No no don’t call the authorities. I’m fine I promise.
Well at the moment anyway.
There are tons of articles on the web exploring “risk factors” for suicide, ranging from middle age, race, mental health conditions, psychiatric hospitalization and of course past attempts. The amount of boxes I check on these lists is simply staggering.
It can leave one overwhelmed with a sense of impending doom. You start adding up a 10% increased likelihood from one category, to a 5% increased likelihood in another category and when it’s all said and done you sit at a 75% chance of offing yourself because a parking ticket broke your mental back.
And yes I know that’s not technically how the statistics work, but damn if it doesn’t start to feel that way.
Then you factor in the constant visages held over dying family members as the years drag on and on with their endless procession of suffering loved ones crying out to God as they slowly drown in their own viscous sputum. You start to think, “when I get that far gone, maybe I’ll just put a gun to my head.” You think this not necessarily because you don’t want to suffer the indignity of the end, but more to spare the ones you care about watching a hollow shell just wither away.
You think of your wife opening the bills years after they plant you in the ground. Imagine her sitting at the table as your teenage sons play video games and skip showers. They have started to curse and even though their mom begs them to stop they just go right on. She can’t keep the accounts straight. She can manage them, pay them, but it’s the constant stack, the dividing and sorting that keeps her awake and makes her eyes sink into their sockets.
You realize that just assuming you will die of bowel cancer is grim. You have a family history of that. The percentage points just tick up and up as you finish off a three musketeers bar and a bag of doritos. You are diabetic. The end will likely be blind and helpless.
You joke about this with friends and colleagues. You casually include “when I commit suicide” in normal conversations. When they gawk at you like your pants have fallen to your ankles, you laugh and talk about the statistics. Gallows humor is funny right?
It’s not funny. They are unsettled by it. They walk away with a grim frown and likely report you to someone who is mandated to follow up.
You are not suicidal. But the reality of it, the seduction of it as a solution to awful realities lying in wait offers a morbid comfort. It’s there. The idea sits on the edge of your brain and assures that no matter what, if it gets too bad you can always just check out. Don’t obviously. At least wait until you can get shit straight and tell someone what you are planning. Be of sound mind and body and all. Don’t be stupid. Don’t cause more pain than you have to.
Maybe don’t bring it up in conversation so much. And for God’s sake don’t fucking blog about it.
Buy a book!
I float into the hall and see the techs lined up at main junction where all the security cameras converge. The east wing doors are shut with chairs braced across them. A zip tie binds the handles. It’s been a fun night I think.
A woman runs from the end of the wing and throws herself into the glass window separating the wings. I don’t even startle at the zombie like scene, even as blood smears from her nose and lips at the impact. She wears a bra and sweatpants and in the midst of her screaming, I notice a missing front tooth. It is a fresh loss. After a moment of dizzy stumbling, she rakes her fingers through her black hair and pulls out an impressive clump. I begin a slow, methodical stride to the junction. I smell bacon.
I arrive among the techs just as she raises an ugly, brown chair above her head and lunges with it toward the glass. She throws with all of her might, but the glass merely bends as the chair betrays her. Both the zombie and the 70’s porno furniture reject crash to the tiled floor. For the first time I notice how savagely brown this place is.
“Don’t you guys have a padded room for shit like this?” It’s nice to know my cruel sense of humor has returned. She begins to gnaw on the skin of her kneecap.
The techs chuckle. “No we don’t have padded rooms here. She is coming off a Xanax addiction. It’s a good drug, but God help you if you get addicted.” She screams. The same black tech that processed me turns from the glass. He looks me straight in the eye as if sizing me up. His goatee is now less distinguished. He hasn’t shaved in a few days.
“She’s gonna be fine. She has to get over this hump. We see this a lot.” He yawns and stretches as he returns to his station. “You’re getting a roomie though. She is gonna need that wing to herself for at least a whole day. Tom is gonna be staying with you tonight.”
Oh no…not fucking Tom…
A new sample from Cyclops I am especially proud of. Every night we discussed our goals, our successes and our failures. These conversations often affirmed our efforts, but occasionally the real pain would erupt from us like pus from a zit under pressure.
This is the beginning of one such eruption.
