Sunday, April 12, 2015
WAIT AND HOPE
I eyeball the top of the closet door — about 80 inches. Tall enough.
The sash of my robe is blue flannel cotton. Strong enough.
I know how to make a bowline. Or maybe a double figure-of-eight loop would be sturdier. Sturdy enough, at least.
The knot should be in back for a short drop suspension. And the noose must be just under the jawline so it constricts the arteries. Anything lower on the neck and the airway gets blocked and that's when there's a lot of thrashing about. The body doesn't like it when it can't get air. It fights to stay alive.
They say you should put a towel between the noose and the neck to make sure it doesn't cut into the skin, but that seems a bit frivolous. I mean, if the only worry is leaving behind an unmarked corpse, carbon monoxide would be the way to go.
Or pills. Pills don't leave a mark. The only problem with pills is ... well, there are a couple problems. The wrong dose can leave you permanently fucked-up but alive. Not cool. And besides, pills are supposed to be about fun and frolic. It would be a shame to waste a palmful of painkillers or sedatives on something so stupid as suicide.
A stupid shame, yes ... but stupid ideas can make a lot of sense at 4 in the morning, when the rest of the world is dead and your soul feels the same way. At 4 a.m. there is no shame in holding the bathrobe sash and looking at the closet door and thinking yeah, this would work.
Because it all seems futile in the middle of the night — "it" being the push forward to another day, another challenge, another experience that usually ends in disappointment. The ocean of life is teeming with it.
And I am tired. So tired of the endless cycle of waking up, surviving, then collapsing. As the rest of the world sleeps there is an almost-irresistible urge to stop swimming against the current. To just be still. To rest. No one would notice. The ocean is huge and I am exhausted. I don't think I can swim another stroke.
Monty the cat pounces onto my chest. He is named after the Count of Monte Cristo, and as I put down the sash to pet him I hear the words of Edmond Dantès:
"Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss. It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live ... the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope.”
Monty stares at me with his kaleidoscope eyes. In them I see a thousand galaxies, all of them flecked with gold.