Act One

I’d like to make a quick disclaimer for anyone who reads my blog and knows me personally.  Please don’t read this and think the end is nigh.  Please don’t think I’m swinging from an attic rafter or splayed out in a bathtub marinated in my own blood.  I feel like I’ll get a slew of text messages tomorrow and voicemails wanting to know if I’m okay.  I promise you I will be.  I just have to be honest tonight because keeping it all stored up with no place to purge is making me more desperate.

It’s just that I’ve romanticized death for as long as I can remember.   My earliest memory is being around 11 and hearing about a family friend who died from carbon monoxide poisoning, purely by accident.  I remember thinking how peacefully falling asleep and never waking up didn’t sound so bad.  I then became obsessed with all authors and artists who either committed suicide or drank themselves to death.  I even had a boyfriend in college who purchased a collection of suicide notes from famous people as my Christmas gift.  What else do we have control over really other than our life?  And did any of us willingly sign up for this assignment?  Life might be a gift for some but for other it is nothing more than a burden, full of dress rehearsals and contrived smiles.  One show after the next.  I’ve been a depressed person my entire life…even as a child I wanted to be alone because I knew my toxicity might be contagious, and I was weird kid who didn’t easily get along with others.

My last thoughts before I fall asleep every night are of not waking up, and what a relief that would be for me.  Today I drove home from my parents’ house traversing curvy roads that offered a chance to veer a little too far to the right.  But my dog was in the backseat and how could I ever hurt him?  How can I leave him?  Who would take care of him?  Who would love him as much as I do?  I kept looking in the rearview and seeing his beautiful brown eyes looking back at me like he knew I was struggling.  How would my parents deal with it?  My dad already has two dead kids.  And who would my mom call every night?   I absolutely refuse to use the “S” word because that isn’t what I’m saying at all.  I’m just trying to say that I’m awfully damn tired. Life shouldn’t be so much work.

But I miss Jason so much and I feel like a cornered animal with no escape route.  There’s no way out of this.  I just have to keep unwillingly living through it, each day slightly more miserable than the next it seems.  So I have to wake up every morning and perform the show expected of me.  “I’m fine, I’m doing okay, and I am just making it through one day at a time.”  Bullshit.  Nobody is fine when they’ve lost their best friend who has completely deserted them and left them in a black fucking hole.     I hide behind a smart-ass sense of humor and a facade made of fake positivity so I don’t make anyone worry unnecessarily.

I’m wishing I didn’t have to get up and perform this act again but I will because I have no other option.  I’ve already tried bargaining and offering my life in exchange for someone else’s.  Why the hell was it Jason who collapsed and died just like that?  I’m the one who doesn’t exercise, drinks more than I should, eats all the wrong foods, and dreams of Hemingway’s resolve and courage.  Jason loved life more than anyone I know and had the most positive attitude (yet hated greeting cards laced with glitter), which made our relationship odd since I’m a cynic who had a penchant for seeing the worst in every situation.  He kept me balanced but he’s gone and I’ve pleaded for him to give me sign that he’s okay, and that he didn’t die in pain and his last seconds weren’t full of fear, and that he isn’t angry for not being there.  But he’s silent.  I don’t know where he is.  And there’s no direct line to the dead.

I’d rather be drawn and quartered, shot in the stomach to bleed out slowly, buried in the sand until the weight suffocates me, beaten to death with a pipe, poisoning with something that dissolved my insides.  Any physical pain I can imagine isn’t possibly as bad and damaging as almost 9 months of wondering why I’m here and he isn’t.

 

 

 

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