A new tech arrives for our daily debriefing. We make the rounds. Yawns erupt and people confess to their daily sins and triumphs. Most of us achieve our goals. The few who don’t are encouraged. The tech tonight is an elderly man, gaunt as fuck and sporting thick glasses that could start a fire with nothing but a nightlight. His voice is heavy, but he speaks slowly and its buttery tone reminds me of Breakfast.
Randy’s goal was to get through a day without crying. He failed. It was Allison’s fault.
Matthew Wanted to eat in the cafeteria and not subsist on vending machine snacks. He succeeded but still ate Cheezits eight times today.
Molly wanted to go an entire day without Masturbating. She failed.
I wonder how Molly strategizes a failure of that magnitude when the bathrooms and bedrooms have no doors..
Jamal wanted to cuss out Jennifer. That was a resounding success.
I went to therapy. I have some ideas for goals tomorrow. I am kicking ass at this mental hospital thing.
Allison doesn’t want to talk. She cracks her long fingers and winces. Her arthritis is getting worse and these assholes can’t get her medication right. The tech presses. He adjusts his glasses and frowns. She needs to discuss her goal for the day. The tears flood across her nose and down to her lips. A damn bursts within her and all the hurt bleeds out.
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I always loved Milton’s use of an argument to provide a quick view of the events in a section of his epic poems. It’s easy to get lost in verse, and the argument allows a reader a chance to get their bearings.
The loyalist angels awaken to find themselves in Hell. Their memories are fragmented and unclear. They lament for what feels like eternity. The cries of despair fill the caverns. Michael the Archangel manages to rise from the fire and make his way to shore. He attempts a speech to rally his brothers in hope that some remnant of Yahweh’s forces remain in Heaven, and that Yahweh himself could yet live. Sandalphon responds to him with a recanting of Yahweh’s death, assuring the once heavenly host that the Lord of all is surely lost. The laments rise again and Michael tears the wings from his back in grief. The others follow, and for the first time since Yahweh laid their foundations, the fires of hell cool just enough to allow the lost angels a chance to properly grieve.
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An epic poem for a nightmare age!
I have always admired Dante and Milton, poets whose works come right up to the face of Blasphemy. The only way to walk among them may lie upon crossing that very line of decency. I worry hell awaits me for writing this very political, very protest-oriented piece where all of morality is drowned in Yeats’ famous ceremony of innocence.
The only hope we have is what we create. More to come.
The treacherous host stands victorious in Heaven. Lucifer, now basking in the glory of the divine throne, holds aloft the severed head of Yahweh. The blood stains and seers all it touches, but the angels are suddenly possessed with horror at their success. A debate ensues amongst the seraphim as to whether they are capable of ruling heaven and the newly laid foundations of Earth. Lucifer berates the doubtful, outright destroying the most vocal in their fear. After a furious tirade, he thrusts the head of Yahweh upon a stake and commands the angels to drink the blood cascading from it’s neck. Newly energized, the sons of the divine form warbands to eradicate any remaining loyalists to Yahweh. Lucifer turns to the holy palace of Kether to claim his rightful place as Heaven’s King. There he learns of the Christ and Yahweh’s machinations for a new race.
For death’s flower to bloom in such stark
Image, for Yahweh’s blood to flow where some
Assumed no blood haunted divine form, the weight
Felt upon the chests of traitorous children crushed
And wracked their eternal sinew. The bated breaths
And visions of glory driving their lances rushed
At the knowing, instinctual assumption their violence
Would end in hell’s maw. The fire’s awaited poisoned
Minds to met justice in Yahweh’s assured victory.
Glory spoiled, all sense of place and center
Rotting in the divine eyes staring hopeless-
To heaven’s horizon, mouth agape and sunken
Teeth tinged with holy crimson. The triumphant
Fingers of Lucifer’s hand rip the follicles from
Their roots. His laugh, deep within a hollow
Chest echoes past the ivory gates, chasing
The shattered remnants of Yahweh’s loyal
“Why fret? Why tremble in terror at what
Our struggle has birthed upon the heavens?
Be ye but men? Or the foul scratching in sand
Sprinkled haphazard upon the seas ever
Shifting borders?” Lucifer brings the holy
Visage to his own and stares into the vacant
Eyes. “What fear have we now? We shall
Restore greatness to the seraphim, heaven
Will close its doors and prosper, a beacon
We build higher and higher to the very zenith
Of our ambition!”