Archives for March 2014
When Is Suicide The Better Option
I Want To Die
It was more than a little shocking to hear those words spoken aloud.
“I want to die.â€
The pregnant pause afterwards confirmed that they were completely flabbergasted. No one had expected to hear that and the lack of protestation confirmed that they didn’t believe in the speaker’s sincerity.
Because you know that if they had taken it seriously there would have been an immediate response, they would have followed up on it, tried to ascertain what the problem was and how they could help.
At least that seems to be the obvious expectation, friends don’t sit there while you declare your readiness to end your corporeal existence. And if they do, well either you are a drama queen or you need to get new friends.
A cry for help is a cry for help. Silence is not the answer, but then again maybe it is. After all they say that people who are truly intent on committing suicide don’t really spell it out, they do it. They act upon their desires.
And the desire to kill one self can be far more powerful than anyone cares to admit or believe. When you don’t have a concrete reason to believe that there is anything after this it makes it much easier to see death as being a respite from the pain, a well-earned vacation.
“I want to die.â€
It is one thing to think it, but once you verbalize it, actually speak the words it takes on new meaning. It becomes more real and you find yourself considering the various methods you can use to commit the deed.
Having a morbid sense of humor it is easy to see what the police would call it:
Homicide against yourself
C’mon now, you know that it is worth a chuckle. Ok, maybe not, but life is lacking, you’re not exactly burning up the fun meter. Sadness, depression, frustration and anger are different, you own those feelings, and you just know that somewhere there is a dictionary with your picture in it.
For a time there are the thoughts about what your loss would do to the family and the world. Suicide may not be as painless as advertised. You think about how the wife and kids will fare and wonder if your parents will feel responsible. It is almost enough to keep you from trying to pull the trigger. It is almost enough to prevent you from making that first cut, but the blistering pain and the empty, hollow feeling push those thoughts out of your head.
Now all you really want to do is find an escape from the madness. It doesn’t matter whether you are truly mentally ill or something else. The pain and misery make you spend much of the day doubled over, wishing you were comatose.
The light of the sun isn’t a pleasure, it is torture. Laughter and smiles from others torture your soul further. Your anger is fueled by seeing how others are happy and knowing that you can’t share in their happiness.
So the moment comes when you start to entertain the idea of letting go. You play around with ways and means, consider what your note will say, if anything. You can’t really explain it, so you don’t bother to do much.
A simple note that says “Elvis has left the building†will suffice. Or maybe it should read “will the last person to leave remember to turn out the lights.â€
End of story; fade to black and utter silence.
+++++
Suicide is supposed to be painless and maybe if I believed it to be true I might consider it more seriously, but I don’t.
I don’t really want to die but I don’t have too many options. The man on the other end of that call isn’t going to let me stick around. I don’t care what promises he makes or whose life he swears upon.
He is lying and I know better.
I know it because I used to be him. The guys he works for are the same men I used to report to and they won’t ever forget what happened or let anyone else think I got over on them.
This can only go one of two ways and no matter how it goes death wins. That old bag of bones is going to get his quart of blood and then some.
It is just a matter of time before they force me out in the open or before I decide to take action.
All I can do is weigh the pros and cons and try to decide what gives me the best chance of making it out.
This isn’t like the movies. I won’t be able to go in guns blazing and kill all the bad guys. I can’t call my old army buddy, the one who managed to stay out of trouble and just so happens to a colonel who can call in an air strike.
All I can do is make them bleed and hope it is enough to make them go away. I suggested as much on the telephone and the new guy laughed.
Can’t say I was surprised because I would have laughed too. It is part posturing and part reality. One against a 100 isn’t ever something that works in real life, especially when they are willing to use your family against you.
I have seen hard men go soft. Unless they are a true sociopath they always give in.
The guys I used to work for learned from the Taliban. Make a man cook his kid and eat them and they will do what you want.
Sick and gruesome doesn’t describe it.
+++++
Sometimes death is preferable to facing this sort of decision, but I am too stubborn and maybe too stupid.
