To confess a lifetime study of ending life, mine and others, I find myself disingenuous regarding the option to flee from those whose treatment of me defined my self in ways inimical. Upon closer examination I am ashamed that I did not then confess the option of suicide. Instead I ran away or destroyed my work: all of it, written, painted, whatever you can imagine. Plus reference materials that I sourly miss and music and movies collected over my lifetime. I have a fantastic memory and can recall at will many things, people, places, events in detail without rationalization. So I enter the museum of my mind easily now avoiding the mirror maze of expectations by those I loved -- and still do in prayer.
The expurgation of my work, nothing particularly notable, save for sentimental value. The writing of this forces entry into my very unsentimental mind regarding myself and others I depended on, God Like -- or so I then surmised, to lend me some sense that I was worthy of life. Never happened through no explicit fault to those I sought meaning from but, perhaps, a combination of their indifference to them selves or me and my refusal to trust.
It is obvious to me, and should be by now to y0u, if you read anything I’ve written, that I love God. I would define that neither religious or spiritual since the experience is greater than the ideals of others regardless of their authority. I am neither proud nor indifferent to your esteem but merely astonished that -- at least at my newly discovered and now favorite Blog site: http://culturalbook.com/ receive prescient sentient and loving acceptance filled with valuable insights from literate people.
I have attempted suicide by many differing methods; none successful save in erasing, mostly, any record of my ever having been alive. This is now very different. My malevolent self trashing begun at or around the age of twenty eight, smoking cigarettes, in earnest; faulty expensive and foolish. Given that while both parents smoked, dad quit long before a five week long coma induced by COPD and mom’s death was caused by plaque loosened randomly or by a coughing fit blocking the flow of blood to her head; death was instantaneous.
Statistically anyone having their heart tampered with has a life expectancy of another five years. I could be wrong but I distrust and have no faith in the entire medical profession since with rare exception they are now “For Profit” making them, in my eyes -- like all politicians --whores. A gross and obscene generalization and only my personal opinion thus totally irrelevant. However my five years are up or nearly so.
Out of respect for hospice and since I committed myself on a scheduled basis I notified them that until further notice I would be unable to fulfill my, not obligation but the greatest joy I’ve ever known. The volunteer supervisor called and after my usual pompous and supercilious detailed & inappropriate self revelation she mentioned that pain is often a cause of greatly accelerated blood pressure.
I remain unconvinced whether to seek further medial attention or simply die. Not caring who cares or cares not. Not even God. Not exactly a suicide note but merely a plea that you love and care for yourself regardless of my choice. The reality, to me, of God is silent now and like Jesus or actually unlike Jesus I refuse to ask “Have you forsaken me?” As indicated dissension is a right to be taken from us by no one and the right to die should always be not a privilege but a right. After all we never ask to be born.
© 2012 by Jack Spratt All Rights Reserved
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