Staying single is a choice for many reasons; many of which I have chronicled for you in previous tales of woe. But this will likely be the tale to end, or even begin, all woes.
I like to refer to us as Suicide Walkers, because we walk the path of Suicide Lane the bane of our existence without most of our associates knowing where we plant our feet. What I mean by that is this; it's mid-January, 3am and you're alone. There's a few inches of snow on the ground, over top of ice, and more on the way. Everyone on the block is at a gala for a local good Samaritan and you just broke your house key in the front door lock. You are cold. You are alone. You have little hope of help, others are off helping a better person than you, and more cold is on its way.
There is no protection, no shelter, hope, understanding, confidants, or way out. This is the continual path of a suicide walker. Except that its not a random, 3am incident that lasts until someone gets home. Continual means unending, uninterrupted; therefore, we develop injury from incidents. We incur numbness from the cold, scar tissue from the stab wounds of icicles falling all around. You experience an incident. We walk a continual path of ice. This is the path of a Suicide Walker. And this is why we walk alone.
A Moments Thought:
I don't know yet if I'm loved or lost
I do, however, know I'm long forgot
Each day, so long, deafened by the madness
Seeing no change in the plight of my sadness.
When music plays, it breaks me down
Realizing its one thing I'll never be allowed;
The other sounds, life moving on
Lets me know that it's fine, you'll be fine, when I'm gone.
There's no one left, beloved who will miss me,
Walking each day, an act so pointless, empty.
I no longer belong, actually, it's been some time
Since there was a place, or a moment, this world gave as mine
Alone; it doesn't matter. Hollow is the part that allowed this soul to shatter.
Even if I somehow were surrounded,
I'd see not a moment's purpose, only chaos unfounded
As an accident, sometimes, I think we catch him off guard,
And as we wander thru our days, he renders us, just scars.
There was no time to etch a plan or fill you into the lines.
That's how some of us conclude it's just our time.
It isn't from a lack of trying, loving, or wanting life.
It's simply that we want too much, and end up with hearts afire;
Desperation becomes our pain, and our funeral pire
Because the only answer we ever find
That quiets the sobbing deep inside
Is "go ahead, give into it, it's only suicide."
The Easy Way Out:
This is hardly the easy way out. If we could ask those of us who took this so called easy way out, "what was it like, how long did it take to finally do it," not one would come back and say, "oh it was simple, I just decided one day it was a good idea and so I did it." This isn't quitting a job or taking a spontaneous trip to the Maldives. This is suicide. Hunter S. Thompson, famous, long-time author for the Rolling Stones wrote in his famed suicide note, "67. That is 17 years more than I wanted." A man of means, a man of worth, a man who anyone would say, lived his life, took, at least 17 years to commit an act he wished to commit so eagerly, because it was not easy. Because it is the final page of his story. A total guarantee that nothing again will ever happen to you. No hell, no forgiveness, just black. Suicide Walkers, then, have to believe, that nothing good is to come. They've waited 17 years.
But truth be told, it's one hell of a journey. Suicide Lane has zero short cuts and zero street lights at night. It's almost entirely uphill, until you approach these ridiculously unforeseen turns, then you trip over something, a rock, a pothole, who can tell, and you are catapulted hundreds of miles downhill, with no way to stop. It's like Alaska in the winter time. There's rarely light to guide you, and you worry that the sheer chill will stop your heart before you have a chance to make up your mind. And while there are always other feet shuffling along the path, they're merely echoes in the distance; sometimes a scream when someone trips on that rock, or pothole, or whatever. But they're so far away from where you're at, you don't bother to lift up your eyes to see if you can catch a glimpse. Rather, you watch your own feet. You have to. They feel cemented to the earth as it is. You're convinced you're not moving at all; so you watch them, every step, just to know that you're somewhere different than you were moments ago.
As your demons hover beside you on the trail, they're mostly silent. The sight of them is enough to keep you going. And though they rarely speak to you, they often trade tales to one another, for the sake of breaking up the monotony I'm sure. There's no way to understand them, their language, why they're with you, but deep inside your abyss, their temporary shelter, you feel your urge growing to their tales. They're feeding each other, promoting each other. How, you wonder, can something so black, so decayed, give so much light and strength to another? Such a paradox, the things you see on this path.
