#unreliablehistorian

[spicytomatogalette1967]

My Voodoo Suicide

Somebody jumped off my apartment building this morning. I get why. I’ve “tried” to commit suicide before. More than once. I say “tried” because I didn’t really mean it at the time. If I had, I’d be dead right now. But I get why people do mean it. This shit is hard when you live inside your head. Most of us live in our heads. We’re encouraged to. We’re told that means we’re smart and sensible and special. Yeah, it’s a load of hooey. Personally, I think you’re WAY better off living from your heart. But, you know, what the hell do I know? I quit living from my heart and permanently moved into my cranium on a Tuesday in 1973. I’ve wanted to kill myself ever since.

I’m over 50, so that desire has been kept down, clearly. I would be lying if I claimed the thoughts left me, though. They never have. I’m finally learning that thoughts, like opinions and assholes. are always present. You can choose which ones you entertain. Just because something is there doesn’t mean it has to have your attention. Big qualifier: not giving your attention is not the same as ignoring and denying! My oxidized two cents worth advises strongly against that. But do what you want. I can’t stand being told what to do or think. It’s for the birds.

So what’s the point of this blog anyway? This is my personal accounting of my life. It’s my memoir, of sorts. I’m writing it like this because I have a real challenge with procrastination. And I guess I’m trying to hash some things out while I still can. The irony playing out for me is my body is failing. The intention I set 40 years ago, the magic spell I breathed into being without understanding the power I wielded is coming to pass, bit by painful bit. Like countless others before me who wished for an outcome, then regretted their lack of discernment when it arrived, I have spent the last three years desperately trying to remove the hex I placed upon myself. I’m ready to give up. No more books, workshops, doctors, bills, practices. I’m ready to just allow myself to be here, as is: 52, obese, disabled, obscure. I’m tired. And like many humans, I need to make a mark and obtain some closure.

I don’t know if the memories I will share here are what actually happened. They probably aren’t. I have an extremely vivid imagination. It’s okay. My experience of life has always had a distinctly David Lynch-ian quality to it. Thanks for reading, if you are. I am grateful for the attentive energy.

Sincerely, Alicia

[natlwc4bl]

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