Actually, there's an amazing irony about this. This is just the place to write my thoughts about checking out earlier than my body will accommodate on its own. No one reads this blog, so it’s a perfect place to hide in plain sight. When all is said and done, my crystallizing thoughts will be found to have been clearly delineated and left in plain view. I guess it’s true I’m whining about a lack of attention; such a miserable, gutless cry baby, the type of behavior Justin loathed. “Stop whining and just do it!” I can hear him saying that now, though perhaps not to me in this context. Then again, he might urge me to shit or get off the pity pot.
This world is a harsh, unforgiving place, and everyone is rightfully focused on their own trials and tribulations. It gals me a little though, how people feign remorse and regret after the fact. I think they know in their hearts, that without the benefit of hindsight (which we never have in advance) they’d respond the same way if given a do over. In the final analysis, we are who we are after all.
I am increasingly miserable. And the prospects for my future seem more and more dismal ….. a sorry mess actually. There’s just no point in being old, poor, and perpetually grieving, with a failing body that’s not quite sick enough to die. Not long ago, I determined I needed about 10 years to get done with everything, and because the things I wanted to do were hard for me, I believed, I had to get strong before I died to achieve it all. It increasingly feels like my grandiose goals are not realistic, and need to be paired down significantly. I can’t make people remember Justin if it’s not in their nature to do so. He will never be as important to any other person as he is to me. And I’m beginning to conclude my writings of him are not sufficiently impressive to burn his uniqueness, and worthiness to be known into eternity. Haviing such lofty goals is probably unwise, and it makes sense to shrink them more in proportion to my diminished life. The things I can get done can be accomplished in the short term, and a decade is hardly necessary. It’s really just a cowardly excuse to hang on I’m afraid. I’m rather tired of being the caretaker for the self absorbed, who will continue to drain me spiritually as long as possible. And I don’t want a future living on the margins of other lives when they clearly have more important things to do. I’m not complaining about that really. Unlike my mother, I don’t have the self importance, or gumption to continuously insert myself using other’s sense of obligation. There’s just no point in trying to do that. It doesn’t suite me. Neither does it make sense to circle suspended, haunting the edges of other people’s lives; a position one assumes when others are “just not that into you”. Better to be an actual ghost than a virtual one. Anyway, they’re either to intelligent or indifferent to be manipulated by my stupid, pathetic neediness; as well they should be.
At this point, it’s clear this life has not worked out. It’s been quite a train wreck actually. And the truth is, it’s going down hill from here. This is not the radically premature judgment of a 24 year old. I’m fifty eight; experienced enough to know when things are irreversibly fucked, and I don’t have 25 years to recoup. There is also the unalterable reality of images that cannot be undone, and will live forever in my head. In a fit of poetic expression I’m sure Deva would think unforgivably cheesy, I described it as the image “seared in swollen memory”. Some things are indeed unfixable. It’s fruitless to live long term with an intolerable memory that won’t cease until you do. Living until 80 with this is as unfathomable as it is unacceptable.
All this must stop soon. There’re just a few things left to do that make a difference to me. Right now, it looks like they can be accomplished in less than a year. The time horizon is shrinking faster than previously thought. It’s not that I want to leave anyone endlessly remorseful. I just want to step out of this miserable charade, and I’ve determined those remaining have the recuperative skills and/or supports to move on after some acute feeling of sadness. Those who would be left behind are either true survivors, who’ve sucked more than their fair share from my life, or they’re intuitively wise, fully individuated spirits who know they should never love someone more than that person loves their own misery. Justin didn’t understand that. Like me, he wasn’t emotionally wired to live by that rule. I wish more than anything he had been. In this way too, I blame myself. It was the consequence of heredity. That inherited trait coupled with his unbendable, heartfelt principles is a bad combination, because people will inevitably let you down in the end. The best thing to do is not to care. But unfortunately, when that’s not who you are, it’s easier said than done.
My impulsiveness this weekend to tuck the pills in my purse for my solitary journey to Mother’s place provided a preview of how I might execute my plan. I could drive to an unknown destination, even to myself, and swallow enough pain killers to make revival a mute point by the time anyone knew to look for me. Of course, I chickened out when it came down to actually doing this. No matter what you’ve heard, following through on deliberately exiting this life requires more courage than most of us have. This notion is anathema in suicide prevention philosophy, however. While prevention proponents don’t want to call it cowardly, they go to great lengths to refute the idea that suicide is ever a courageous or noble act. As a survivor of a loved one who died this way, I totally understand this view. But it is what it is. Perhaps it’s not noble, but it does take a an extreme level of unblinking daring and commitment the fait hearted can’t begin to approach. It’s ironic that some rationalize their own sniveling fear by calling the brave hearted among us cowards. I think my cowardice is slowly diminishing, however. And in the not too distant future I’ll marshal the courage of my convictions, finally acting on my belief that living as long as I can is not the most desirable path for me. And like Justin, I’ll be able to look death in the eye, and refuse to blink.
No comments:
Post a Comment