinking. I explained my situation to her and the preparations I’ve taken. She said “You’ve certainly given this a lot of thought and planned things out.” I also lied to her, claiming that my options are again, train tracks and high bridges. No mention of my loaded weapon. Shame on me. This life, this world…there is just nothing left that really appeals to me. I’m clinging to a thread of hope right now, but don’t know how things will turn out. This is just a collection of my thoughts. It does nothing to change anything. I am tired and frustrated and lacking in drive or desire to continue playing this idiotic game. Doing so will gain me nothing, and since first attempting to find relief from depression some thirty years ago, things have only become progressively worse. There is no magic cure to any of this crap. There is no permanent solution, all the pills and mantras and routines are only “management tools” to help you cope with each breath, as the cancer of mental health destroys you, minute by minute. At this point, my catholic and christian upbringing still taints my thinking about what might be awaiting me after death. I don’t fear hell, nor do I look forward to heaven, but still have doubts about some sort of reprisal for being a coward and taking the easy way out – apparently, we’re put here to suffer, and nobility is found in doing so and dying a natural death. Or so they say. Having no idea what to expect if I decide to pull the trigger, I can only take comfort in the fact that in the past ten years, I have tried to live (and been succesful in doing so) a life of worth, of doing things more for the benefit of others than just blindly chasing my own happiness and success. I’ve done work that has focused on people and their problems, and have found some perspective as a result. So, if I kill myself, and am confronted by some angry higher power, I will defend myself by saying “What did you expect me to do? I tried. I changed my way of thinking, lived less for myself, and tried…and just what did you expect me to do?” I hope that’s good enough, but don’t really care if it isn’t. If there’s some horrible punishment awaiting me after death by suicide, oh well….at least I know I gave it a good try. If that’s not good enough for whoever or whatever might be waiting to decide my eternal fate, it can go f*ck itself.
I am comforted by the stories of people who had much more to offer this world than me, who commited suicide. Dr. Sophia Yin comes to mind. Dr. Lorna Breen. Robin Williams. The list goes on. What kind of “god” dumps us into this mess and then punishes us for not finding our way through the dark shit of life? I just can’t see it. I need to believe that these religious stories are all just so much hot air, and for the most part I do. But still….don’t we all just have abolutely no idea what comes next? How can we, until we depart? I envy the dead. They know. They experienced the final reality, and have moved on, or are just silent, and gone. How I hope for the latter. Just an end to all this insanity.
Today, I went to a farm. It’s owned by a friend that I used to work with, and her wife. I went to discuss some personal issues. I’ve never really been that close with her, but she’s the type of person I felt I could open up to about having suicidal thoughts, and about my excessive drug use this past year. So I opened up, just a bit. She opened up about periods in her past, periods of extremely deep depression and suicidal thoughts. She talked about excessively drinking to deal with her pain during these times. I was surprised to hear this from her, she’s the last person I would’ve suspected of being suicidal, even if it was years ago.
I got to know her a little bit better today, and I’m glad…I thought about not going, but went anyways, and I’m glad I did. She was a Buddhist nun many years ago. She took care of horses for a police department and watched a close friend, a police officer, die after being accidentally shot in the head. She and I worked together at an animal shelter eight years ago, and she is now it’s executive director.
They have a lot of goats and sheep and horses. I got to hold a baby goat that is about three weeks old…I held it for about fifteen minutes, and it loved being held. It was so cool. I tossed hay to horses, and learned that her big goat pees on its own head to attract women goats. She gave me a dozen eggs, freshly laid – I had to wash hen filth off them when I got home. I’ve never washed hen filth off eggs. It was amazing. The ground was wet and muddy and there was animal poop everywhere. She said that if I ever need to just get away and do something, busy work to keep my mind occupied, I could come to her farm and they’d find me something to do…I’ll probably take up her up on that.
By her actions and attitude, I get the feeling that she knows I’m in a very, very dark place. She gave me permission to use her name as an emergency contact to come to my apartment to pick up my cats if something happens to me.
Someone gave a shit about me today. Today was a decent day, and I’m grateful.
A friend texts “How are you doing today?”
And so, as I prepare to reply, it is time to lie.
To me, “faith” implies optimism, I suppose. I have faith that drivers will yield right of way to me as I cross a street. I have faith the captain of an airliner will keep me safe. I’m optimistic these outcomes will be positive.