I called him back and told him I was coming to visit and then the doorbell rang.
They were here.
Blogging For The Sake Of Writing
If I wasn’t a writer I’d want to be Stevie Ray Vaughan or some other guitar/player/blues man who could not only make that guitar talk but could sing as well.
Maybe I’d tell you about the song of my heart and how I always planned on writing a song that I would play only for her. And then I’d wonder if maybe she has already heard it because maybe it is one of those things where even though it has never been put down on paper she can hear it.
If you believe that people can communicate without speaking than maybe it is not so hard to believe that she has heard it and that her heart has joined with mine for the chorus. Maybe the only times I have ever felt truly disconnected is when the silence became deafening because harmony became discord.
But that was a mere moment in time and it passed long ago and one voice became two again. Or maybe I lost my mind and I am like J0n Snow and I know nothing.
I’ll let you speculate about this and that but I’ll say this much more should I write that song down on paper I’ll probably call it Sundays In Texas.
Writing For The Joy Of Writing
Some SEO specialist might suggest I should have used Blogging For The Sake Of Writing for my subhead but I don’t know how much it matters to me or not.
I am a bipolar blogger who flips between caring about the numbers and growing my influence/reach to not caring because I write for the love of writing.
Important: I am many things but I am not bipolar. It is just how I tried to describe the two different sides of my blogging style. Ask why I care and I’ll tell you my dream is to make my living from doing this.
In a perfect world I would be paid to just write whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and however I wanted. If I wanted to write about bathroom adventures, parenting or tell some crazy story about the woman from Cleveland I would do so and be paid just the same.
Sometimes I think if I could prove I was the influencer my wish would be granted. Sometimes I think about it and figure if I don’t shoot for the moon but capture a few stars that is not so bad either and it only happens if I have big enough numbers to do convince sponsors they need to be here.
During those moments I tell myself I need to construct a plan and then follow it because that is the best way to make things happen and then I laugh.
Things Happen
The laughter comes because of the great contradiction tied up in these words. I like coloring outside the lines. I march the beat of a drummer who has no rhythm and that makes me happy.
It wouldn’t be particularly hard for me to put together a plan that would help this sucker grow much more quickly than it is now but I don’t want to. I like doing it the hard way.
Someone once told me it is because I fear failure and that this is how I protect myself but I laughed at that too. There is no doubt I have stories about missed opportunities but I have more than a few tales about how I took a chance.
Sit with me and you’ll see me search for ways to turn possibility into opportunity. You’ll see that I have tried many different ways to do so and that I have always done my best to make my own luck but that I never relied s0lely upon it.
Shit happens. Things happen. Life happens.
The question isn’t will they happen but what and when.
And when it does, what will you do.
Sundays In Texas
It occurs to me that Texas is proof of my willingness to run into the burning building or to venture into the cornfield to see where it is that Shoeless Joe goes to.
Do you know the story about Orpheus and Eurydice? It is one of my favorites. I would storm the underworld. I would fight Hades and I would win. It might not be because of physical strength, in fact it probably wouldn’t be.
But I would win because I could tell him such a story he couldn’t bear to refuse me. Maybe I would sing Sundays In Texas for him or maybe not.
There are a lot of maybes and a lot of possibilities here but not a lot of definitelys.
That is by intent and design because some of the joy in writing comes from just putting words on paper to see where they lead but that doesn’t mean you have to tell the entire tale in one sitting.
Maybe You Shouldn’t Take Your Best Friend Out In Public
Bathroom Adventures: Your old friend Jack has a funky digestive system so he has had occasion to visit the bathroom more frequently than many others. Some of these moments have provided some of the best blog fodder a man could ask for and I have taken great pleasure sharing them with you.
Last night I attended a party at a hotel. Several drinks and some hours later I answered Mother Nature’s call and was surprised to find a man who was suffering from performance anxiety.  When he realized he was talking out loud he went silent and moments later walked out.
It reminded me of the story below.
