Maybe I’ve got this figured out. It’s too soon to know for sure. I’ve battled insomnia for five months. Sleeping pills don’t work. Melatonin doesn’t work. Relaxation music doesn’t work. Music that’s supposed to trigger brain waves to promote deep sleep doesn’t work.
I’ve always had an inordinate amount of anxiety. Lots of reasons for that, and none I want to discuss. It’s okay; I discuss those reasons with my psychologist. For the past five months, I’ve battled extreme anxiety. Relaxation music doesn’t work. Klonopin helps, but I’d need to have an increased dose to defeat the anxiety. I’m not going to ask my doctor to increase the dose. I’ve been on the lowest dose since August 2007. I take it when I need it and don’t bother when I don’t need it. Having been through the hell of psych med withdrawal a number of times, I’m not about to risk addiction to deal with a temporary problem.
I’m out of ideas.
I’m done fighting insomnia.
I’m done fighting extreme anxiety.
We live is terrifying times. There’s a virus that has caused a pandemic. There’s no vaccine. There’s no cure. Scientists are discovering the virus attacks far more than the lungs. It attacks other organs and causes irreversible damage.
That’s terrifying.
In the United States, we have a narcissistic sociopath running the country. He’s lied, dismantled environmental protections, pissed off leaders of other countries, treated the Queen of England horribly, mocks disabilities, mocks veterans, mocks the parents who have buried sons or daughters killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, decimated the economy, and encouraged people to drink bleach.
That’s terrifying.
In the United States, we have a presidential election in November. The narcissistic sociopath has threatened to send the military to “protect” polling places, dismantled the postal service in an effort to thwart absentee balloting, and claims if he loses the election (please God let him lose), it will be the fault of the post office.
That’s terrifying.
Being terrified when in the midst of terrifying events is healthy. Being anxious and sleepless in the midst of terrifying events is evidence of mental health. Only a psychotic person wouldn’t be terrified by what’s happening in the world and in the United States.
I’m terrified. I’m worried. I’m afraid the narcissistic sociopath will get re-elected and my country will be destroyed. That’s evidence of mental health. I don’t care if the military, the police and Putin stand between me and the voting booth. I’m voting in this election.
I once offered a friend the following advice: Your feelings are your feelings. They aren’t good or bad. They are just there. The appropriate response to anyone who says you should or should not feel a certain way is to tell the person to fuck off.
I’m done fighting. I accept that I have extreme anxiety and that anxiety is reasonable. I accept that I have insomnia and that insomnia is reasonable. I finally figured out that I cannot battle my feelings. They’re my feelings. I’m entitled to have them. I get to decide how to respond to things that are out of my control.
I have this to say to extreme anxiety and insomnia: fuck off.
The pain is gone. The hurt is gone. The struggle is gone. All gone. All quiet. All without feelings, fear, or loneliness. Gone. But not missed.
“Why would she do something like this?”
I did this because I didn’t want to live in pain any more.
“Too bad she couldn’t find a way to exorcise her demons.”
I didn’t have psychic demons. I had physical pain. I had days when death would be a relief.
“I never thought she would kill herself. She seemed so happy.”
I don’t understand why everyone is surprised. All of you knew I was in pain. All of you knew the pain was permanent.
“I thought she believed in God.”
I did and I do. That didn’t make my body or my perception of who I was hurt less.
“Why didn’t she reach out?”
Would you have done anything if I had? It was so rational deciding how to kill myself. Pills aren’t a good approach. Too easy for the body to decide to puke up the poison. Hanging. Nope, I don’t want to hang around dangling and waiting to die. Drowning like Virginia Woolf. No. My sadistic, hateful, drunken stepfather frequently threatened to hold my head underwater until the bubbles stopped coming up. I didn’t want to kill myself in the house. Too messy and the house can’t be sold until all the blood and tissue are cleaned up. I wonder who does that kind of cleaning. I didn’t want to kill myself outside. What if I wasn’t found within a few days? I didn’t want animals to eat me. Silly, isn’t it. Worrying about animals eating the body that doesn’t contain me any more.
