INSINCERE SUICIDAL CONTEMPLATION

This is not intended to be maudlin.  If you struggle with the concept of contemplation, you are in the wrong place.  You are probably in a lot of the wrong places, figuratively and literally.  Knock again when you are ready.

I find it funny that if we are uncomfortable with a concept we get so pathological.  “We” are uncomfortable with suicide so reflecting on it becomes terrifying and dangerous.  Talking or writing about it, even more so.  I can hear them now, “her mind is broken” “something is wrong with her” “oh, dear god what will we do?”  It’s silly. Really.

Think of it like this, I am as hideously uncomfortable talking about new-agey spiritual “crap” as some are about suicide.  It’s all perspective.

I have pondered the concept, if not the act, throughout my life.  In the whirling sensory overload of dramatic instances, in the everyday horror rut of nothing special, and often, in transit.

I have contemplated death in transit as far back as I can remember having memories.  As a child, a teen, a young “adult”, and as whatever the hell it is I am now.  It occurs to me while writing this that I contemplate suicide while driving and death while riding.  It never occurs to me that un-calculated death will occur when I am in control. I wonder what this means.

I often visualize just driving off the path.  Steering outside the lines they have forced me inside. This is a common theme in my life; that my existence doesn’t seem to fit inside.  I am restless and uncomfortable and nothing feels as though it fits quite right.  It’s as though I am wearing a rubber bubble of a suit that is at once too tight and too appallingly large, too abrasive and too annoyingly soft.  No buttons or zippers or ties or clasps of any kind.  Airless and watertight. Trapped.  I am.

As I reflect on the concept of death, I wonder if perpetrators of suicide are simply seeking a metamorphosis rather than an end.

Perhaps I can die a metaphorical death…

In that vein, I decided a suicide note would be an interesting writing exercise.  Here is draft one.

To my darlings…

May you live surrounded by love, floating weightlessly in the dream but with your eyes wide open.  Not simply awaiting possibility, but fighting for it to your last breath.

Don’t be quick to judge, weigh things. Don’t bear impulsiveness as your cross, but leave space for spontaneity to flourish, it will be worth it.  Find a place to reside between these two things, be careful, they are not mutually exclusive and that devil impulsiveness mastered disguise long ago.

Remember, a little vacillation never killed anybody.

Have an inquisitive and independent mind, an empathetic and sincere heart, and a generous and enlightened spirit.  These are the things that I believe will bring balance, these are the things I would have liked to have.

Don’t believe the unbelievable.  Think with your whole being.  If it feels wrong, it is probably wrong, if it feels right, it is probably right.  The key is not to fool yourself.  Your truth is yours alone, but don’t let it blind you.  There is no one truth, no matter what they tell you.  We are each of us living a life that only we are living.  Accept this and you will have shattered the glass.  I wish I had.

Don’t fecklessly accept the fishheads thrown your way, nor discount them on their seeming manifestation.  In most things you will find merit, at least a little.  Look for it, ponder it… then decide on acceptance or rejection. Don’t confuse acceptance with tolerance.  They both have their place, but they are not the same thing.

Strife is inevitable, but don’t just accept it as your due. They will tell you that it is, but they will be wrong.  Accept the complexity of all existence.  Fear mongers will attempt to dissuade you, distract you, detain you.  Accepting complexity is their worst fear.  Simplicity is their weapon, their staff of righteousness.  Snap it in half.

Be daring and brave and capricious and unmanageable and crazy and frightening and devil may care and wild and generous and don’t take yourself too seriously… at least for one day, in memory of me.

Be happy because, seriously, what if this is all there is?  What if you spend your whole and only conscious existence living restless and cramped inside the box society built for you because you were too afraid to punch through the plywood and take a gulp of the outside air that they have sold you is un-breathable? I refuse to believe that it is. If I would have figured that out sooner, I may have had a chance.

Remember that just because I lost this battle doesn’t mean I was not a brilliant strategist.  It was only my execution that sucked.

“I’d rather kick myself”  – Finn Dodd

Finally…

To my last love, thank you for that final glimpse of happiness,

I will reside forever beside the water with you.