If you read those then you just never know what is going to happen in a public place, especially a public bathroom. This is the tale of one of my experiences.
Let me set the scene. I enter a public restroom. Against the far wall there is a line of a half dozen or so urinals, only one of which was in use. If you are familiar with urinal selection strategy this is a good thing as it provides much to choose from.
As I had enjoyed plenty o’coffee I had need of one and so I headed down the line a couple places past a gentleman at the front. He was a big guy, had to be at least 6’2, dark hair and wearing a dark suit. Not that I was looking hard, but I had to pass by him on the way to my own urinal.
As I moseyed on up to my special place I realized that he was saying something, but it was a bit muffled. I didn’t know if he was speaking to me, so I paused for a moment to listen.
Man: What are you afraid of? Why are are you waiting? Just do it.
It took a moment to realize that he wasn’t speaking to me and instead was speaking to himself. I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it but what he said made me stop what I was doing.
Warning, this next part is going to be a little graphic, but it is an important part of setting the scene.
As you can imagine I was a little surprised by this. At the exact moment that he was speaking I had reached into my own pants and had my friend in my own hand. There was business to be taken care of and this other guy is babbling about fear, but that wasn’t all.
Man: We have done this a thousand times. You can do it, just relax.
Men, have you ever tried to urinate while the guy down the way is giving his penis a pep talk. I have to tell you, it is more than a little distracting. I must have coughed or done something to indicate that I was aware of him because the next comment was directed to me.
Man: Don’t you speak to your penis?
Jack: Not usually, I am not sure that I ever do.
Man: I speak to mine and he answers me.
Jack: Really?
Man: He is my best friend.
Jack: Is there a camera in here?
Man: I don’t think so. I am serious, I always talk to my penis.
Jack: Did anyone ever tell you that your best friend is a dick.
Man: It is not a joke. I use special visualization techniques to improve my performance.
I remember thinking, †what the hell is going on here!†All the while I am looking for a camera because I am convinced that I am being filmed for some crazy television show.
Man: They have conducted studies that prove that you can do better in every aspect of your life. All you need to do is think about it.
Jack: I have heard about some of those studies, but I can’t say that I remember being told to speak to my penis.
Man: You have to try it. It will make a big difference in your life. I know it sounds weird, but it works.
Now I am tolerant of many things and find people to be amusing, but I have to admit that the man with the talking penis was making me less than comfortable. So I did my best to finish what I was doing and get out of there.
As I was washing my hands the juvenile kid that lives inside my head decided to make an appearance. “My penis says goodbye,†I shouted as I dried my hands.
To which I received the following answer:
Man: Ted says goodbye to you too.
And with that I was left to ponder a few things. Who was Ted? Was that the name of the man or what he calls his penis. And when he said goodbye which form of the word “to/too/two†was he using.
Was it singular, or was he saying goodbye to my penis and myself. More importantly, did I really want to know the answer to that question.
I didn’t bother to turn around and ask. I just kept walking. In the end I decided that it was better for him to think that my penis and I are rude because there are some questions that I just don’t need an answer to.
Five Things I Know About Writing
Editor’s Note: I was going to write about tag lines but I wasn’t feeling it. Was going to do something with  Twenty-Five Links That Will Make You A Better Writer/Blogger but I wasn’t feeling it either. So I am rerunning this post because the message to just write is critical and because it is a good reminder not to over think things.
Every time I read one of my stories and think I have come up with something ridiculous I play this 911 call to remind myself that sometimes truth is stranger than fiction and people are nuts.
Stay tuned, new posts coming later this evening.
Five Things I Know About Writing
- It is not hard to write but it is exceptionally difficult to edit.
- The best writers are voracious readers.
- Great characters have layers. They are flawed.
- There are rules that you must follow.
- Break the damn rules…repeatedly.
You might be surprised to learn that I write these posts for myself as much as I write them for you. That is because even though I feel like I am a competent writer I am convinced that I have room for substantial growth and improvement.
