pantoum's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE DILDO IS IN THE MAIL So I'm just going to write this because this is a (primarily anonymous) blog after all and one of the more appropriate places to explore such things (although I'm probably going to regret that I didn't put this in my secret blog instead of here). So here's the simple, unvarnished truth: I almost killed myself last week. Very nearly did. Had a plan. Wrote the (awful) letters. Very, very, very nearly did. But I didn t. And I don't want to now. And I'm really furious at myself for not being able to just move the fuck on already. And I am really glad to still be here and thankful that the desire to move on to whatever is next is behind me now. All right. I said it. And for the few of you who know me, please don't think I am still in that emotional place because I am not. And I am doing everything I know how to do to not go there again. Still, this was too damn close and it scared me. I read somewhere that the odds of a child of a suicidal parent committing suicide are incredibly high. Maybe there's a chemical / physiological explanation, but I believe it's just that we always walk around with the possibility of it free-floating in our heads in a way that other people (I hope) do not. It's a part of our lives in such an intimate way and remains with us in some numbing form or another on a daily basis. Kahlil Gibran wrote that suicide is sometimes an act of self defense and, in my mother's case, I think that's accurate. Dunno about me. If anything, I could imagine offing myself during my teenage years, when I was living on minimum wage in the most crummy, unsafe, roach-filled places imaginable and always hungry and wondering where my next meal would come from and angry, angry, angry at this world and trying hard to convince myself that I wasn't going to just spend my life working in a hospital kitchen—but not now, when so many things in my life are so much better. My sixteenth year was last time I was truly suicidal. Till now. Back then though, it was just nearly impossible for me to visualize a way to the other side of a damn hard existence. I didn't so much want to die as I wanted to believe that things would get better, and I couldn't find any evidence that they would. And I didn't want to be who and where I was without some better options. But I managed to create those options for myself (with the help of an awful lot of people and an awful lot of stubborn determination)—which is a lesson, I suppose. And this past week? I just don't know. The best I can say is that it felt like a desire to defend the self I used to be from the self that I have become. But, even if this is a somewhat accurate explanation, being suicidal is not where I want to be either. But that's part of the problem, isn't it? It's so strange to even think about almost not being here today. And there were so many basic things to consider: what would happen to my cute little car. My house. My writing. My paintings. My cookbooks. My unfinished novel. My poems. My body. My heating-duct clock. My pottery. My shoes. My three guitars (well, four, if you count the one Sandiva drove over with the Jeep, but that one is in storage until I figure out how to incorporate it's crushed remains into a piece of art). My art. My journals. My sculptures. My cool Mondrian rug. Don't know what else I really value besides people and experiences and insight, so the rest could just go to whatever estate-sale person would be thrilled to find such a great deal on Wusthof knives and an extremely large stock pot. Also wondered what my mother would do with the money from all those life-insurance policies I took out so that, if I die before her, she could finally live without struggling so hard. Would she fix up the house that is falling apart now (even though that would be a bad financial decision) or would she move to a nicer place? I wondered if my policies had a suicide clause (which would have altered how I killed myself, not whether or not I did). And I wondered how to ensure that I would not have a Southern Baptist funeral—which happened with my father despite our telling the minister that we did not want one. (Gawd, Filmgrrl andI really should have punched that asshole in the face after that graveside service! And at least she had the courage to walk away when he added a altar call and asked people to come forward and be saved, while I just sat there fighting the urge to kill him and telling myself how upset my mother would be if I got up and marched away from the family seats. Ugh! Why didn't I punch that horrible man?) I also considered how much I would regret not knowing how some people's lives turn out. Will Filmgrrl find a decent job? Make that western film? Be happy in Montana? Will my nieces and nephews grow up okay or will one or more of them inherit my mother's paranoid schizophrenic disorder? Which one? The odds are not in their favor. Who will Musicgrrl fall in love with? Operagrrl? And, truth be told, I did wonder if the Ginger would regret that she didn't even attempt to explain her just disappearing on me or she did or if I don't even matter that much to her now I had a moment when I considered mailing my (formerly our) sex toys to her with no return address or letter of explanation. Even I'm not that cruel though. Still, one of the first things I thought about was, Jebus, my mother might come to my house! How am I going to get rid of my toys and On Our Backs magazines?! I finally decided that I owed three people an explanation: my little brother Lad, whom I basically raised and whom I adore more than practically anyone on earth and who does not deserve to have to deal with the repercussions from another suicide; my best pal Filmgrrl, who shares passion and deep places with me; and my dear friend and mentor Shakespeare, who is the closest thing to a mother I knew as a child. I don't know if Lad would forgive me, but do know that he would be terribly hurt. Filmgrrl would understand. I hope. But I don't think there's anything I could say or do that would make Shakespeare forgive me. Then I thought about how awful it would be for Lad to have to experience two mother-equivalents offing (or almost offing) themselves. And I thought about the person who would find me and how s/he would probably have nightmares like I do and how unfair that is to do to someone. So here's what I've realized from all this: (1) I am in deep, deep mourning for Mom right now, probably because the fifteenth is the one-year anniversary of her death, and the fact that I cannot go to where we scattered her ashes really bothers me because having a place to visit the deceased people I love is important to me. I talked with Musicgrrl briefly about where I was last week, but we need to talk more. She said that she and Operagrrl and I (three good friends, three recent break-ups) need to make a pact to call each other when we feel depressed or isolated, day or night. I sort of agree with her, at least in theory, but the truth of the matter is that I am not the sort of person who is going to ask someone for help and, really, if you want to kill yourself, you're not going to call someone because you don't want to be talked out of it—you want to die and just escape the fucking misery of yourself. All right. It's already 11:30 and I still haven't gotten that latte. I came to work with my hair wet and moussed so I have ringlets now, which is how I like my hair best. I am going to find some sunshine before my 1 PM massage—see, I am taking care of myself—and then stop at the pond and see if the fuzzy baby ducks are out yet. Then I will shop for the perfect birthday gift for Musicgrrl, who turns forty-eight this weekend. And then I will settle in by the water with the 1,200-page manuscript and edit and stare at all the new blooms until it's time to get ready to go out tonight. 11:35 a.m. - 2005-04-09 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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