“How did she die?”
I killed myself during my appointment with a neurologist. I kept asking neurologists questions, and they kept refusing to answer me. Instead, they smiled, told me to take designer drugs that did not work, and hurried out of the room.
“Women don’t shoot themselves.”
Except when they do. I held the pistol an inch to the left of my sternum and shot myself in the heart. I wanted to be dead when I killed myself. No having doctors trying to put Humptyette Dumpty back together again. No being on life support. If I’m going to kill myself, I want to be dead when I’m done.
“If only I had known; I could have saved her.”
No, you couldn’t. Only God or I could have saved me and neither of us wanted to do that.
“Did anyone know she was depressed?”
What a stupid question. Of course I hid my depression. I didn’t want to be taken to a hospital where I’d be heavily medicated for as long as my HMO would pay. Maybe three days. Then I’d be dumped out and sent home to await a bill for the co-pay. I’d still be in pain. I’d still want to die.
“I wonder what she thought just before she died.”
I stood on the edge of life and looked down into death. Death looked inviting.
“I wonder if it hurts to shoot yourself.”
Not really. I felt something hot, then nothing.
“I wonder if you’re still in pain after you kill yourself.”
No. The pain is gone. It’s peaceful here; the kind of comforting peace that reaches my soul. Being dead isn’t bad. Had I known I’d be at peace, I’d have killed myself long ago.
“Nice photo montage of her life.”
Who picked out these photos? Me dressed up for the Renaissance Faire. Me as a little kid. My first Christmas and I was four months old. Everyone in that photo looks like they are at a funeral. I guess that’s an appropriate photo for my funeral.
“Nice flowers.”
There’s only one, unimaginative arrangement of red roses. Just red roses. I prefer white roses. It’s a big arrangement so I suppose it was expensive. There should be more flowers.
“The Lord is my shepherd….”
Christ. Why do people recite that psalm at funerals? The psalm isn’t about death, it’s about life and faith in God.
“What I remember most about…..”
Wait, what? You never talked with me. You never spent any time with me. You never knew me so what’s to remember?
“She had such passion for her work.”
While I was alive, you told people I was too emotional and that I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Bet you thought no one would tell me about your hypocrisy.
“So many people loved her.”
Where was your love for me when I was alive? You never asked how I was doing. You never wanted to have lunch with me. You never talked to me unless you wanted something from me.
“She gave so much of herself.”
I gave and gave and gave until the empathy well was dry and the compassion well only slightly moist. No one gave back.
“It’s so hard to say goodby to her.”
You never said hello to me while I was alive. Why bother saying goodby when I’m dead?
“God full of mercy who dwells above, give rest on the wings of the divine presence in the exalted spheres of the holy and pure who shine as the resplendence of the firmament of the soul…”
I love that prayer. Soul. The never beginning and never ending part of me.
“May the all-merciful one shelter her with the cover of his wings forever and bind her soul in the bond of life. The Lord is her heritage; may she rest in her resting place in peace and let us say amen.”
I was hoping that’s what happens when you are dead – being sheltered by God’s wing. I’m here alone, although I don’t feel lonely. I do feel protected. None of you can ever hurt me again.
“Yitgadal v yitkadash..”
How odd to hear people recite Kaddish. I feel like I should have my kippah and tallit. Except I have no head or shoulders.
Chapter 2
The Middle – because I can’t bear it to be the end of you. Because I keep writing to you even though you aren’t there. Because you left behind a hole filled with my grief.
You shot yourself. I don’t understand. You have family who love you.You have friends. You have work you love.
And you shot yourself.
I don’t get it. I’m the one who is supposed to be dead. I’m the one who has been suicidal six times. So often there was pain, and not even a marginal form of happiness existed for me. Except I’m alive. And you’re dead. How did that happen?
