There is no #23. No, really, there is no #23. Just move on to the next.
Okay, so here’s the real #23. I love being mean and rubbing people’s noses in the absurdity that is life. Maybe it’s a bit of spreading the misery going on, but I like to tell myself that things can’t change until people really understand what they’re blinding themselves to in favor of their nice, safe world that they want to believe in. Let me assure you, the universe really is out to get us, and things are not so cut and dry and simple that they’ll fit into a meme. Life, the universe, and everything is incredibly complex, and while I get that you might not, and in fact probably don’t, want to understand all of it, you shouldn’t hide your head in the sand from it either. Therefore I like being “that guy” and opening the can of worms. I like dropping conversational bombs that rile people’s passions and make them break out of their comfort zones. If that makes me an asshole, then I’m good with that. I don’t do it just to be mean after all. I do it because I want to see how people handle it, and see who is and isn’t willing to consider that maybe there’s more to the world after all than sitting on their front porch and watching the rain.
I’m looking forward to being a cyborg or a “brain in a jar.” As you might have noticed above, a lot of my gripes with the world involve the hindrances and pains of my body. Where I uploaded into the “machine” or my mind could be moved into a machine body, that would alleviate a lot of the issues. Preferably upload me into a star ship as its “computer” and let me explore the universe as I want. That would be really nice.
Lately I can add that I’m close to accomplishing a few of the things that I always wanted to, and thought had been rendered beyond my reach. I’m close to earning my PhD. I have a two chapter start on a novel. I have a few stories that are longer than most short stories, but not long enough to be novellas either started or finished. I’ll just need to decide what to do with them. It may be too late for me to do anything with these sorts of things, but they’re there, and they’re mine.
I don’t know how to phrase this one any other way than, I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat with my 12-gauge and thought about how easy it would be to just set my chin over the end of the barrel, chamber a round, and push the trigger. I can’t express the number of times I’ve heard the kitchen knives talking to me, or thought about that bottle of Nytol in the cabinet. I’ve even chambered the round. I just couldn’t put my chin over the barrel. I couldn’t move. I’ve held the bottle of sleeping pills. I just physically couldn’t open the lid. My arms would shake with the effort to move, but not an inch. Which is all kind of odd when you consider that I have driven 60 mph through a Denver blizzard. I can do things that put me in line to die, but I physically will not move on actually, actively getting it done. It’s all in my head, I know, but there it is, and I’m not terribly unhappy that whatever it is that stops me is there.
As alone as I feel, I know I have people who’ll help. Actually, for me it’s not so much that I feel alone, it’s that I feel disconnected. Nothing matters. No one matters. It’s gotten bad enough in the past that I seriously could see the scrim that is reality (a heavy curtain on which the back drop of a play is painted), and if I’d just reach out, I could pull it aside and step into the back. Nothing was really real; everything was ephemera. Along with that comes the feeling that no one understands. Oh sure they care, and you’re not alone, but they honestly just don’t get it! But you know what? They don’t have to. They don’t have to understand where you’re at or what you’re feeling. They don’t have to understand what you’re talking about. They’re there. They’re Superman, holding out his hand and saying, “Take my hand, or step out off the ledge, either way, I’ll be here.” I’m not alone. They’re with me. Always.
I have a plan. I have several actually. Plans of how I’ll do it; how I’ll end it all. “How can that keep you from doing it?!” you cry in dismay! I know my doctor does. It causes her a great deal of concern when I admit to her that yes, I think about killing myself, and that, yes, I have plans for how to do it. The point is that for me, planning things out, building up a strategy, “How would I go about ‘X’,” is quite cathartic. Will this work for you? Probably not, but for me, I live in the world of ideas, thoughts, plans, and systems. As stated above, often in knowing the how and why, I’m satisfied. I’m at peace. Therefore, yes, there are times, when it brings a certain comfort to work through a scenario in my head on how I’d end it all. It seems sick and twisted, morose and perverse, but it works for me, and that’s all that counts. This is a dangerous one though. If you’re not one who is driven to understand things, to find out how they work and project that out into the universe, then planning something out is not going to do for you what it does for me. It won’t quiet that turmoil that exists from there being an unanswered “Why?” or “How?” For me there is peace in having things figured out. If you’re not definitely like that, then back away from this like it’s the plague. It’s a rattlesnake in the weeds for you, and that concerns me, but at the same time, I can’t in good conscience leave it out of this list either.
Things could change. For this I’ll reference a comic book: Superman. I was shown a strip once where there was a jumper. The police where there, had the spotlights on her, and everything. Superman flew up and asked what the deal was, found out, was asked to bring her down, and he flew up saying, “I’ll talk to her.” Notice that? He didn’t promise to bring her down. He said he’d talk to her. (I love that about the Supes, and it’s why I hate the current movies.
Superman stories should be the stories of an alien with godlike powers who’s trying to be more human than humans.) In any event, he does end up having to promise her that he won’t force her down, he won’t catch her against her will if she jumps, just to get her to talk to him. He finds out her story. He burns out the spotlights with his heat vision when she complains about how bright they are, and how she can’t think with them on her. He stays with her all night long, just hovering there in empty space, waiting for her to decide. Finally she asks him why she shouldn’t jump, and he actually tells her that she should. If she feels that she’ll never be happy again, that she’ll never laugh at another thing, or find pleasure in something, then all she needs to do is step off into the air. If she can’t say that though, then here’s his hand, and all she has to do is take it. She takes the offered hand. Basically, I try to remind myself that as much crap and nonsense as there is, as tired as I am, there’s going to be another video on the internet of cats doing something silly. There’s going to be another joke that I haven’t heard. I’m not done yet.