"I can't help it. I was born a miscarriage. I had so many insults I died. I was born dead. I can't help it. I'm tired. I'm give out trying. You got chances. I had so many insults I was born dead. You got it easy. I was born dead an' life was hard. I'm tired. I'm tired out talking standing up. I been dead fifty-five years."
The big Nurse got him clear across the room, right through his greens. She jumped back without getting the needle pulled out after the shot and it hung there from his pants like a little tail of glass and steel, old Pete slumping farther and farther forward, not from the shot but from the effort, the last couple of minutes had worn him out finally and completely, once and for all--you look at him and tell he was finished.
He did come to life for maybe a minute to try and tell us something. Something none of us cared to listen to or try to understand, and the effort had drained him dry. That shot in the hip was as wasted as if she'd squirted it in a dead man--no heart to pump it, no vein to carry it up to his head, no brain up there for it to mortify with its poison. She'd just as well shot it in a dried-out cadaver.
Even though I was only 11 when I read this for my 7th grade advanced class, I empathized with Mr. Bancini. I was tired too.
“I start to feel like I can’t maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is. I don’t know. Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?... I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t. I don't want any more vicissitudes, I don't want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.”
I tried to hang myself last night. You all know me, so you know I don't want any "I hope you're ok" kind of wonderful sympathy comments (which I appreciate and love to know someone cares)... I like to be a tall ship in the face of a storm, and the battered captain with a slapshod ship barely docking at the trips end.
Why did I do it? I suppose when it all boils down it was merely that I had the opportunity and the means. All my fantasies had finally provided me with an option with something that was reasonable. I wish I could have recorded what went on in my head, as there was some thinking prior to the final decision (of course by then I was a bit stuck so I couldn't move much)...
Something of note, that happened the last time such an event occurred is I meticulously cleaned. I am staying with TR and he had left to do errands. I lovingly cleaned and organized his room. Sadly at first, and then with purpose. This same ritual would spark memory in me from 3 years ago when an ambulance arrived at my apartment, and though I was laying on my floor, as the men lifted me onto a gurney, the younger one couldn't help but say "My, you have such a nice little space here, dontcha?"
The rope broke. I'm not sorry. On either side. I just wanted you all to know, because I don't want anyone else except TR who has to see the physical proof.
Rude Comment of the Day
Friend and I are looking through old facebook pictures...
*Particularly old and icky one where my arms are squished together*
Me: "EW! I hate that picture, look how chubby may arms look. It's terrible."
Him: "Um, you look actually healthy in that photograph."
This is why I can't wear mini-Twiggy-like dresses to see people (despite TR's like for them). It freaks people out and they start talking about my shoulder blades and wrists.
Baggy baggy baggy. Cover up!!
No sad comments dearies, unless you need to tell me something :) All my love! I'm still working on getting caught up. Be patient, don't abandon me yet!!! I promise to send you written support ASAP!