 

 

Champagne Thought Bubbles… 4

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It’s happened.  I’m officially that ‘housewife’ that perks up when she notices that its 2pm because she’s convinced herself that this is an appropriate time to enjoy a glass of cab to relieve the day, round out the day, get through the day.  It’s surprisingly easy to accept, much less guilt and bullshit than I expected.  The one thing that continually irks me, however, is I am NOT a housewife.  I mean, technically, I guess you would have to categorize me that way, but I am really no housewife.  Not that I can accept and not that any sane or sober man would accept.  I don’t think that moniker could ever hold me.  Or sustain me.  It is a disservice and an insult to the intelligence of anyone with a modicum of insight to assume they would accept this about me.  Right?

As I am sitting here in (for once) clean ‘loungewear’ in my perfect, tidy, safe little corner “office” in my front room, which I no longer need as I am unemployed AND not finishing my degrees yet I still adore and refuse to even ponder giving up, I notice the random monotonously ‘normal’ things that I always notice and decide to share one thought with curiosity about other people’s thought patterns bubbling in my head like Gizmo’s back after an accidental misting…

The flowers pictured on the tissue box plopped haphazardly to the left of my decrepit laptop (something that ‘working’ superwoman of the past would never have tolerated) look like a male-devouring female praying mantis licking her chops in anticipation of a particularly delectable meal.  This makes me think of Thanksgiving. More on this later in the week…

It also makes me think of Black Widow spiders, for which I have a diabolical affinity, which makes me think of Scarlet Johansson, for whom I have what might, by some, be considered a shocking affinity, which makes me think of religion and homosexuality and bisexuality and Christianity and war and judgment and hate and acceptance and immurement and immolation and imagery and alliteration and tolerance and adultery and murder and love and endangered species and sex and honesty and societal norms and heroism and confessionals and Kant and democracy and polarization and motherhood and self-loathing and vinyl and black nail-polish and living the exceptional life… to name a few.

Isn’t the mind a terrible thing to taste?

How much of my thought pattern is being influenced by my current immersion in the hot summer read that I am embarrassingly reading only now and only because of all the ‘talk’ surrounding it, I don’t know.  Oh, and please don’t infer that the book is anything other than riveting, I am thoroughly enjoying it as it is so achingly familiar. (Gone Girl, if you are wondering) OH! That gives me an idea! I will post my current reading list (which I will have digested 75% of in the next 4-6 weeks to avoid the sub-letter’s derisive and unforgiving scorn) so that I might get some solicited referrals for additions.

As I am not working or finish my degrees, my mind is a caffeinated jitterbug junkie desperate for a fix that scrubbing my molding with a Clorox soaked toothbrush just cannot provide so I am reading with more tenacity and voracity than ever before in my life… this is a staggering amount of reading BTW as my firmly established identity as a famished and dehydrated word-whore whose frantic crusade for sustenance has morphed, horrifyingly, into what amounts to an addict pulsing with need, rushing headlong into schemes and opportunities for satisfaction, no consideration for consequence.

Oh, wait.  Now it simply mirrors the rest of my existence.

For CFrantastic

My lovely and sensitive 9 year old is experiencing some “girl bullying” at school. She is confused and sad and I am disheartened and angry for my beautiful, kind, sometimes awkward girl.
Tonight she is at her Dad’s and we are texting about her feelings and I feel impotent and broken.
I wrote this to cheer her so don’t judge it on literary merit or as poetry of any sort as I certainly am no poet.
And, YES, I am that parent who doesn’t shield their child from foul language as I have always had a spectacular and wondrous case of trucker-mouth.
I also have a 9 year old who never swears, never has, and if she chooses to at some point in her life, well, I can think of things I would be much more disappointed in.
I decided to share it simply with the hope that it could touch even one other person out there suffering, child or no.
Maybe this will cheer the darling being bullied in your life – I assure you, there is one.
On a day like any other day
You think things just might go your way
Finally today will go your way
Today will finally be the day
You’ll finally get invited to play
Today they’ll see you and they’ll say
Hey! Come on! Please come to play!

