WARNING: THIS POST DEALS WITH SENSITIVE, DARK, AND DISTURBING SUBJECT MATTER THAT IS NOT SUITABLE FOR ALL, AND NOT TOLERABLE FOR MANY.

Here is the truth. Most of the time – now in my 50s – I am not suicidal, unlike my teenage years when it was constant. However, if and when I am broken down and being 100% honest and real, the only thing that keeps me from literally pulling the trigger so much of the time is that I have had far too many experiences of trying and failing in my life to know that one truth remains above all else. You go when it is your time to go! Period. No amount of your (or anyone else’s) influence or intervention will change that. Not one bit. You may affect the type of life and level of comfortability during whatever time that you do have in this life, but that is all. It does not matter where you come from, what you believe, what god you do or don’t pray to, or what choices you make. This is coming from someone who wrote the book, Everything is a Choice! Not quite everything though… not that. That is one of the areas controlled purely by fate, chance, luck, or whatever you want to call the situation which ultimately controls the things that are out of our reach. Perhaps, I should have given that book the title, (Almost) Everything is a Choice! Just for the sake of accuracy, but it just doesn't have quite the same punch for marketing purposes.

So, As I sit here writing this… compelled by the need to be removed from my futile attempts at peaceful slumber, I contemplate my life, its worthlessness, and my death… and its value. This is one of those days where I am humbly reminded that in the end, in reality… no matter how much I try to pretend and bullshit myself… the truth is… I am utterly alone and have no one. It is the same that it has always been for me. Any reader of my poetry may recognize this theme through the lines of all the creative and cryptic darkness that is my life. Like any good writer, I drank tonight. Enough to put the average human adult into a relative and temporary coma… but for me, just a decent buzz and the clarity of thought that enables me to write this now without the intrusion of 1000 other meaningless and wasted thoughts that cripple the sober mind. As I was saying, I find myself realizing that no matter what I do, no matter how I work to improve myself or my relationships; I exist in a desolate world where I am always separate, untouched, and ultimately unwanted for the real me. It is a continuation since my day of birth, as my parents did not want me either. I have always felt detached and alone… so relationships and connections are what really drive me to continue. However, once again… for the uncountable time in my life… I realize that none of what I am or do matters. My so-called relationships and connections are meaningless to those who I hold most dear. The sad and rather pitiful truth is that if I were able to somehow find a way to end this torturous hellscape of loneliness and despair… hardly a soul would even notice beyond the fake tears shed from people who are consumed by the dictations of society’s expectations.

I know that it is not yet my time, and probably not for quite awhile, although I still cannot comprehend why that is. Beyond caring for my cats, I have nothing to offer. I have made no significant contribution to the world, to society, or even in the lives of those that I am closest to. I will not go into detail here about those people… suffice to say that if any of this shit really mattered to them, I would not be feeling as I am, nor writing this now. I will say this much, however, just to offer some semblance of illustration. None of the people in this world who I consider myself to be the closest to have even read my fucking books! Perhaps it is petty and overly emotional for no reason on my part. Perhaps those people just aren’t interested in what I have to say. Lately, I have been shown that from them in more ways than one. It is less than a guess that I will never need to have the conversation with any of them that begins with, “Hey, I read your blog, and I am pretty concerned about what you wrote…” If I am wrong about that, I will happily write a painfully sorrowful yet lovingly hopeful retraction. What I can say with complete absolution is that if ANY of my friends (there aren’t many of even the fake ones) wrote any book… even if it were some trashy gutter romance fiction (which I absolutely detest) I would read every single word from cover to cover without a moment of hesitation…. Because they are my friend, and because I love them! Maybe that’s just me… which is what I usually end up trying to tell myself for some degree of temporary and fleeting solace. The reality is that the truth is always there hiding underneath and always has been… keeping me detached… because I know that I am alone, and no matter how I try, they cannot relate to me, and I cannot relate to them on any meaningful level. It is always superficial at best, and that is all I have to keep me going, because without those real connections and relationships… all of my passions, including writing are utterly without meaning. Yes, I realize that I already used the word utterly earlier… but this is unfiltered, so fuck it.

Back to the main issue of suicide. It is 12:20 am as I write. I need to be up early for an appointment, yet I (like so many other countless nights in my life) am unable to shut it all off and rest, regardless of having had plenty of alcohol which should have made that an easy choice. First, another shot! I guess at the very least I should be thankful for the fact that I do not carry the guilt about how much I drink. Good for me. Bad for me. Who the fuck knows? The sad part here is that there is nothing for me to actually wrestle with mentally. It is just the same shit that it has always been. Trapped in a world that I do not belong in, I am not wanted in, and I do not understand. Most people never know true loneliness… and I hope that continues. Nobody should ever have to endure the deep and real understanding that they have nobody who actually loves them, needs them, wants them, or knows them for the person that they really are behind the mask. You see, part of my problem is that I refuse to hide. I have never and will never be what others tell me I am supposed to be. There are so many times that I wish that I could just conform, but it is simply not part of who I am. I sincerely wish that it was because everything would be so much easier and simpler. You would have to be a complete fucking idiot to choose to be this way. All I have ever wanted was to love honestly and openly and to help others, and to be honestly and openly loved for who and what I truly am without trying to placate someone’s idea of what they think I should be. So, in the end… I am left here hopeless and alone again… trying to love and be loved in a world that only loves conditionally. I recognize that I will continue forward… I will keep living (sort of), writing (hopefully reasonably well), and loving (most likely in futility). The demons sleep but they never die. Love is a lie. Death is nigh.

Here is the really fucked up thing about all of this. I am not, in reality, suicidal. Not in terms of having no more desire to continue living. I want to live… and for as long as possible provided that I have all my faculties and am able to care for myself. If someone has to feed me and wipe my ass, that is not living in my view. That is the equivalent of refusing to leave your hotel 3 hours after checkout time, only on a much more severe scale and with much greater relevance, of course. No, for me, this is something that I have struggled with repeatedly throughout my life… as mentioned earlier, my contemplations of death stem from the very real understanding that I am alone, and my departure would not make much of a real difference to much of anyone. It is a very sad state indeed. Sure, there would be a few people who show up and shed some tears and claim to have loved me. The horrible fact of the matter is that they cannot love me for who and what I truly am. Any semblance of feeling is not for the real me, the one who is sitting here now and writing this out, spilling my darkest innermost thoughts for the world to see. That is the real and unfiltered version of me. The one that anyone in my life and not reading these words, not only because I am writer, but because I have nobody to speak these words allowed to safely. By safe, I am not saying that they would have me locked up. No, my friends. What I am saying is that the people in my life are either unable or unwilling to get to know the depths of me… perhaps it is too much to expect or ask of anyone. I only know that for as much as a so freely give of myself in every way that I can to those around me, it is never returned in a meaningful way. It is life. It is what it is, and the only thing that I can do is my best to continue forward and crush this shit deep down again until the next time it comes boiling back up in a defiant rage to the surface. For now, I suffer in solitude.