I’m sitting in church right now. Catholic church. There’s a ritual called adoration that’s taking place as I type this. The priest places an edible wafer into a shiny gold display medium, called a monstrance. He sets it on the altar, facing the parishioners, where it sits for a few hours, allowing the faithful to sit in the presence of “god.” Here’s a pic.
Pretty snazzy. If I was the creator of the universe, an undefinable mystery that has baffled human minds for thousands of years, I could hang out in here while hungry worshippers dreamt of eating me.
The wafer, in the Catholic tradition, is the actual body of Jesus, which good catholics eat at mass in order to be one with him. There are at least thirty people in church right now, adoring this wafer as they bask in the presence of the creator of all that is.
Here I sit, part of this…why?
My “faith” isn’t what it once was. For decades, I accepted what I was told, that “god ” required conformity and submission, and certain punishment awaited those who doubted and disobeyed. Optimism – the faithful believe their adoration and adherence will result in eternal reward. Cry out to “god”, and he will help you.
My concept of “god” is so different anymore. More of an agnostic, I believe there is or was an intelligence involved in the creation of all that is, and we are too stupid to understand it. So we write stories about it, about “god”, and we live within those stories in order to exclude and label those who are different from us. These stories are our exclusive little clubs, and their rituals are the bylaws that order them. And they are all just so much damn rubbish.
Faith is optimism. Reality is…what? A mix of optimism and pessimism? I don’t know.
I only see what I see anymore. War, chaos, anger, hate, division, happiness, rainbows and kittens, sadness grief and misery, acid rain and corpses, smiling children, hopeful parents, corrupt politicians and deceitful evangelists all hell bent on agendas. I see a species of hairless human apes making a fucking mess of their planet, and now slowly expanding their distinguishing characteristic of excessive garbage and detritus into space, as our collection of space junk grows by the year. We are a bunch of selfish pigs, we are a bunch of caring, kind souls, we lend one another a hand, we strike each other down in the name of skin color and various religious and secular ideologies, all while attempting to define and characterize “god” based on the limited abilities of our narrow and only slightly-above-simian minds.
I suppose that’s the best we have to offer.
I’ve had to redefine my “god.” Whatever it is, if it even exists, if it’s responsible for “all that is”, it’s clearly ok with sitting by as we run around like imbeciles creating our own misery through our petty prejudices and hatred. It could give a rats ass about your suffering, it could care less whether you prosper and enjoy life, or sleep under a bridge wearing filthy clothes covered in lice. It watches as presidents and politicians cheat and steal, and it watches as charity workers bathe the sick and dying in third world countries. It watches as generals direct armies to maim, kill and destroy. It watches as doctors open skulls and repair intricate human brains, restoring function. It watches as we do the only thing we know to do in our abundance of short sightedness, and it doesn’t involve itself – “god”, whatever it is, sits and allows universal life to play out according to the rules that govern it, and those rules mean suffering and prosperity to varying degrees for all of us.
To have faith that “god” is walking with you is…optimistic. For many, it is to key to survival. I don’t mean to disparage the faithful. For all I know, what I think and believe is absolutely incorrect. Who am I to define “god?” I’m just one of all of us, with my opinion…but the “god” I conceive of remains the fuzziest enigma ever presented to me. I have no idea what or who or how it might be, if it even is. The stories we create are nothing more than cultural conjecture. They don’t explain anything real – they just mean to convey hope, create structure, allow for judgment and control through fear of eternal punishment, while fueling exclusion, hate, and division. And they’re a good front for Saturday bingo and other forms of fellowship.
Yeah. Here I sit, in St. Vincent’s church, looking at a wafer in a monstrance that is believed to be the flesh of the creator of the universe. “God’s” body, conveniently packaged for my dining pleasure. I come here to feel a connection to something outside myself, in the hopes that I will find meaning. The teachings of catholicism, the dogmas and concepts are meaningless to me. Mere words written by generations of curious cousins of chimpanzees, hell bent on determining origin, reason, destination. I’m no different than the faithful who are gazing at this edible wafer and imploring it to deliver them from all manner of suffering and bless all their loved ones. I’m no different at all. I’m hopeful that my misery has meaning. I’m hopeful that I can find peace of some kind. I’m scared, lonely, angry, sad, depressed…and I’d sure like to believe that somewhere, in a distant place far above the limits of the universe some omnipotent thing-a-ma-jigger had my back. That “god”, the myth, the legend, gave a shit about me.