Part of that is predicated upon my ability to pull back the curtain and find out what sorts of tricks the wizard uses to make his magic. The most obvious one to me is that I produce enormous amounts of content in a variety of styles for the sole purpose of trying to get better.
Writing is a skill and like any other it is something that practice can help us improve upon. But I have to tell you that I get as frustrated by writing as you do.
There are more than a few moments where I read my words and wonder what the hell I am doing and why people read them. I try to remind myself to follow the advice you see here and produce content that is useful, practical and actionable.
I respond to prompts like those found in the Write on Edge, Yeah Write and Just Write communities because that is a place where I have found others who are trying their hand out at this writing business.
Community makes a difference as does honesty.
I share certain things with you because I think you will relate and that perhaps it will help us grow together. And I do it because I teach my children to act in a similar fashion and it would be hypocritical not to follow my own advice.
That is my motto. Tune out the infernal voice of the internal editor and just write. Put pen to paper and let the words flow.
I don’t always hit a home run but I feel good about things because I think I am making progress. I think my writing has progressively gotten stronger and that I am better at this than I was when I started.
That is growth and reward with incentive standing just over the horizon.
What about you? Do you feel like your writing is getting better? Do you care about it? Does it matter to you? It is ok if it doesn’t, but since I know some of my fellow scribes are hanging out here I figure I might as well ask.
P.S. This story is mostly fiction.
About Walt Whitman & A Dog That Lives Forever
Sometimes I feel badly for the family dog because I look at him and tell him stories about how things used to be with The Big Lug. It is not entirely fair because when I think about certain memories with him it is hard not to get choked up.
…last night he visited me in my dreams. We were both young. I was a twenty something year old kid at the park and he was about two. And in that dream we did what we can’t do together any more. We ran. He was always just ahead of me, but never so far that he was out of sight. He was headed towards traffic and I was yelling for him to stop, fearful that he would do something stupid and get hit by a car.
And then a few dogs started barking at me and he was at my side, tail pointed, deep bark warning them to stay away. At the same time I yelled at them too- told him not to worry that I would find a way out of it for us. But mostly I was secure in the knowledge that the big lug had my back because he always did. Who listened better to my stories than he did. He never got tired or them or acted judgmental- he just loved me.
Sometimes we would watch Gladiator together and I would tell him about how I could see us going into battle together just like they do in the clip below.
I would look at him and tell him that I expected him to jump through the flames but that he couldn’t leave my side because we had to look out for each other and we couldn’t do that unless he stayed close.
Sometimes he would wag his tail at me or come lay his giant head in my lap and I would get this feeling that there was nothing in the world we couldn’t overcome. And then he’d go climb on the counter and steal the steak I was defrosting or eat my wallet and I’d yell at him.
It was never for long because those dark eyes of his were powerful.
But it is not fair to the new guy who isn’t so new anymore and is beloved by my children. It is not to say that I don’t love him too because I do, but it is a different sort of relationship.
How Do Writers Create Real People In their Stories?
I touched upon this here and have been thinking about what “real people” means. When I write fiction I don’t want my characters to be simply good or simply evil. I want them to be like us, human. I want you to read and relate to them. I want you to look at them and wonder how they could be so damn smart and so stupid.
Sometimes heroes fail and sometimes they succeed.
If you’ll indulge me I want to share something else from that post about the Big Lug and I.
My last blog post would be similar to this.
I have lived, loved and laughed more than I have cried and complained. I have friends that I would die for and who die for me.
I am grateful for those who have walked with me on my journey and hope that they have learned from me as I have learned from them.
There will never be enough time for me to see all that I want to see, do all that I want to do and say all that I want to say.
So these few words shall have to suffice. It has been fun.
Remember the list of things I want to teach my children? Well those words above fit what I want for my kids. Two hundred years from now I want them to be able to say those words and mean them.
Thank You
It might sound silly and or ridiculous to you but the timing here couldn’t be better. I don’t know what made me think about the Big Lug. This post was going to be about technology issues but suddenly I thought about my buddy and I went a different way.
John Keating: We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be? Â (Dead Poet’s Society)
