untold

I’ve come late to the writing tonight. I don’t know that I’ll even write this at all. Who can tell what will happen to the habits once the habit has emptied out? The familiar that may comfort some is a necessity to me, the calendar and the clock and the angle of the sun. Illness and pain have thrown me off what was left of my game, and I’m still smarting from my fall from imagined grace. Suicidal ideation, the burdens of this world where I am not wanted or needed, and the slow dying of everything inside me that held my attention have all but finished me. The last betrayal, the body itself dissolving into this inevitable senescence, denying me what little agency a broke unemployable lunatic can manage is much too much. Pain and immobility and diminished vision pretty much my everyday thing. Like these sad, shitty words that grant me no pleasure or release.

We are what we are. We make our choices, such as they are, and take the consequences right between the eyes. My most defining feature, outside of my capacity for epic and unhinged rage, is my ability to choose wrong every single time. I’m bad at a lot of things, even the things I used to think I was good at, but I make decisions driven by guilt or hope or just plain old stubborn contrariness. I keep that in mind when I’m pondering the noose, though it feels of late it’s more the pain and mess that is stopping the old swing and strangle. A dumb ending for a stupid wasted life. Things add up, especially circumstances. The deeper you get, the harder it is to recover. Of all the things I am bad at and unsuited for, being me seems to be the pig to beat. 

I remain uninsured and unmedicated, stuck holding up the sky and pacing my cage. I remain treated generously by people who by any reasonable standard should never speak to me again, more or less fed and sheltered and granted what small indulgences of time and treasure can be managed. But most people had had it with me ages ago, and, though I still bitterly miss them, I understand why they’ve finished with me. I certainly wish I could be done with me as well. It’s no fun being this crazy and isolated, burning with murderous intensity and drowning in my own dead flesh feelings. The chronic pain becoming less intermittent and more hickory stick rule is the bow atop this heap of untold aimlessness. I expect I’ll keep going on, at least until America kills me at last, but things are worse everyday. If this was my last day it’d be okay, though it isn’t so much dead I want as different. If these were my last words, I’d gladly punctuate them with a bullet.