April 3, 2008 ...

This post was address a conversation. You can see that I only allude it and find myself without words. There is a blatant reoccurring theme. Then I was aggressively trying to find a way out of giving up and dying. Then I wanted to also find a way to die. I was Forsaking Free, cutting strings, hoping to float free.


I was warring with how I could die and not cause intense ramifications to my children. I wanted to find a way I could be sure that my children could see how their lives were better without me and I was better off too.


I like the quote I heard on TV about Suicide and how I saw it as a sign of hope that I would live:

Suicide is for cowards. [to live is] brave. Suicide – it’s a screw you to the world. “I never really loved any of you.” It proves defective thinking. Narcissism. And that your so called loved ones have failed.

and I like the clarity in what I said and I still don't know the answer to the questions I ask:

When I ask to be accepted for who I am. I am not asking to be tolerated and allowed to harm your life. I am asking for a place to fit in, to be allowed in your life. I am kind and nice. I love and care. I don’t have a mean bone in my body. How can it be so hard to tolerate me.

I know some of what I ask seems that it should be impossibly easy for me. But it isn’t. Even if it really was, why is it so hard to give it? Why am I abhorred. Why is it so repulsive to help with things that seem so easy and doable to you?

This was a night of poetry writing. Here is the full journal entry. I put the time I start writing in the title. As though it mattered.

4/3/08 12:17 am

Today I write for you Christie. I am sorry I said what I said. It wasn’t untrue. None of it. Not even the part about not being your fault.

How can it ever be your fault for how I am?

You can’t imagine what it is like to always want from others exactly what they cannot give – so they cut you out of their life.

How do I zero in on the thing someone cannot offer? It’s a hell of a talent. It’s unbearable. The only people who stay in my life are far away and have intermittent contact. It’s a façade. It’s a semblance of involvement – not the real thing. I don’t know how to connect with people. I am kind. I like people. I accept them for who they are, flaws and all, but I am a drain on them – everyone, not just you.

I know I am writing this to find a way out. It hurts people to love, to live, and it hurts them to die. I don’t want to hurt people I love, but it is so hard to live. Every day is an effort to be alive. Why? I have nothing that is enough to offer anyone. Nothing that is worth wanting me more than not wanting me in their life.

Do you see why I cling to my animals? They are better off with me alive than dead. They would rather live and be with me than not – as I am – flawed and all.

I don’t call this an obituary for nothing. I need to find a way to live or a way to die and I haven’t found either.

Mute

my voice rides the wind like blue

in the sky

like the surface of a stream.

visible, clear, intangible

it catches in my throat

when it’s on my side.

impossibly doable, undeniably

real, impenetrable rock

truly untrue

I say what I mean

yet I remain unseen.

unheard, screaming

I understand the plight of knowing me and the inevitable choice not to. I am flawed and I empathize with the flaws of those I love, even those I just like. I respect and appreciate the humanness of them and of me still wishing. I want the impossible. I want it to be different.

I am begging you. I need my animals to live – so I won’t die on you.

I don’t want to hurt you. And yet I do.

Hopelessly Free

I want truth to be untrue
I want to swim with dolphins


I want to live and to breathe
I want to be untethered


I am an oxymoron, moronically
I want to be and not to be

Can you see, Christie, why I am so very sorry. You want me to rise above my limits and I want you to rise above yours. We both want the impossible. I love you. Can you forgive me for who I am and for failure to want you only as you are, to accept as enough what you offer? See, I still want the impossible.


I first wrote Confession in 2003. I have honed it since.


My life story is cyclic and boring and very very wearing. I am weary. Forgive me.


I want to leave you and Kian a legacy. I want to be known and understood and forgiven. I apologize for this brutality. It’s impossible to tell the truth and not be brutal. I believe if I don’t make it, then it will have been the better choice for both of you — I must believe it. Better still that it be true.


Chris, I know you are brilliant. Anything I tell you about us must already be known to you. So I want to be clear and give it all a voice so you can’t ever believe it is your fault. It can never be. People are not responsible for other people’s choices and you cannot be responsible for mine.


I am blessed to have both you and Kian as children, and I will ever be grateful that you both were born to me. I have loved being able to foster your passions, and have delighted in seeing who you are flourish.

...


I was taking a break, thinking I was done writing for the night and this was said about suicide: Suicide is for cowards. [to live is] brave. Suicide – it’s a screw you to the world. “I never really loved any of you.” It proves defective thinking. Narcissism. And that your so called loved ones have failed.


Good news / Bad news for Christie and Kian if that is the only reason to die – to vent anger and pain. I can't die to vent anger. I heard once, though, that suicide could be about something else. I think the motivation was complete hopelessness. An inability to bear the pain of living anymore. Still cowardly, but not anger or spiteful. Definitely narcissistic. But I already told you I don’t know how to connect to people. I don’t understand them.


I understand people's strengths, beauty, and flaws. I do not understand their contradictions, how they prevail even in the light of knowing (exposure). I do not understand why I am inevitably toxic, though in every case I can understand why I am. Ironic...


When I ask to be accepted for who I am. I am not asking to be tolerated and allowed to harm your life. I am asking for a place to fit in, to be allowed in your life. I am kind and nice. I love and care. I don’t have a mean bone in my body. How can it be so hard to tolerate me.


I know some of what I ask seems that it should be impossibly easy for me. But it isn’t. Even if it really was, why is it so hard to give it? Why am I abhorred. Why is it so repulsive to help with things that seem so easy and doable to you?


I am really sorry if I can’t make it. And I am really sorry if I can and had to let you know. I am sorry for the brutality of this either way.