You stand, hands clasped, so patient now
Just sure they’ll notice you somehow
Smiling shyly, peeking round
Scuffing the toe of your shoe on the ground
Minutes tick by and you start to worry
If its going to happen they really must hurry
The bell will soon ring, the teachers will call
Some will start running, others will stall
Hurried or reluctant, it really won’t matter
For once the bell sounds, all hope will just shatter
So, eyeing the others all laughing at play
You think, no! Today, today is the day!
An idea begins to form in your head
Slowly it tickles like bugs in your bed
You turn the notion around and around
Inspecting and wondering, can it be sound?
Suddenly time is up and you hear
The ringing of bells so sharp in your ear
No! No! It’s too soon, you had almost decided
To march right on up to the kids, uninvited
To tell them you’re ready and willing to play and if they don’t want you then you’d simply say
Fuck off … I’m smarter than you anyway
Oh, no that’s not it, you decided to try
The road travelled less than the good old stand by
Of defensive and prickly walls meant to shroud
Your feelings and ego, why are we so proud?
Surely some out there are mean, dumb, or vain
But mostly it’s clear they all suffer in pain
Fear of rejection and lack of strong will
Confusion, frustration, and yet even still
Basically good and caring at heart
Maybe your actions will trigger the start
Of kinder behavior and empathy here
Banishing bullies and conquering fear
With wisdom and kindness a great man once led
A revolution of nonviolence & notably said
A bevy of thoughtful and powerful things
Profound and sagacious and lifting like wings
The spirits of people and kindness unfurled
when he said be the change you would see in the world

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Champagne Thought Bubbles…

My therapist says …

“You can’t change what you’ve done but you can change who you are.”

God*, I hope so.

 

*I say this, always, as an expression; Never as an incantation, nor a prayer, not to blaspheme, not an insult, not in any seriousness, nor to any particular ‘God’ especially yours. So if you have issue with it… pray on it, meditate on it, whatever it is you do to be an exemplary “insert your religious/spiritual identity of choice here” and please, with all due respect, keep your yap shut about it to me because to me it is simply and unequivocally an expression, harmless in intent and only imbued with what power we assign it through our connotation. In addition to which, if you are so offended by someone of differing belief’s use of a term that means something different to them than it does to you, then IMO you have bigger issues to deal with than me and my little blog and ought to put your passionate efforts to use in more productive ways.

Remember Our Veterans Today!

In honor of Veteran’s Day, I would like to take a moment to shine a light on a special person in my life.  While we don’t have the opportunity to see each other often, this friend has been there for me through some very difficult things (I hope I have provided the same type of kind comfort in return) and is the kind of soul who is a bright light if you bother to take a look.  He is a proud veteran of the Naval Forces and served for us all in Vietnam when he was a young man.  Now in his 60’s, he has deep and resonating insight about that time in his life and how it shaped things, not just for him, but for our country.  I love to sit with him and visit because he not only has a wealth of valuable knowledge about times and events that I was not around to witness; he is a brilliant artist, a blue-collar construction worker, and a loving father.  He has much to offer. 

                Though we may drift in a vast sea where swells fling us apart as much as they toss us together, your friendship has been a balm, a joy, a gift.  I am thankful for you and I am thinking of you today, Don, and wishing you every blessing.  I hope I see you soon…

One example of his artistry…

Reasons to reach out and enjoy blogs daily …

I randomly came across this post while perusing some fantastic blogs in my bathtub this morning. I’ve not had the urge to ‘reblog’ often but this is magnificent. What else can I say but what I’ve said to the author of this gem?
“Stunning. Absolutely stunning. This is a timeless piece that immortalizes not only your loss and your beloved friend’s life, but grief and uncertainty as it exists for us all. Thank you for sharing this.”

The aimless wanderings of my mind...

“We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast. But when we say this, we imagine that the hour is placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun, or that death could arrive this same afternoon – this afternoon which is so certain, and which has every hour filled in advance.” – Final Destination

We all need reminders that life is precious…

Let’s flashback to my very first day of Second Grade.

I entered the classroom nervously. It also happened to be my first day at the new school. I clutched my sister’s hand tightly and eyed my would-be classmates disdainfully.

The teacher was beckoning to me to take a seat. I remember shaking my little head vigorously from side to side, swallowing the massive lump in my throat and blinking away a pool of tears.  The…

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A CIGARETTE IN MY CAR AT THE TOSTON BAR

Warning:

 If you are a girl under 25, or a girl over 25 with the sensibilities and/or emotional maturity of a girl under 25, this post will likely offend and affront you so please read on with caution as no amount of righteous commentating will have any effect on my opinions or, I suspect, the opinions of other women my age.  Yes, yes, we know that there are a paltry few of you out there who really and truly may not fit this stereotyped roundup and branding, rest easy.  You may keep your outrage.  This is observational only and frankly we’ve got 10+ years on ya, so the potential that we may have ‘observed’ more than you have in our time is quite high.