But all I see as I look around this planet leads me to belive I’m just being overly optimistic – if there’s a “plan”, there is no denying it is meant to involve suffering. Lots and lots of it. Yup. We’re here to have good days and bad days, to smile and cry. Our pain is our own, we must bear it alone, sure there’s relief in fellowhip, but there’s death in life too. It’s just part of the plan, like it or not. I have questions, we all do…and I see no clear answers, dreamers. None.
Now, go in peace to love and serve your “god.” Refreshments will be served in the parish hall, and don’t forget bingo on Saturday at 4 pm. A-freakin’-men.
There is no going back to that other person, that other place, this thing, this stranger, she is all you are now.
Just a line from a movie, but it is so true.
There is no healing in regression, because regression is not an option. There is only forward motion and it’s pain, or there is stagnation, and its pain. Either way. The universe holds its arms wide open to you, and says “Welcome”, as it smears shit across your face and destroys your heart.
For me, the worst pain is the pain inflicted by a taunting promise that says change is possible, yet inside, I’m too crippled by fear and rage and hate to make change. So I stand in this mess, in its never ending same-ness, smelling it’s stink and pondering death. You coward. You want it, but you’re too afraid even to end your useless existence. You stupid coward.
Well. Glad I got that out. I feel much better.
I envy some of the people who post here, in that they can spill out their hearts so easily…I am not that way, I am very reserved and am only capable of writing effectively when things are at their worst, when I am overcome with despair, sadness or great depression. I wonder why that is. Thoughts merge into words when I’m emotional, sad. I write here, and my words are carefully edited, to sound as coherent as possible. I can’t speak the way I write, for the most part. I tend to ramble and repeat things I already said, going off on tangents, censoring myself because I feel the need to hide who I am, what I am.
I was fortunate enough, many years ago, to visit Californias central coast region and see the giant redwood trees. Already, as I type these words, the emotions are returning. Awe. Undeniable, raw, natural awe. I miss that experience, the smells of a forest of such rich lush life, ferns and vines, thick undergrowth blossoming under a shaded canopy of trees that have been standing for three, four, five, six, seven hundred years, maybe longer, towering two and three hundred feet into the air. The sun is blocked out in some areas, if you’ve experienced a total eclipse of the sun, you know that feeling of shade that is not quite right…it’s still shade, but its source is just so…bizarre. Julia Hill, in a lecture on her claim to fame, the Luna tree sit, describes the scene as a “cathedral.” Yes. That’s an apt word. A cathedral of natures making. To stand in this cathedral, amongst these giants, is to gain new perspective on time. That a tree so magnificent and strong will simply stand where it grew, until the day it is felled, without moving or complaining…it is so fucking awesome. I want to go back, free from the constraints of all this crap, of money and jobs, and obligation, and simply bask in the splendor of creation that man couldn’t in his wildest dreams create. Our buildings, our infrastructure, our aircraft are all wonderful things, but these trees… words don’t do them justice. Words simply don’t suffice. It should be a rite of passage, an experience everyone enjoys before they die. If you’ve seen Soylent Green, there’s a scene when the old man has made his peace and reports for euthanasia. He is washed and dressed, and lies in a bed before a huge screen. A movie begins playing, depicting the Earth of his younger days, flourishing with life, and animals, running water and natural beauty, and as he watches, reliving the memories of the time before man turned earth into the dying planet it now is, his friend Thorn speaks to him through the intercom…Thorn is probably thirty or forty years younger than the old man, and he simply says “…I had no idea” as he gazes at the screen the old man is watching. “I had no idea.” Thorn grew up in a world dying as the result of overpopulation, and could only stand in awe at the images in front of him. Deer drinking from rivers, rain falling from billowing white clouds, green grass, trees…life. “I had no idea.”
I am not sleeping yet again tonight. I crave sleep, and it eludes me. I am frustrated.
So I dream of the past, when the trees surrounded me, and oh the life, verdant, rich, lush surrounded the trees that surrounded me. This is tonights memory. Watching as the rolling hills of California slowly transform into this magnificent range of overpowering trees that have stood the test of time, in a region that is protected from our saws and our industry. There’s a section of highway called the Avenue of The Giants.
Just words. Four simple words, when combined with the sight of these magnificent trees, have the power to change you, to shake you, to take away your breath. Giants. No need to fear these giants, they mean you no harm, they are ours, they are yours, they simply are.
