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On the Consideration of Suicide
Jan. 15th, 2004 12:16 amThere was this weird moment that I had at work today. I thought, as I have from time to time (and who of us really hasn't?), "man it would be so much easier if someone would just slit my wrists." And there I sat, whistfully wondering what my Wake would be like.
There would be dancing, and carousing, and if she would be up to it, I'd have Liz DJ, and there would be much drinking. Much. And like the song said, they'd put the whiskey with the corpse to keep that whiskey cold.
And then I was snapped out of my daydream by phones ringing and my boss yack yack yacking about something that really seems utterly unimportant now. But she kept on asking me "What's wrong? Is this job so bad?" and I wanted to say "fuck off, it's all you that's wrong, and yes this job is horrid" but I chickened out, though it's not all about the job.
I've been going through lots of ups and downs lately. There are things that have been brewing at the back of my head for a long while now, and they keep turning over and over again, and it worries me. And then I push it way down, and try not to think about it; I fail at hiding them from myself. Miserably. And when they weigh on my mind, they print themselves on my face, and on my ability to do *anything*, and some folks, annoying as it is, notice.
I kept on listening to Barenaked Ladies' song "War On Drugs" over and over again today. There's a line in it that just reminds me that it's about life:
"and the very fear that makes you want to die
is just the same as what keeps you alive
it's all much more than some suicide is worth"
It's not that I would really do it. Because, well, like the lyric says, I'm just as frightend to die as I am to live. But that's the problem, isn't it? Too scared to live, and to take the chances that I need to live. To make the decisions that I really need to make.
Part of it stems from making idiotic mistakes, just like the ones I've committed in the past. Or worse ones. Not paralyzed, but not unlike it.
I sit around a good deal, in between calls, or practical thoughts, steaming over choices, or lack of choices that I've made in the last few years of my life. And I see a string of dumb ass Anthony, and whoa that was nutty, but good thing that just happend, sprinkled delicately with a crap load of luck.
It's the same old crap, really. The things that I fret about, and that weigh on me. Nothing new. And that's the problem. It's like being stuck in the ER room of Martin Luther King Hospital in Watts, with a bleeding belly wound, and waiting around watching re-runs of M*A*S*H on the tv screen mounted on the wall. Nothing ever changes, and the only way that you're going to do something different, is to suck up the pain, beat the crap outta the nurse and get the damn remote control, 'n change the channel.
To badly paraphrase Sondheim: I got no diamonds, I got no yacht, I got no girl I adore. I'm unhappy with what I've got: I want more.
Some moments I get it in my head that life kills. That this is a horror to me and that I can't face the sorry bastard in the mirror. And it just gets easier to think about death, and not face the aftermath. Clean, and gone.
And then I get sad, because, in the end, I actually really like myself. I'm the oldest friend that I have. At times, I was the only friend that I have. And I'd miss me. Maybe you might too, but I doubt it.
There's far too much fear and loathing in my head. Fear and Loathing in Compton. You can hear it in my voice sometimes when I talk. Especially when I've not slept enough (which seems to be all the time, even when I've been doing 11 hours straight). You can see it in my walk. You can hear it in the music that I scream along with in the car. It's about me putting off this scary vibe that just isn't happy Antonius.
And then I'm just tired. All the time. Maybe it's mono. Maybe it's something else. Maybe I'm an idiot. Yeah, idiot.
Later, I wake up, and am bright, and happy, and not so heavy. And I smile, and all is right with the world.
In the meantime, I'm trying to turn things around, and pick myself off the ground. Because I'm good enough, and bright enough, and gosh darnit...I'll think of something later...
There would be dancing, and carousing, and if she would be up to it, I'd have Liz DJ, and there would be much drinking. Much. And like the song said, they'd put the whiskey with the corpse to keep that whiskey cold.
And then I was snapped out of my daydream by phones ringing and my boss yack yack yacking about something that really seems utterly unimportant now. But she kept on asking me "What's wrong? Is this job so bad?" and I wanted to say "fuck off, it's all you that's wrong, and yes this job is horrid" but I chickened out, though it's not all about the job.
I've been going through lots of ups and downs lately. There are things that have been brewing at the back of my head for a long while now, and they keep turning over and over again, and it worries me. And then I push it way down, and try not to think about it; I fail at hiding them from myself. Miserably. And when they weigh on my mind, they print themselves on my face, and on my ability to do *anything*, and some folks, annoying as it is, notice.
I kept on listening to Barenaked Ladies' song "War On Drugs" over and over again today. There's a line in it that just reminds me that it's about life:
"and the very fear that makes you want to die
is just the same as what keeps you alive
it's all much more than some suicide is worth"
It's not that I would really do it. Because, well, like the lyric says, I'm just as frightend to die as I am to live. But that's the problem, isn't it? Too scared to live, and to take the chances that I need to live. To make the decisions that I really need to make.
Part of it stems from making idiotic mistakes, just like the ones I've committed in the past. Or worse ones. Not paralyzed, but not unlike it.
I sit around a good deal, in between calls, or practical thoughts, steaming over choices, or lack of choices that I've made in the last few years of my life. And I see a string of dumb ass Anthony, and whoa that was nutty, but good thing that just happend, sprinkled delicately with a crap load of luck.
It's the same old crap, really. The things that I fret about, and that weigh on me. Nothing new. And that's the problem. It's like being stuck in the ER room of Martin Luther King Hospital in Watts, with a bleeding belly wound, and waiting around watching re-runs of M*A*S*H on the tv screen mounted on the wall. Nothing ever changes, and the only way that you're going to do something different, is to suck up the pain, beat the crap outta the nurse and get the damn remote control, 'n change the channel.
To badly paraphrase Sondheim: I got no diamonds, I got no yacht, I got no girl I adore. I'm unhappy with what I've got: I want more.
Some moments I get it in my head that life kills. That this is a horror to me and that I can't face the sorry bastard in the mirror. And it just gets easier to think about death, and not face the aftermath. Clean, and gone.
And then I get sad, because, in the end, I actually really like myself. I'm the oldest friend that I have. At times, I was the only friend that I have. And I'd miss me. Maybe you might too, but I doubt it.
There's far too much fear and loathing in my head. Fear and Loathing in Compton. You can hear it in my voice sometimes when I talk. Especially when I've not slept enough (which seems to be all the time, even when I've been doing 11 hours straight). You can see it in my walk. You can hear it in the music that I scream along with in the car. It's about me putting off this scary vibe that just isn't happy Antonius.
And then I'm just tired. All the time. Maybe it's mono. Maybe it's something else. Maybe I'm an idiot. Yeah, idiot.
Later, I wake up, and am bright, and happy, and not so heavy. And I smile, and all is right with the world.
In the meantime, I'm trying to turn things around, and pick myself off the ground. Because I'm good enough, and bright enough, and gosh darnit...I'll think of something later...
