Suicidal Meanderings

I’m not suicidal at the moment. Then again, if I were, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be telling you. Oh, don’t take it personally. I’ve learned the hard way what happens. You see people want to fix it for you. They really need you to be happy. Hell. I need me to be happy. If only, and I do wish, it were that simple. If only. Be happy. Smile. But it’s not. People want it to be — and for a lot of people it is. They buy into that Abraham Lincoln quote “I think people are about as happy as they make their minds up to be.” Yeah. Right. As much as I think Abraham Lincoln was a great president, this quote certainly makes me think otherwise. What an ass without a clue. I can see it now. Today I’ve decided to be happy. Yes. I am happy. Shit. If only it worked like that.

Quite frankly, only a fucking idiot without a clue believes that. Okay. Fine. I’m not being fair. Only a sane person believes that. Is that better? Fair enough?

But back to what I was saying. People want you to be happy. Only, the thing is, you don’t know how. You haven’t got that missing piece. Hell you don’t even know what the missing piece is. You’ve never had it. I suppose then it should be called the piece that never was. What can you miss if you didn’t have it in the first place? So it’s not like you’d know it if you saw it. Like finally finding that elusive piece of a puzzle and the “aha” goes off.

“Look,” you say, “I found the missing happy piece. There. See. It goes right there.”

Oh? You think I need happy pills. Yes. Those. What a misnomer. They ought to be called zombieizers. They certainly don’t make you happy. Whoever told you that lied plain and simple.

At best they just take the edge off the craziness that gets you in so much trouble. What’s really bad is you like that craziness that gets you in trouble — that edgy weirdness that makes you, well you. But you can’t afford that, so you take the pills that suck your personality into some black hole never to be found unless you “forget” them for a few weeks. But that starts the cycle again pretty quickly. It’s crazy wild shit that’s pure, exhilarating fun and then despite your not insignificant experience doing just this, you get blindsided by inexplicable exhaustion for days on end, tension, sleeplessness, and a cognitive fog where you cannot remember shit. Simple shit like when you last had a shower, brushed your teeth, left the house, ate.

Back to what I was saying — so you tell people. Sometimes you tell them the whole story, sometimes, just parts of it. It doesn’t matter. It’s always — but always — a terrible mistake. Generally it follows a pattern. Commiseration. Then grand, brilliant and original ideas, that obviously you couldn’t possibly have come up with on your own — the doctor recommendations, the medication evaluations, the positive thoughts, the being grateful, chastisements to look at the bright side, the reminders of how so many have it so much worse than you — at least you don’t have (insert horrible diagnosis here.)

You see people want to fix it for you. But what gets lost in this quest to solve “the problem” (which obviously you aren’t working hard enough to solve yourself, because if you were this conversation wouldn’t have happened) is that they just want to make it less painful, less awkward, for themselves. It’s not about you at all.

They have no idea how to acknowledge their own helplessness. They just want it to go away.