She sat in the tree for two years and several months, and she thought. She did not touch the earth once during this time, and she learned and she grew. A self described environmentalist whacko, she did what noone else has done, and she was “Butterfly”, and to this day, if I were lucky enough to cross paths with her, I’d be tempted to kiss her feet. She’s no longer Butterfly, having moved on, but her time in Luna will always be part of her, her story will always be part of me, because I admire what she did, why she did it. A world of wires and phones and technology, of meaningless chatter and useless gimmicks, and she defied it all to save one tree, one single tree, and it still stands. I can’t say I love her, there is a part of me, the boy that never grew up, that has a crush on her, and that is far from love. Far from it. As dysfunctional as I am, incapable of loving myself to dream that I could love anyone else, yet if I saw her in danger I’d act, because she sat in a tree. Her words in all their mystery touch part of me that I cannot locate, they send me to the cathedral she described, and therein is peace, and perfection, and splendor. They mocked her, they ridiculed her and tested her, and like the tree she sat in she weathered the storm, took all their shit and set it aside, all for what will one day be a lost cause as the planet will have its way and Luna will die and fall, but here’s the point – it hasn’t fallen yet, and it would’ve, had it not been for her.
They are our decks, and our furniture, we have carved out their bases to let cars drive through them. What trivial idiots we are, in such desperate need of objects and entertainment so as to overlook these gifts. The price of money is death. The cost of cash is chaos. The object of progress is destruction, entropy on an industrial scale. All things die and fade away, but somehow, humanity seems to have the corner of the market when it comes to rushing things. We make little sense. We make little progress, bits and pieces, and for less than sensible reasons. We’ve lost harmony, no, we’ve lost sight of harmony.
I’m rambling. It’s late, and tonight will be another night of no sleep.
I have the means to walk away from my current life, buy a good used rv, and go to these trees and live among them for an extended period of time, taking in the majesty and grandeur of specimens no human hand could mimic, wouldn’t dare to try for fear of being made to look foolish. We could try, and we would fail. These trees…they are unique, they are genuine, they are freaks of nature, they are beautiful. They are a reminder of what we are not. They are stalwart mammoths, unmoving but to sway in the wind, to bend in the howling winter storms, to glide in summers warm breezes, standing watch over the ground far,far below. I have the means. And yet I won’t. That is sad. Truly sad, that I am too attached and too afraid to make the change, to walk away from the useless detritus of this pathetic civilization and go to California, with an achin’ in my heart…
One day. One day. One day.
Today is March 2. Today, my little boy would have turned 9. I miss the little furry fucker. I miss him so much.
These are tonights late night thoughts, tonights regrets, tonights dreams, my howls at an unreachable moon. Why, I scream, why? And, as with all other moons, and all other screams and howls, there is no fucking answer, only the trees, and the winds and the storms, and of course, the change. The incessant pestering change that will take all of us, from Luna to the smallest grain of sand, the inescapable change, the entropy that ultimately will claim the universe. Or not.
This is beauty. We’ve walked right past it in our quest for…objects, for entertainment, for simple fun and pleasure, and it’s not our fault, it’s all we can do. Its all we know. How sad.
Wherever you are, little buddy, know I will always, ALWAYS love you. You changed me. On my way to my own demise, you stepped in and you changed me. See ya.
One month clean. After almost two years of heavy use, driving me deeper and deeper down a hole of insanity and clouded thinking, cyclones of emotion and extremely bad judgment calls, today is one freaking month clean. The world is a boring, banal, and predictable place when you’re sober, and for right now, that’ll work.
And eight hours of solid sleep last night helped. God I needed that.
My battle with insomnia is getting worse. I’m averaging maybe ten hours sleep a week, with at least two nights a week of no sleep at all, as last night was. As soon as I begin drifting to sleep, I stop breathing. Yes, it does sound like sleep apnea, doctor is busy running tests because he says I also have some kind of heart issue. Now I get to deal with nightly anxiety caused by not knowing if I’ll sleep, and life is a big bowl of cherries right now.
So – I find a piece of paper on my desk titled “My SP Plan.” Short for Suicide project. It is a detailed list of things to do before checking out. I’d say the odds are against me following through, but it is a lucid itinerary for a final trip, jotted down as the items pop into my mind.
I keep picturing family members who have already passed, waiting for me…Mom, Dad, Uncles, Aunts, my little boy Hooks, all standing there with open arms, and it’s a comforting fantasy. This life…it’s just getting old, you know? I can honestly say there really isn’t anything life has to offer that interests me anymore…essentially, I’m bored. My cremation is paid for, my affairs are sufficiently ordered, I’ve managed to have no debt, save for the current months credit card bill. My method is loaded and waiting…all that I own is within the walls of my apartment. And a pickup truck that’s paid for. Beneficiaries are in place on four random accounts, all the money I have, and it goes to siblings. No will, no trust, no hassles, no exorbitant mess to clean up. I’m a simple, dull person. I don’t need much. It won’t be a lot of work to clean up my “stuff”.
