Wednesday I forewent a riveting lecture on Roman Mythology, for what at this point must be the 7th consecutive week, in favor of a nice fireside chat with my German shrink. One might hope that I would leave Europe with a stronger sense of self, a broadened world view, and a newfound desire to live. In any case, I guess now I can express abstract thoughts in a foreign language. After drawing out my family tree- not in the her sophisticated use of metaphor has figuratively drawn us a picture way; I would have been content with verbal description; she insisted stick-figures were necessary- she asked me how things were going with my friends. Lucy and Lena had been visiting for roughly a week and she was hoping that my spirits had been lifted by their presence. This led to a discussion of my general sense of isolation and how having friends physically present only served to remind me of the spaces that never left. I thought (but did not share) of the many times I imagined myself (read: fantasized about) smothering my body against someone else’s in a childish effort to literally close the gap. Forcefully, violently. It is an assault. Driven by desperation. The way a man might shake his lover to prevent her from leaving him after a fight in one of those Victorian romance novels I used to read in middle school. I looked up and realized that she had asked me a question.
“Bitte?”
“Wollen Sie sterben?”
“Gerade jetzt?”
“Im Allgemeinen.”
“…….”
“…….”
“…….”
“das ist immer am Tisch. Sagt man das auf Deutsch?”
She asks me if I have an age in mind after I explain that I figured I’m only 21 and could see if things might improve. Some people, it seems, give birthday deadlines. If I’m not happy by year 30, I’m sticking the cake and my head in the oven. I had nothing so firm in mind. She seemed comforted by this, and I found myself wondering why. The way things stand, without some goal in mind, I could just give up on a whim. I could walk home one day and the next some reporter with the A Tragedy Has Befallen This Community Voice could be interviewing baffled acquaintances and roommates who couldn’t think of anything specific that had happened that day.
But I digress. None of this is what I actually want to say. What I really want to tell youmesomeone is that the trip is off. First Panda said she was too eager to be with her boyfriend. Then, just now, Gwen said that her husband’s job situation had changed such that a trip to South America for three months was no longer possible. For some reason I couldn’t understand she suggested I go by myself. I thought about my options for the next school year. I could go back to Harvard. I could go stay with my parents in Seattle. I could spend it with Gwen and the kids. I could spend it in New York with Lena. I could kill myself. And there it was. Unbidden, unexpected it arrived. In tidy order single file behind the other choices. Like it belonged. Like it was no more the black sheep of the family. No, worse than the black sheep. The perverted uncle who might molest the children if he was left alone with them. It had somehow wheedled its way into the family. It was a bastard child no more. Years of persistence had been rewarded with legitimization. It might have been a fluke. But it wasn’t. Because 10 minutes later when Gwen idly said, “i will just have to find a way to get there with everyone one day,” my immediate thought was, “hopefully I’ll be dead by then.” I was appalled. Hopefully I’ll be dead? When had this happened? When had I started expecting that resolve and certainty about taking my life and not eventual happiness were to be my reward? She mentioned something about hope, and I snorted. Out loud. A while later she mentioned it again and my soul rolled its eyes. And yet, I don’t feel particularly driven to throw myself out the window. The actual state of things seems much more sinister. It really is on the table. Not like a meal that is eaten and removed, but like a center piece. Sure, it can be switched around from season to season, but it still has a permanence. And so it seems that this is where logic and rationality have led me. I know what you’re thinking. Most of you anyway. And I resent you for it. People think that when you’re suicidal you want to hear about how much they love you and need you and would miss you if you were gone. Like thinking about slitting your wrists is just some way of fishing for compliments gone epically wrong. But every time I hear those three words, I hear them for what they are: a threat. I love you…sodon’tkillyourselforelse. All I really want to hear is that you understand. And that you’ll continue to understand if and when I give up.
