So, people tell me that I am of impressive intellect. Never thought so myself, but then no one is harder on me than me.
Nevertheless, I took a consulting gig for a friend that involved, among other things, international trade, regulations, medical knowledge and scientific thought. And apparently I did a pretty good job.
All I did was muster my focus and clarity for a few hours on the challenge, upon which everything seemed quite clear. Unraveled the knots and presented a clear, logical path to fruition. Saved the company time, money and inconvenience.
So I wonder, what could I, during my lifetime, accomplish for the world if I could actually care about anything?
I don’t care. About anything particularly. Not about my job, barely about my family, not about my life.
My first suicide attempt was at age fourteen. Turns out my being different did not fit into the status quo. Not in the rural Midwest, not in the 1960’s. Method of choice was a knife between the ribs in my bed. The knife was very sharp, so there was little sensation as it began to penetrate my chest.
Something stopped me. A thought. Not an amazing revelation or glimpse of the future, but very simply, “Not yet.” There must have been some premonition of something that needed to be done which only I could do.
Wish I knew what that was.
Today, some forty-three years later, I still have no idea as to the reason for my continued existence. There have been other suicide attempts since the first one, but I do not seem to have the knack. Frustrating. How I yearn for release. To rip open my rib cage and let my soul soar among the stars. When?