On the Subject of Suicide: Part One

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

The story is a short one, gathered from my thoughts about ending one's life and an incident that triggers me frequently.

I've been having these crying spells lately.  Not in public (noticeably) or anything.  I wait until everyone is gone or when they are all asleep or not paying attention to me, and I will just cry.  I think about slicing and shoving knives into my wrists or preparing my noose and hanging myself before anyone gets here.  I do not think I would leave a note, that is too dramatic.  I would just go and hopefully everyone would understand why I did it.  I guess I am crazy to try and rationalize suicide.  I mean I try to think positive and let things go, but it’s really hard when my mind lets negative thoughts creep into it like lethal oil silently leaking into the ocean’s core.  The one that makes me water almost every time is the time my dad called me a fuck up and said I would always be one.  

We went to this concert my brother was running sound for and we had been drinking all night.  After the concert we stumbled about five or six blocks to the Marriott.  We went to my dad’s hotel room.  Everyone gathered in the room: my mother, my dad, his friends, my mother’s friends, their daughters.  Out of nowhere my dad said something that made me very enraged and I wanted to leave.  I won’t tell you what he said; I want you to just come up with something hurtful, shallow, and unnecessary on your own.  I jogged out of the room, still liquored up, pacing back and forth in the hallway.  
“Get back inside the room.  Stop causing
a scene.”
I firmly replied,
“No.  No I’m not going back in there I want
to go back to my hotel room.”
His jaws clenched up the way they always do when defied.  His hands grabbed my dress collar and pulled me hard and he said,
“You get the fuck in here right now or I’m
gonna get pissed.”
I declined again and then he said the whole thing.
“You’re a fuck up.  Everything you do, you
fuck up.  You’ll always be a fuck up.  I’m
done with you, just get out of here I’m done.”
He let go and wished me away with the swat of his hand.  Of course I did not really have anything to come back at him with; the words he shoved in my face with such a proud, factuality-like tone had stunned me.  I turned on like a faucet and flooded the hall with my salty eye solvent.
I did not talk to him for a few months.  Those words burned into my esteem, pushing it down with anger and resentment.  He called me one day and said he did not mean it and that he was drunk, but I think he really meant it; it felt like he had been waiting for a moment such as the one we had in the hotel hallway that night to tell me how he truly felt.  Maybe he feels this way because he knows I am indeed a product of him and that he fucked up as a parent, but maybe it is not always the parents’ responsibility to make sure their kid turns out “normal”, whatever the hell that might be.
Nonetheless, the incident leaches onto my happiness every chance it gets: when I am painting, singing, studying, reading.  Especially driving.  Running off the road into the water crosses my mind when I drive to work, everyday.  No day is a day without suicide in my mind.
I think about when I would kill myself.  The time of day.  The smell of the air.  The clouds would have to be in the right places.  They would have to be the right shapes, the right color of whites and grays and yellows.  The sun would have to be shining through the vibrant leaves of the tall, stoic trees, hitting the rights spots on the short, manicured grass below.  The birds would have to be singing the loveliest tune.  The wind, not too breezy.  The air would have to be comfortable.  I would make a noose, made out of a jump rope or something.  Maybe a leash or chain.  Or maybe I could go to the coat closet, pull out the rifle I have not the slightest clue how to operate.  Maybe youtube “How to shoot a rifle”, go out in the field, take a deep, long breath, and then bam!  The crimson slowly seeping out of my remains.  I would only want it to be quick so I could not get out of it when I realized it was a bad idea.  I think about that moment every day.  Often I wonder when I will be to that point, if ever, and what my motivation would be.  A broken heart, a bankruptcy declaration, a denied dream.
Most people perceive suicide as selfish and cowardly.  Why though, is it cowardly?  Is it because the individuals who have/ will commit will do it because they do not wish to live?  Is not that being brave and going into the unknown?  Or is it more brave to live and suffer and feel pain and sadness and anger rather than spare the said emotions and nip it in the bud?  The living claim selfishness because the individual does not think about everyone else when they do it, but would not that be everyone else acting selfish and assuming it is about them?  Sometimes suicide sounds like the most rational strategy to deal with one’s problems and trials.  
And then, of course, there is always that thought: will anyone care?  Unless I have fucked everyone over in my life to the point of hatred, I think some would care, but everyone will forget for moments in their lives.  When they have parties with wine and malt liquor and music being played.  Years from now, when they have jobs and vacations and children and success, they will forget.  The only way to stay in their minds is to thrive.  To live and breathe and exist and weep and laugh and hate.  After all, I do not have enough balls to kill myself, so I guess I will just Buddha it out and suffer.

Submitted: June 30, 2014

© Copyright 2021 Baeilaei. All rights reserved.

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