Suicide Genius

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Interesting:
lonely genius becomes whole person through suicide attempt

R– you still out there?

You know that feeling when you’re on a roller coaster and you get to the top of a big hill, and you’re hanging there for just a moment before the big plunge? I mean, you haven’t even started to fall, and you stomach is beginning its rush to your throat?

I’ve been like that for weeks now. I have no idea if I’m going to land on my feet or fall to my death.

Sorry. The metaphor just completely broke down there, didn’t it? Maybe I should have said “…when you’re about to jump out of an airplane…”, but I’ve never done that, so I don’t know the feeling. *sigh*

On an unrelated note, a woman killed herself just recently by stepping out in front of an oncoming commuter train. I suppose it’s a pretty good way to make sure you really do end up dead, dead, dead; but it sure as heck screws up the day for many thousands of people whose trains don’t show up because the whole system is blocked by the cleanup. Well, that and don’t expect an open casket. Perhaps a nice bucket instead.

It has occurred to me just recently that I don’t really…. dream, anymore.

Once upon a time, I had images in my head that I might be a writer. A musician. That energy of youth when the world lies at your feet and anything is possible. For most people, that broad possibility-scape narrows down as they get older and make decisions: each life decision opens doors but closes endless others, until the general path of your life is decided. But in my case, the doors closed, but none new were opened. I simply stagnated.

Just a few minutes ago I watched a YouTube video of a performance from Man of La Mancha — the song “Dream the Impossible Dream” — and I was struck to the core. Not by the schmaltzy sentimentality of the song (though a good song, and an excellent performance), but by the fact that I can’t remember the last time I so much as daydreamed about any of the things that I once *knew* I wanted to do.

Referencing another bit of musical theater, there’s a bit in “You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown” wherein the titular character ponders if anyone would miss him if he just never got out of bed one day. Sometimes I feel like that. Have I made any mark on the world? At all?

The answer is yes. There are children in my life — my nephews. One of them in particular I am close to. He was born about ten years ago — right around the time I came closest to suicide, and so he has in a way become a symbol to me of my own survival. If I had done it then, I never would have known this amazing young person who in so many ways reminds me of myself.

The fact that he reminds me of me makes me shudder. I’m not sure why. It’s wonderful in a way, but terrifying for some reason I can’t identify. Do I imagine he will somehow go through what I have? I hope not, and I don’t think so.

If I ever do kill myself, he will be the one to suffer more than anyone, I think. And at times I fear that he will indeed suffer that particular pain. My heart aches.

I’ve gone a bit off course here. I started talking about dreams, and I’ve gotten on to nightmares. What place do my dreams of youth have for me now?

The answer is simply this: If I am to ever have a life worth living I have to remember those dreams, and pursue them, I have to dust them off and reform the old forgotten habit if dreaming. The lost art of hoping for the future. I’m not really sure if I’m capable of it any more, but if I can’t bring myself to even try to hope, then it truly is time for me to take the final step.

Try or Die. Strive, or… end.

To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

Update: The video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVlAtMZAzeY

It’s not a good sign when you’re looking at your To Do list and you have a strong impulse to mark down “Kill Self”. I’m just saying.

Over the past ten years, I’ve sadly observed that depression makes you a coward. I avoid confrontation like the plague, and despite my abilities, I’ve even avoided pursuing those things at which I would likely be successful…

…because I might fail.

Well no shit. I might fail. I could professionally perform on stage if I set my mind to it… but I might fail. I could start my own business… but I might fail. So I’m still sitting within the loving arms of the same dead-end job I’ve had for ten years. Even within the company I work for there is another position that I could fill that would pay a lot more… but I might fail. Of course by never trying, I do fail.

The interesting twist on this is that I’ve recently discovered that the closer I come to true despair, the braver I get. If you’re willing to die, there’s no failure so great that you can’t escape it. And thus I’m actually pushing boundaries that have stymied me for years. Maybe it’s some bizarre evolutionary survival mechanism — the closer a person comes to self destruction, the very thing that puts him there pulls him away from that brink.

I don’t know. Still lost. But there’s this perverse hope born of the loss of all hope. Who would have thought?

Lately I’ve been feeling… not “good” exactly, but… I guess I’ll take a tip from Orwell and say I’m doing “unbad”.

I’ve gotten into a sort of low key vibe where I’m just sort of rolling along day to day. I’m getting a few projects around the house done, which is nice. The place is still a complete pit; comes from having a slob for a room mate — after a while you just stop trying to keep up, because it ain’t doin’ no good. But some of the “long term” projects are getting finished, which is nice.

And really, that’s all life is, isn’t it? Things to do, you get them done. Spend some time with friends. I got together with some friends I’ve known for decades, but haven’t spent much time with in the past few years. Stayed up too late, which is nice once in a while….

I’m not sure if the recent peace is healing or numbness. That could be a problem. Is the pendulum on an upswing? Maybe. Is it the calm before the storm explosion? Also maybe.

I told my dad I was having problems. Told him everything, except for the exact nature of The Event. But Dad is so far removed from this kind of thing he has no comprehension of it. And he’s Mr. Stiff Upper Lip about a lot of things. He supports me, no question, but he’ll never ask me about any of it unless I bring it up, and bringing it up the once was perhaps the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. (Well didn’t this turn into the stealth post — five paragraphs in before the Main Event shows up as though it were an afterthought.)

But maybe knowing he Knows did something to me. A deeply buried secret can be like a festering sore on your spirit. The shame is enhanced by the terror of telling, and now that I’ve told (mostly anyway) it’s… less than it was. Everything is still the same, but it isn’t. A few days later I came VERY close to telling my brother — which was totally unexpected. I was just hanging out with him and we got to talking about Mom, and family in general, and suddenly I had this powerful urge to pour it out. Probably not the best idea, really, but still — what the hell?

Anyway, Dad expects me to find a shrinkologist and get help. Not sure why he expects that, considering I’ve gone a decade and a half without doing just that. I think part of why I told him was that I need somebody else — someone stronger perhaps — to grab the bull by the balls and get things rolling. Ah well. All shrinks really do is listen well, and a blog is also a good listener.

If I were to end it all tomorrow, I don’t think I like the way I would do it. Instantaneous, but messy. Good thing it likely won’t happen.

I’m realizing that my reticence to write anything fully identifiable about myself in this blog is also tying my hands in terms of writing things worth reading. Coming off like some emo teenager. Sorry about that. Just saying that I’m aware of it, and I’m going to work on it.

Sometimes my worst fear is that I won’t end my life, but live a long empty time having done nothing but surviving. Why yes, that was a non-sequitur — thanks for noticing.

In the first post to this blog, I described how my strong connection to my family kept me alive during a bad period about ten years ago. Recently, that connection is slipping.

Well, perhaps “recently” is not the right word. It’s been a slow degradation in the past few years, but things have taken a significant turn for the worse in the last month or so. My connection to my siblings is not what it was, for the most part, and that with my parents is nearly destroyed. My marriage is ending around me. I can’t remember the last time a friend called me.

I can’t remember the last time I didn’t silently cry myself to sleep. The last night I didn’t wake up thrashing at two or three o’clock.

Sometimes I think the best thing I could do is get in my car and drive, and not stop until I was somewhere I’ve never been. Some town along the road I’ve never even heard of. Start again, with no baggage and no history. If I didn’t own a house I could do it. Pack & go. Then again that might be the worst thing I could do.

I’m slipping.