As young girls will sometimes do, I spent a good portion of my late teens and early twenties being a bit of an emotionally overwrought batshitcrazy ‘romantic’.  Whenever I have a chance to speak to girls of this age range, I am never surprised by the fact that this state of boycrazynutbagism (BCN) is still rampant.  Of course, we ladies of a certain age understand the inevitability of the profuse and passion-filled denial of their, even temporary, residence in this ‘greymushed’ state.  They are all grown up.  Just as we were… wink, snort.  (While I am woefully unfamiliar with the emotional tribulations of boys and men, if you have insight into similar types of suffering/disorders that afflict the males of the species please feel free to share this information with me as any areas of common ground between the two can only be beneficial.)

In the early onset of my affliction with BCN, I presented with restlessness, insomnia, bouts of blatant overconfidence interspersed with chronic self-consciousness, alternating uncontrolled fits of crying and rage, and a general moroseness. (The last of which lasted… well… into the present)  I was as yet unaware of the type of labeling that could result from such uncontrolled emotional ‘dervishism’.  (On a side note, if you have been reading my blog regularly, you may notice that I have a great propensity for making up my own terms.  Please feel free to comment, suggest, or ask what the hell kind of cockle-brained meaning I might be assigning them as I am certain it isn’t always obvious.) Once you have been ‘labeled’ in any way, it can become an Odyssean quest to erase the stigma.

 A few labels that may be assigned to someone suffering from BCN are: melodramatic, crysack, neurotic, emotional wreck, social doughnut-hole, drama-queen, stalker, and a host of other terms that get progressively worse as your symptoms progress.  A main danger of BCN is that it can easily morph into CSBS (crazystalkerbitchsyndrome) which you can recognize by its inherent ability to almost instantly repulse the male of the species (it is believed that in addition to the repellant qualities lurking in the behavioral symptoms there is also a pheromone component to this phenomenon).  CSBS is even more dangerous because of its long-term effects, which with time and progression will eventually drive off even the females of the species, who have built in defenses against its symptoms.  Both of these disorders also share the unfortunate symptom of complete lack of awareness and/or acceptance of your state, in this way they seem similar to an addiction (hmmmm).

I spent unimaginable amounts of effort and time in what I like to think of as ‘covert ops’.  This basically means that I made ridiculous and I am certain, failed, attempts to hide the fact that I was suffering from these afflictions.  This type of emphatic denial is a tell-tale sign and one we must be prepared to recognize in those around us, be they loved ones or not, in order to either aid them or hightail it in the opposite direction as though our ass hairs were on fire.  I strongly recommend the latter as the former often requires drastic intervention ranging from medication to exorcism.

During the latter years of my tormented dementia (separate from my current years of tormented dementia) I had a long, tumultuous, and mostly immature relationship with a wonderful young man who I met during my first semester of college.  He was a good kid; raised up right, mostly emotionally stable, and as different from me as you can imagine.  We had our trials and we had our triumphs and I look back fondly if not ruefully.  I had many cringe-worthy moments in those days (as I still do, not attempting any type of self-aggrandizing here) but a favorite stems directly from my BCN/CSBS suffering so I will include it here to illustrate the dangers of these disorders.

It happened one weekend that the LOMLATT (loveofmylifeatthetime) had planned to spend the weekend in his hometown without me.  Spending the weekend in his hometown which was just a quick hour and a half away was a very usual occurrence, though I was most often included.  Unfortunately I occasionally acted like a spoilt child throwing down BF’s (bitch fit) for days in advance of the rare ‘no girlfriend’ trips.  Sometimes I would attempt to be a normal human and slap on the BGP’s (big girl panties) and smile and encourage the trip, which is what I did on this occasion.  I was however very jealous and suspicious in those days (which I believe leads you into direct contact with assbags who will lie and cheat and hurt you and turn you into a creature that you cannot yourself recognize – but that’s another story) though this particular boy never deserved it, and would eventually almost always work myself up into some kind of frenzy, which I did on this occasion.

 I had spent the day in a psychotic cleaning episode, which was how I typically dealt with stress of this sort, and then decided to head out to dinner and drinks with some girlfriends.  Somewhere over the course of the next few hours I had convinced myself that the LOMLATT was only home without me in order to facilitate some sort of tryst with a former flame and I was going to deal with this in the most logical manner possible… drive the hour and a half to his hometown at 8:00 at night and confront them with my self-righteous indignation!  As it was summer in the mountains, the sun would be up until almost 10pm so I had daylight, a full tank of gas (which in those days cost me somewhere in the area of $20) in Wilma the Wonder Ovary (my super-cool white Subaru sedan), a pack of Camel Lights, and a healthy dose of fury on my side. 