Yet I am afraid, unable to process life without my beating heart in it. I’m exhausted.
Tears are welling up right now, my mind and body are both severely fatigued and depressed. I’m standing next to myself, observing all this, and it’s exhilarating. God I miss my boy. And yet, there’s no guarantee of any reunions with old familiar faces. None whatsoever. The transition from living to expired may be a final flick of a switch resulting in… nothing. No awareness of time and space, no memories, no conscious thought at all. How does one take solace in the peace of death if conscious thought doesn’t accompany the change? Imagine? A lifetime of living, just plain off…disconnected, and then nothing…not even an awareness of a lack of awareness of thought.
That would be something.
God I need sleep, badly.
I’ve been in contact with my oldest sister quite a bit recently. She’s done a LOT over the years to help me out, but since I left our hometown, we’ve grown distant. The conversations she and I have had recently and the way she has responded to me have brought back memories of why I couldn’t wait to leave home and distance myself from my family. My sister is a kind person, as I said she has done a lot for me, her little brother, but it’s all coming back to me these past two months as she and I have been in contact with each other – I doubt I could get far enough away from my siblings to wipe away the pain and hurt of our shared childhood and the dysfunctional parents responsible for it.
“They” say family is important. “They” say family is a treasure. Hmmm. I can see where that’s true, for some. As for me, if I could leave the planet and never hear from my siblings ever again, I’d avail myself of the opportunity, in a heartbeat, without hesitation. I don’t love my siblings. I am a narcissist with no real connection to them. When I casually say “I love you” to any of them, I am lying. And it’s easy.
Being in contact with any of them is too difficult, what with the trauma we shared at the hands of parents who never should have reproduced. Damn them both…just damn them both.
Family isn’t always what “they” say it is. Family can be a reminder of memories of a hell that will escort one into the grave.
I don’t love you, ****, even though you’re my big sister and you took care of me. I can’t love you, I can’t love any human…and I need to never ever see your face again, because the pain you represent is just too much for your dysfunctional damaged brother to handle.
Another night of no sleep, so you people get to suffer along with me. More sleep deprived drivel. Now then, lets get on with it. No sense in putting things off. (Double entendre? You decide.) Single file, all bunched together, screw “social distancing.” There’s pain to be suffered!!! Pain is good, it builds character! Shall we?
The rules were set in the beginning. I’m only along for the painful ride. My control is limited, I make my plans and run my errands, knowing that life is in charge, not me, no matter how much I think otherwise. Life is a fickle mistress, one day loving and generous, the next savage and cruel. Do I get to choose? Maybe. No. Perhaps? Absolutely. No, I dont. All of the above.
No matter my choices, the rules are in place. We don’t receive a copy of the rules, they aren’t explained. They’re applied. To all of us. Since creation created, they are the final authority.
Nature is Cartman, and I must respect it’s authorit-awwwww. Nature birthed Kenny, and it kills Kenny, like the bastard it is. The rules grant light and warmth, the rules encase you in ice…there are no exceptions – we can only bow our heads in resentful submission as the rules freeze us in ice. I long for, yearn for, dream and fantasize of the day I will boldly declare “Screw you guys, I’m going HOME!”
God, I loved South Park!!
If you’ve made it this far, here’s a few more pics of this week’s ice storm.
Hello insomnia, again. This is sort of a non-specific rant, about nothing. Today’s Valentines day, and here I am, pouring out my heart to SP. Wonderful. Maybe I’ll buy it some flowers and am box of chocolates. What a stupid tradition, right up there with the World War 1 xmas truce – let’s stop killing one another and exchange gifts for one evening. There was a nasty ice storm here night before last. The power has been out for a while and I am unable to relax enough to sleep while wearing twenty pounds of clothes. I awoke yesterday to the sensation that something was off, and a glance at my alarm clock, which was dark, told me the power was out. About four hours before waking, around two a.m., the sound of a chainsaw woke me. Who the heck needs to use a chainsaw at that time?? Turns out it was a crew from the city, cutting a huge tree that snapped under the weight of ice, and ripped down power lines. I’ve experienced only one other ice storm, and while the coating of ice that covers what it can has a bizarre, surreal quality, it’s also highly destructive. I spent about an hour taking photos, while all around me, tree limbs were cracking, splitting, and falling under the weight of ice. I grew up in the dusty desert, and live in the northwest u.s. now, so these events are still new to me. A lot of people have experienced major damage to their homes as a result of fallen trees. My heart goes out to all.