I used to believe that God alone was in charge of death or birth. I don’t know if I can believe that any more. How could God let you kill yourself?
This isn’t real. There’s some mistake. You’re really alive and just hiding from all of us. If you’re dead, there’s nothing left of you. Did I miss a clue about your unhappiness? I’m sorry. Come back. Please. I promise I’ll do better. Please come back.
I think about you being all alone and in pain, pain you never let anyone see; and I’m sad. I ask why you killed yourself, but you don’t answer me.I think about you being cremated and all of you being nothing but ashes. As if you had never been alive.
Did you think you couldn’t talk about the pain? Did you think you were weak or had a character defect? Is that why you said nothing? Were you embarrassed by your vulnerability? Did you think I couldn’t understand? Or did you know I would understand but you wanted to die so you said nothing?
One time, you told me about all the people you had to take care of, but who took care of you? You needed someone to take care of you. Except I never said that to you. Is that why you killed yourself? Because I never told you how much I cared? I would have taken care of you if you had let me. I would have taken care of you and you wouldn’t be dead.
I wonder what you thought before you pulled the trigger. I imagine you looked at your gun, said “Fuck it,” and squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
I don’t want you to leave. You’ve already left. I want to help you. You’re not here to be helped. I want to tell you that I cared, that you were important to me. Except I didn’t. Now, you’re dead.
Bang.
I want you to live in my imagination. Because you’ve lived in my imagination ever since I met you. That’s not you; that’s you who I would like you to be. Did I do something wrong? Did I not listen well enough when morsels of pain dropped into your words? We lived in different worlds. I never entered your world, and never invited you to enter my world. I’m sorry. I wish we had explored each other.
Bang.
I’m sorry. Please come back. I promise to do better this time. I promise to revel in real you rather than imaginary you. I promise to love real you rather than love imaginary you. I’ll listen to you. I’ll rejoice in the differences between you and me. I’ll compromise. I’ll walk in your world sometimes. Even if it terrifies me. You’re worth my effort. I’m sorry I never told you that.
Bang.
Chapter 3
Still the middle because I still can’t bear it to be the end of you. I didn’t know I’d mourn you a year later on your Yahrzeit. I didn’t know I’d still hurt a year later. I didn’t know how much suicide hurts. Please come back. I promise to do better. I try and try to understand why you killed yourself. I have no understanding. I want the world to make sense, but the world isn’t cooperating. I want to love you, but you’re gone. I still ask why you killed yourself, but you still don’t answer me. You’re gone. Just ashes. There’s nothing left of you. I light a candle. I say Kaddish. I still hurt. I still mourn.
Beneath The Wings Of The Devine Detail Detail
A year ago on this date, someone I knew and cared for committed suicide by shooting himself. Above, is the quilt I made to help heal my grief. It’s called Beneath The Wings Of The Devine. I quilted an eagle wing on top of the arc of his life.
I’ve written a short story about his death, which is what is at the beginning of this post. I’ve written healing passages that won’t ever be shared because they are too personal.
The sciatic pain was supposed to last only 6 weeks. I’m on week 7. Once again, I tried going to classes. I lasted one day and I had more bones shifted out of place than the previous week. There are only 2 weeks left in the semester and I’ve missed 4 weeks. There’s no point in taking the final exam. I’m not going for another degree so the grade doesn’t matter and I am done for the semester. I loved my plant physiology class and we had gotten to the part I consider fascinating when the sciatic pain started. I wanted to take another class from this teacher, but he’s teaching weed science next semester. I just can’t manage to get excited about weed science.
Although I’m not happy about this, I am using my walker more often. I got a walker with a seat and a basket. I can sit when I need/want to and I can use the seat to transport something from one place to another. And the wheels are bigger than the ones on my original walker. Bigger wheels mean fewer death traps when I’m outside.