I headed out full of adrenaline and red wine (ya, ya, I DO know) with Alanis (dating myself here) blaring on my tinny unbalanced stock speakers, lighting up a cool Camel and throwing back my head to sing.  I smoked and sang at the top of my then strong pink lungs for approximately 40 minutes or so feeling powerful and badass, before approaching a roadside bar of the hillbilly variety (IMO) at the base of a curving overpass.  Chain-smoking furiously and unapologetically while driving takes some planning and skill, I would pull out a new cig, light it with my old cig, and then toss the old cig out my window with a practiced flick. This way I wasn’t required to use the cigarette lighter which I was convinced was inefficient and also I felt cooler which was of the utmost importance.  I rolled down my window to the exactly perfect position, not so much that I get blasted with wind and not so little that I couldn’t get the cig out easily, all the while wailing “and I’m heeeeere… to remind you”.  I pulled, lit, and flicked.  What I did not realize was that I had inadvertently hit the button to roll down the back window at the same time and as luck would have it (or maybe fate?) the rushing wind sucked my still lit butt back in through the back window where it lodged under my driver’s seat and began to smoke.  I fairly quickly realized what was going on, stopped singing, and began a futile reach-around attempt which earned me a set of burned fingertips and a panic attack the likes of which even I was not ready for.  I was swerving and swearing and pretty quickly the food-grease, spilt booze, paper, and who knows what else laden carpet had ignited and I was forced to pull over directly opposite the roadside bar where 3 or 4 cars lingered. 

Like a lunatic being swarmed by Africanized bees I jumped out and opened the back door bending in my embarrassing ‘daisy dukes’ and frantically pawing for the rogue cig while beating at the carpet fire with my purse, which was the first thing I grabbed in my crazed ransacking of the backseat that was not made of paper or plastic.  I did manage to beat the small fire out with my handbag, bursting open every container inside in the process so now I had a gooey plumeria scented menagerie of sloppy wet crap in my purse to boot.  I sat down against the back seat huffing and sweating like I had just run a quarter of a mile and lolled my head back at which point I noticed the 5 agog bar patrons standing in the gravel parking area across the street from me sporting expressions of shock, mirth, and I am certain, awe.  I looked around me and saw the entire contents of my backseat strewn in the dirt around the open back door; McDonald’s trash, receipts, old cigarette boxes, magazines, newspapers, plastic bags, plastic cups, and other assorted bits.  I imagine that those folks enjoyed quite a show and I can only count my blessings that in those days every 8-80 year old didn’t have a smart-phone at the ready to capture and share such impressive moments. 

I decided at that point that heading home was probably in my best interest and I did exactly that.  I never told anyone the story of the cigarette in my car at the Toston bar until many years later when I finally understood the catharsis of healthy self-deprecation.  I have since begun to realize that I find nothing as hilarious as my own chaotic decision-making, apparently this is a view shared by many.

As the years went by I, thankfully, began to see the drawbacks of my emotional situation, the effects on my relationships were disastrous and the effects on my sense of self even more so.  I began to metamorphose.  Sadly, with my as yet unrecognized mental disorders also present, I went the way of the erratic ‘judgementalist’ with no concept of a middle ground and careened to the other end of the spectrum so spectacularly that I ended up as what some consider robotic and aloof.  So removed from emotional attachment that when others (this is quite rare) discover the Lake Vostok-like depths of my emotional reservoir they invariably go into some form of shock, panic, and/or disbelief.  This also has not had the most beneficial effects on my life/relationships.  I cannot recommend a sojourn into the waters on either side of this continuum and if you find yourself drifting too far in one of those directions please seek immediate attention from a mental health professional, naturopath, witch doctor, or exorcist for THERE IS NO TIME TO WASTE!

Living the Dream…

While watching a movie with my bbf, I heard one character tell another…

“I was just thinking… your life is ass”.

This is a statement of such utterly cryptic beauty.
It resonated with me in such an exquisite agony of clarity that
I had to swallow my tears. Then my two year old climbed into my lap, put her sweet chubby little hands on either side of my face, smiled lovingly into my eyes, and released tiny bubbly fartlets all over my leg.

Yes.

My life is ass. Literally.