All I hear is buzzing from lights. They're unflattering lights -- showcasing every line, every flaw, every blemish on skin. But there's no one down here to look at today. Maybe my co-worker, but he's reading up on taxes and wondering what the tattoo on my back is. He told me I didn't seem like the type to read People. News flash: Oh, am I ever.
I remember the days I used to work in noise that wasn't a newsroom (my only other job there.) Hardware retail. There's post-Thanksgiving retail hell, then pre/post-Christmas retail hell, then every-weekend retail hell. Oh, and what about every day in the summer when the out-of-state plates litter the parking lots and their thick accents bark demands louder than the dog they left in their Escalade? Yeah, that's hell, too. I took comfort daily in knowing that at least one stranger will yell at me for something that is completely out of my hands. Everything there is a constant. At home, I would wake up one or two times a week to my parents bickering about senseless bullshit that's not worth bickering about. Every Friday, I'd head to the record store in search of new music but most likely come out with something I'd listen to three times before shelving it. Too uninspired. When there, I'd never have a new romantic interest, so I would cling on to past crushes until I got bored. Constantly constant.
There, when anyone asks me what's wrong, I always say the second thing that comes to mind. Nothing. Which isn't exactly a lie. I mean, everything's always wrong there. Plus, I always snap out of my funks rather quickly when I realize how gd lucky I am. No sense in complaining when I can walk and talk and breathe every day. It's true, Drew Danburry. My idealism does cloud my reality. (But I kind of like it.)
Whenever I feel less than half-full, part of fading away with no explantion appeals to me but leaving my death to interpretation does not. Everyone would have to go through my shit and they'd all pass judgments, despite my pleas not to written on the inside cover of the dozen or so journals I've filled since I started (almost) daily documentation in 1998. They'd get it all wrong and cheapen the circumstances and trivialize it. I'm certain it'd be my family who'd sift through what they would think are fucked-up thoughts. Not my friends, though. They'd get it. They always do.
At night, when I'm too tired to be awake and too anxious to sleep, I think in slow motion about the note I'd write if I were to really actually go through with it. My final words need to be of a level of perfection I can not, at this point, achieve. I'm still learning and I'm my own worst critic. I'm so gd hard on myself when it comes to really crafting writing I'm proud of. I would write, re-write, re-read in disgust, delete,.. and so on. Then when happy, I'd handwrite it on the paper Mandy got me from Nepal. It could never encompass my true feelings. Actually feeling like I wanted to die would be a complete lie. I could never encompass my true feelings. The only concrete feeling I produce (with staying power that is) is love. And guilt. So, rest assured, if I kill myself, it was an accident.
Thinking that I may go back and forth in this thinking for the rest of my life isn't any more comforting. Do I really know who I am? Can I get paid to write suicide notes? Can I pay someone to write mine? Should it be a stranger? Am I meant to live long? Will I ever find the love I think I deserve? What is my worth? Why am I so gd depressing at times? Then I realize that this thinking has always been my life: a constant up-hill battle. Maybe there's a prize at the top. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow's arch. Or, god forbid, some clarity? Just keep your chin up, girl, I say. You've got to keep growing. I mean, you've got to start somewhere, right?