Deathwish Dusk

I'm not sure where to take this life of mine. On Friday, August 22, I walked out on my job and drove to the beach with the intent of drowning myself.

Melodramatic. Extreme. A cry for help. I'm a big pussy. Whatever. I don't want to inflict pain on myself, nor allow life to any longer.

I don't want to blow my head off, nor use my knives to cut off my life. Nothing quite like that. I just want to float away. Have the water ripple over me. Carry me down. Down. Down. Much like Holden Caulfield wanting to sink into the street as he crossed, now that I think about it. (Catcher in the Rye)

I was interviewed by Mobile Crisis. Packed into an ambulance, and escorted by police cruiser to the nearest hospital. There, they subjected me to mind-bending boredom, as well as hunger, before interviewing me again. They came to the conclusion that I was not a threat to myself, nor others. Sent me home.

In the meantime, I had called my sister to have her convey my salutations to my mother. Idiot. Now everyone out West is tripping out over me, and there's an even larger riff between my wife and them due to one side not informing the other. I had been blabbing about my fears and frustrations to my sister in the hopes that she'd talk me down. Convince me to soldier on as a loving husband. FAILED. She would rag on my wife until I shut her up, then turn to some other subject. Typically literature. Clearly, no help.

My mother... I can't stand to weigh her down now that she seems to be getting somewhere on her spiritual sojourn. In my stupidity, I overlooked the fact that her and my sister would be discussing such things without my ears or opinions present.

What was different? What provoked me to this? Pretty much, I was closer than most anyway. My back injury and my despicable job were the final straws. I wanted desperately to get out of that job. Since February, when it began. Circumstances (usually my wife's wishes) prevented that. She wanted a house, I was making good money. My back was injured, they paid great medical coverage. But I couldn't stay.

My supervisor, he reminded so much of my grandmother. Always having so much for me to accomplish to start with, then throwing more on top of that. All the while ridiculing me incessantly. Bunch of cunts, him and my grandmother. Friday, he kept pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me... I wanted to take the two foot socket wrench and beat him across his back with it until he was more crippled than I am. I ruined three jobs in about 30 seconds with him standing over me. He growled for me to take my break. The frustration and disdain in his voice was on par with a disapproving stepfather's. I walked off the production floor and just kept walking.

I haven't gotten to where I'm going just yet. Don't even know where I'm going, how to get there, or if I'll want to be there once I've arrived.

At the hospital, the psychiatrist on call labeled my state of mind as Death Wish. Sounds pretty cool. Wish it was as liberating, or carried as much significance as that in all those Charles Bronson films. But it's just another strange glint in the cold granite of my perception of life.

Speaking of my skewed take on things: As I sat strapped to the gurney in the ambulance, I noticed that the car number of the police escort was 711. You play craps with dice? Firstly, it's called craps. Secondly, those two numbers can mean the extreme opposites of either winner's good luck, or loser's bad luck. That about sums up the general impression of seeing cops pull up to your locale. Crap. And some form of extreme luck or another. As I chuckled inside at this silly revelation, I realized, too, that I'm probably one of the ONLY people who'd think of such a thing. Especially in such a situation. I feel so lonely.