Following the cognitive deficits last fall when I was in withdrawal from Cymbalta, I lost my sewing skills. The first time I sewed, I couldn’t remember how to thread the machine, attach the free motion quilt foot, and where the button to lower the feed dogs was located. Fortunately, the manual was close by. I’m trying to find my sewing skills again. To achieve that, I’m working on quilted pillow covers. I started with a fence rail pattern. Next, I graduated to a churn dash pattern. That pattern is one of my favorite traditional quilt blocks. The photos suck, but you can get an idea of what the pieced part looks like. I need to cut batting and backing for the blocks, quilt it, and proceed to turn it into a pillow cover. For the fence rail block, the first two fabrics I picked up went well together. For the churn dash pattern, I had to do a whole lot of looking through my fabric stash. I have no idea what the next block will be. I think once I’ve made quilt blocks, my sewing skills will return.
Fence Rail PatternChurn Dash
My cutting mat was 25 years old, littered with cut marks, and just not working right any more. Armed with a 60% off coupon, we went to Joann’s and bought me a new, self healing mat. The rotary cutters are behaving more like they should behave. I needed to have Jim with me because I can’t wrestle with a cutting mat while pushing a walkr.
I’ve been working on the novel. I vacillate between liking what I wrote and hating every word. I suspect that’s common among novelists. Having the semester end two weeks early gives me more time to work on the novel, the pillow covers, and eventually clay. It’s really nice out, but it doesn’t warm up enough to work with wet clay until the afternoon. Plus, this time of the year we get WIND. A couple weeks ago, we had 50 mph wind and the San Agustin pass featured wind clocked at 105 mph. Wet hands, cold clay, not quite warm enough and WIND is not my idea of a great combination. That’s the joy of being a multi media artist. When one art toy isn’t working, I can go to another art toy.
I’m linking with Nina Marie. Stop by and see what other artists are doing. http://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com
Looking for one of a kind art? Please stop by my store, Deb Thuman Art. www.debthumanart. com.
I’m taking animal physiology this semester. I’ve reached a stage of life where learning is purely for enjoyment. I’m not working towards a degree. I’m not going to be going to grad school. I don’t need a PhD.
One of my undergraduate degrees is in biology (the other in journalism) and most of my work was with plants or microbiology. I graduated 37 years ago and there have been a couple advances since then. There are a few more women biology professors. They are addressed as Dr. rather than Mrs. In my class, the professor is a woman, there are 7 female students and 17 male students. This is an improvement. When I worked towards my biology degree, I don’t recall an upper division class with more than 5 female students.
Something else has changed. Working towards my degree, I fought against the notion of evolution. I could not and still cannot comprehend a big bang accidently leading to a single cell and then accidently morphing up the phylogeny tree to eventually create a human with not only an opposable thumb, but also the capacity to think, create, and have a sense of right and wrong. Life is far too organized and far too complicated to be nothing more than an accident. This belief caused much consternation between myself and my professors.
I did, and still do, believe in natural selection. With natural selection, you don’t end up with something you didn’t have before; but the population of what you had before is now a bit different. Consider the tomato and tobacco mosaic virus. There is a natural resistance to TMV, but it’s not a complete resistance. In the lab, tomatoes are grown and TMV is introduced. This kills almost all of the plants which had no resistance. Then, the temperature is raised and TMV is introduced again. This time, almost all of the plants with only one resistant gene died and the plants with two resistant genes lived. You still have tomatoes, but more of the tomatoes are resistant to TMV than before “naturally” selecting for the resistant varieties.
Physiology includes change over time. As the environment of a given animal changes – hotter or cooler ambient temperature, more or less participation, change in the abundance of preferred food – those animals in the population that have the genetic ability to adapt will live and reproduce. Those without that genetic ability die off. There’s no accident here – merely cause, effect and natural selection. The complexity and amazing organization of life remains.
And that’s what I learned in my animal physiology class.
I’m linking with Nina Marie here. Stop by and see what other artists have been doing. If you’re looking for one of a kind jewelry or other art, please stop by my store, Deb Thuman Art here.
Deb's Art 