We live such delicately balanced lives. Maybe precariously is a better word…somewhere I heard someone say that long, long ago, humanity lost its ability to live in harmony with nature’s plan, I guess meaning that we’ve evolved into such complicated beings that, in order to survive, require all we see around us – exorbitant infrastructure requiring constant vigilance, maintenance and adjusting. In our wisdom and restlessness we no longer know contentment, if we ever did. We create layer after layer after layer of technology and bureaucracy in an attempt to con ourselves into believing we’re achieving our true potential, all the while suffocating under the blanket of obligation our vast network of systems imposes on us. I suppose in that way we’re not too different than ants, roaches wombats and lemurs. We are just so unhappy, with no real way of figuring out how to alleviate our malaise.
I don’t know.
I’ve never gone this long without power. I gave up on sleeping, it’s too cold without heat, and drove to the Pilot truck stop, where I’ve been spending a lot of time lately, due to insomnia. A few areas along the way have power, but the truck stop and surrounding areas are dark. The grid, in all its technical splendor, has been shutdown by ice, while worker ants scramble to fix it. Thank god for these people, I want my conveniences back, but am enjoying the dark silence of forced surrender imposed on us by nature. It’s truly a reminder that while we foolishly believe we are the mightiest beings in creation, we must play the cards we’re dealt, without as much control over the dealer as we need to believe we have.
So, like so many others have and will ask, what’s the point? Scrambling, educated ants, earning money to entertain and feed ourselves, only to lose everything in our final draw at the poker table of life, believing it the fulfillment of some subjective and vague responsibility of an unexplainable ethereal force. Well, if ants and bees scramble to maintain their societies, so should we. There it is. We’re here for no other reason than to keep up with the bugs.
Fuck me running.
A young girl who was a social media phenom, Dazharia Shaffer, committed suicide recently. She was 18. While undoubtedly her family, friends and fans are hurting, I feel…happy for her? I don’t mean to be crass here…this young lady, she has done what I so desperately want to do. She found the courage and summoned the strength to move on. As I recently said of my friend Rachel who died in an accident, if there is a “something after”, she is there. Make of it what you will, the charade of man made religions has for centuries foolishly and arrogantly been attempting to define the undefinable, but in the span of time it took this young lady to end her life and a fraction of a nano second beyond, her questions were answered, or not. She is the newest addition to my ever growing list of people whom I admire for having the courage I lack, and who many others never realized were struggling. “If only we’d known”….”If only she’d said something”…if only she was alive, she could be here, struggling with the rest of us, as we ride lifes carousel, blindly and ignorantly reaching for the rings tossed to us by the madly shrieking psychotic attendant. If only she’d sought help, she’d still be alive, so that one day she could die properly. Is that what all the fuss about suicide is over? Hanging around to “properly die???” Chuckle. We choose every manner of action to circumvent our pain, believing therein lies nobility, insisting on continued suffering…what the fuck? By that logic I will NOT apply a bandaid to the next cut I have – it’s far nobler to let it become infected and gangrenous. My festering, pus filled badge of honor.
We make no fucking sense. And I have yet another new hero. I am genuinely and unequivocally screwed up and a coward.
I’m 57, today. And I hate life. I harbor an opaque fantasy of fulfilling many unattained dreams. There are still a few things I’d like to do, and as I begin the process of detoxing from three years of heavy drug use while also realizing I am only now genuinely beginning to grieve the loss of my only love after almost two years, I see how debilitatingly depressed and angry I am, how foolish and naive I am, and ultimately, how pointless all of this is. My will to live far exceeds my ability to die at my own hand, which is to say that I am one hell of a strong coward.
My prayer to the universe today is two-fold, as it is every day. First, it is one of thanks and gratitude for all the good in my life. I am not rich, I am alone and in tremendous pain, but I have so much more than many others, and don’t know why that is. I am independent, I have a roof over my head, I rely on noone for anything.
Second, I beg daily to die.
All around me, the power is out. Many aspects of life have ground to a halt, temporarily, as we scramble to restore them by closing the circuits needed for the succesful flow of electrons. Yet inside my heart, deep in my soul, the darkness grows, apparently unimpeded by scrambling worker ants.