april 15, 2008:
Over the last week, even though I’ve been in such a hopeless spirit, I suddenly grasped that there is an end to the tunnel. No matter how far, no matter how long, no matter how arduous, it’s there. And I’ll find it. And I’ll smile.
I’ll order a Bacardi and Coke and whisper, “Victory.”
And I will drink in my victory until I’ve spilt it on the floor.
And then I will say, “Someone! Clean up all this triumph! It’s everywhere!”
In two-thousand-fifteen I found myself curled in the floor weeping. Sobbing, really. (If I’m honest, it was in more than one floor.) Sick in the stomach, aching in every part of my body and mind, wishing I were dead. It had probably been several days since I’d seen the inside of a shower save for walking past it. My hair was greasy, frizzy, and my house looked like someone who’d been living there had given up on life. (Because there was someone living there who’d given up on life.)
What was the point? I’d write. Why bother?
I couldn’t bear to really speak to anyone because I knew that if I were a burden to even myself, how could anyone else manage me?
And that’s how I got there, lying on the floor, isolated, tortured by my own judgment.
You always fail.
You’ll never measure up.
Did you expect anything else?
This is the obvious thing to happen.
Small-statistic-girl, remember? That’s you.
I’d reached rock bottom. There was no tunnel. There was no light, because there was no end. It just was. And is. And always would be.
Groundhog Day. Over. And over. And over again. And while there may have been variations to the story? I could always count on one thing—it’s almost what I knew best—tragedy.
Okay, what if I did die? Then what? I’d considered.
I’d already abandoned the notion of hell (it’s amazing what etymological word searches and the introduction of “context” offers when arranging complete structures for belief), so that left reincarnation. (Energy is never born; energy cannot die. Thus, it is only rearranged.)
I felt sick.
Even dying sounded tragic?
What was left?
Dealing with it. Oh god. (Little “g” at that point, because I felt disrespectful and a tad angry and resentful.)
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. Not anymore. No. More.
And that was the day I died. There was no Bacardi; there was no Coke; there was no triumph, victory, or spill. There wasn’t even a tunnel! There was just death.
My identity had whisked itself away when I finally mumbled out the words, I give up. I can’t do it. If you want it done, you’ll have to do it through me.
Since then I have continued to do nothing. Occasionally I try to do something and I have to die again, but mostly I try to stay dead. I’ve learned that the less there is of me (the more dead I am, so to speak), the more operable I Am.
I guess there is a light in that. But there is no tunnel. Incidentally, the light was at the end of me.