The Fork in the Road
When did I get here? Looking back, the image of my impulsive self seems so small. I'd say I was a child, but you can't open the gate to Suicide Lane until you are of certain height. Children have very little awareness of consequences; it's simply not a conscious choice they'd make. I know though, I was young. Younger than a person should be to see the things I've seen. Maybe I had a little red stepstool with me so I could reach the latch. There's no real way to pinpoint the day I came to the fork in the road, but I'm going to narrow it down to my 12th year, the first time I cried the words that would nearly become a mantra for my life, 'God just let me die, take me already. Please I'll go to bed and just don't wake me up tomorrow." I don't cry them out anymore but the words crossed my lips just earlier today. And I realize it's been a long, dark, cold, creepy, isolated 24 years on this road. But you kinda can tell when the path is coming to an end. The horrors no longer make you jump. The demons never shut up but you don't even hear them. They're gaining some kind of momentum I suppose. Your heart doesn't race while you tread uphill; you've found your stride. There are street signs, but it's just too dark to try and see what they're pointing at. I am moving foward.
I am just so tired. I probably say that, or at least think it, a few hundred times a day. Mental exhaustion-I literally wear myself out, just from thinking. I never knew if this journey would be hard, I just hoped it would be short. Maybe I can rent a golf cart or something. 24 years is a long time to do anything continually. Try and remember that.
I once recalled reaching the top of a hill. I thought, is it possible I'm finally at the height of summer in the hellacious Alaskan mockery that I am seeing the light of day? But I found no hope inside buried willing to rise up and convince me that this were true. But there was water. A pond at the other side of the brush. The light was bouncing off of the pond and the trees, the dew, the crystalized rock embedded in the mountain off to the side. I know I was smiling because of the pond, so capitivated that I didn't notice him take my heart from my chest, just to jump from the cliff with it to his own death.
The Wizard of Oz kept running through my visual mind. I had no heart. If I swallowed a rock right now not only would it be alone, but you would hear every drop, bounce, ricochet, as it made its way through. I am but a shell; hollow, void, nothingness. Too, I haven't the courage to move. Nor do I wish to. Nor is there anywhere to go. Dead end up ahead.
There's no place like home. There is no home left for me anymore.
Stars in the sky die, along with everything else coexisting in this vast, desolate expanse. When a massive star dies, the gravatational impact on the star causes it to implode, or cave in upon itself, creating a massive, incomparable, glorious explosion of the star's mass. I once heard it described as its "destruction creates its most beautiful and memorable moment of its entire existence." Pictures of supernovas are among the most rare in the world. Satalite reconfigurations capture a select few. Those few, are changed forever. I am changed forever. In a lapse of a few seemingly insignificant moments, I witnessed magesty. In a flash, followed by destruction, surviving in its loss. I cannot surivive it at length. I am a Suicide Walker, and my road is short.
The memory is the only way you can survive, if you want to. And I'm just not sure I do. I'd rather become that star myself, shine for once, evade the dark for awhile. I want to provide light for another. I want to shine next to him. Understand, I want to be light. I don't want to be in the dark anymore.
An interesting term we've all come to know so well is shaming. When you shame someone, you make them feel guilty about a position or reality they hold dear. Suicide shaming is particularly paradoxical. If you want someone to live, don't make them feel bad about being suicidal. They will distance themselves from you. What you need to do is consider the story above. Suicide walkers don't choose their path. They are always on it. They are always suffering. They are always considering. Your only hope of keeping them around longer, is knowing their pain is real, filling it with authentic, unconditional, real love, and being understanding of their plight. Suicide is not a selfish act, nor is it about you. If you want them back, or don't want them to do it because you don't want to lose them, then essentially, it is you who behaves selfishly. Ease the suffering of your suicide walker. Understand that they want to be loved, but that they will walk Suicide Lane alone. If its 17, 24, 56, or 70 years. The choice will be made, and it is their right. So fill their life with love, fill everyone's life with love, and let it lie.