It's
7:00 am and I just got home after an eternity of walking around after
work and thinking about the people I've loved who have killed
themselves, and how much I've thought about taking an exit stage left,
and how much I still think about it, and how much more thinking I would
have to do about it to actually bring me to that point. Sometimes I
think I can see that point pretty clearly, but most
of the time it's well hidden. When I see it clearly, I slow down. I
think I move in slow motion... breathing, thoughts, movement, decisions,
processing information, making choices, all of that just kind of grinds
down until every thought and action seems excessively deliberate, but
with no purpose at all. Deliberately purposeless. Weird, huh?
So, I walked into the house at about 6:50 and I felt like a used up,
wrinkled old motile turd, ready to fall down somewhere and just
disappear from this thing called being awake for an extremely long time.
My sister Chey was up and getting ready for work. I hugged her and
said goodnight, and said to her, "I think there's hope for everybody, no
matter what. Even the ones who killed themselves." It was such a
strange thing for me to say, especially in that it seemed deliberately
purposeful.
