Not the End
This isn't really the end of my life. But it's fun to pretend.
Is that sick? There are people out there right now who are really dying. And they don't want to. But I envy them. Because, in truth I hope for a disease. One that wasn't my fault. But not something too painful for me or too expensive for my family or survivors. You know, cheap enough so that I could be buried somewhere, and not in a pauper's grave. And not something genetic, because then my nieces and nephews would have to worry about it the rest of their lives. I'd want something rare, a 1 in 1,000,000,000 kind of death sentence. Something that was like... I dunno... a "Wow, she got THAT? Only two people on the entire planet get that every decade! Thankfully it doesn't hurt!" ...that kind of disease.
Something sudden. Maybe something exotic. In my imaginings I would go into a clinic one day for a simple sore throat. After paying the $120 bill, I'd walk out with the disturbing knowledge that I'd just been diagnosed with Mystoompatia Legaro Disorder. It's a rare and unpreventable malady, not genetic or contagious but totally lethal (and b4 some1 can say, yeah, it's made up, too). The doctor would have told me that I have six months to live.
And ah, what a six months they would be. I'm sure they'd fly by but right now they seem like an eternity. Six months of receiving sympathy. From everyone. I mean, everyone! Forget family and friends. Even the people who hate me would suddenly feel sorry for me. Because I'm about to die, don't forget. How can you hate someone with a terminal illness? I'd be the center of attention wherever I went. Did I mention that this "disorder" doesn't leave you bedridden until your final day? So I'd go to the bars and the coffee shops, I'd be able to visit all my friends and family. I'd look totally healthy. But everyone would know: "Shannon has Mystoompatia Legaro, she's a goner!"
Out of the woodwork, the people who have always hated me would appear. They'd ask for forgiveness. Except for the mega-assholes. Certain incarcerated jerks would revel in my pain. But their insults would roll off of me. I'm going to die, right? Why waste time enduring their pain when suddenly I'm receiving so much love?
The love would be there. It wouldn't be like my suicide attempts. With those it was like, "Oh gosh, she tried again? What's wrong with her?" With this it would be like, "Wow, that's the most horrible thing I ever heard! Poor Shannon! Is there any way I can help her?" No one wants to help you after you have tried to kill yourself. They just want to make sure that they weren't the reason why you tried.
Everyone would finally understand my fatalistic view. They'd have to. I'm dying, remember? I only have six months. I would no longer have to endure the "Things will get better" messages, or the "Hang in there, babe, you'll forget all this eventually" crowd. No one would dare talk about a future they knew I couldn't participate in. They would acknowledge, finally, that my life has been short and hard. The only thing that wouldn't have changed is that they'd still want to fuck me. But maybe I'd finally be willing to do that with everyone and anyone I met, even online, since I'm dying anyway. But then there would be the Shadows and the Dolemite's urging me not to make that my legacy. "Do something constructive with the time you have left," they would say. "Do something positive, Love."
I guess I would want to. But I'm dying in my perfect death scenario. And yet I don't have a perfect ending to it.
Except for a painless death, of course. That really would be nice.
For the record, I'm not dying. I'm actually very healthy. Not quite sane obviously, but very healthy! And I'm not suicidal, either. I'm too old to be suicidal. Last time I got busted for that... well, look. If you're going to try and commit suicide, you have to do it when you're young (teens). If you do it when you're older (20's) it's just a bad scene. Unless you really mean it, and die. But since I'm typing this right now, obviously I never really meant it. Except for that one time. Fucking roommates. But that's a long story I prolly already wrote about in my archives. Shrugs.
Sorry for the ramble. I prolly should have been writing more of Suburban Girl, and I was, actually. And for some reason, this all just came up.
-shannon-
Is that sick? There are people out there right now who are really dying. And they don't want to. But I envy them. Because, in truth I hope for a disease. One that wasn't my fault. But not something too painful for me or too expensive for my family or survivors. You know, cheap enough so that I could be buried somewhere, and not in a pauper's grave. And not something genetic, because then my nieces and nephews would have to worry about it the rest of their lives. I'd want something rare, a 1 in 1,000,000,000 kind of death sentence. Something that was like... I dunno... a "Wow, she got THAT? Only two people on the entire planet get that every decade! Thankfully it doesn't hurt!" ...that kind of disease.
Something sudden. Maybe something exotic. In my imaginings I would go into a clinic one day for a simple sore throat. After paying the $120 bill, I'd walk out with the disturbing knowledge that I'd just been diagnosed with Mystoompatia Legaro Disorder. It's a rare and unpreventable malady, not genetic or contagious but totally lethal (and b4 some1 can say, yeah, it's made up, too). The doctor would have told me that I have six months to live.
And ah, what a six months they would be. I'm sure they'd fly by but right now they seem like an eternity. Six months of receiving sympathy. From everyone. I mean, everyone! Forget family and friends. Even the people who hate me would suddenly feel sorry for me. Because I'm about to die, don't forget. How can you hate someone with a terminal illness? I'd be the center of attention wherever I went. Did I mention that this "disorder" doesn't leave you bedridden until your final day? So I'd go to the bars and the coffee shops, I'd be able to visit all my friends and family. I'd look totally healthy. But everyone would know: "Shannon has Mystoompatia Legaro, she's a goner!"
Out of the woodwork, the people who have always hated me would appear. They'd ask for forgiveness. Except for the mega-assholes. Certain incarcerated jerks would revel in my pain. But their insults would roll off of me. I'm going to die, right? Why waste time enduring their pain when suddenly I'm receiving so much love?
The love would be there. It wouldn't be like my suicide attempts. With those it was like, "Oh gosh, she tried again? What's wrong with her?" With this it would be like, "Wow, that's the most horrible thing I ever heard! Poor Shannon! Is there any way I can help her?" No one wants to help you after you have tried to kill yourself. They just want to make sure that they weren't the reason why you tried.
Everyone would finally understand my fatalistic view. They'd have to. I'm dying, remember? I only have six months. I would no longer have to endure the "Things will get better" messages, or the "Hang in there, babe, you'll forget all this eventually" crowd. No one would dare talk about a future they knew I couldn't participate in. They would acknowledge, finally, that my life has been short and hard. The only thing that wouldn't have changed is that they'd still want to fuck me. But maybe I'd finally be willing to do that with everyone and anyone I met, even online, since I'm dying anyway. But then there would be the Shadows and the Dolemite's urging me not to make that my legacy. "Do something constructive with the time you have left," they would say. "Do something positive, Love."
I guess I would want to. But I'm dying in my perfect death scenario. And yet I don't have a perfect ending to it.
Except for a painless death, of course. That really would be nice.
For the record, I'm not dying. I'm actually very healthy. Not quite sane obviously, but very healthy! And I'm not suicidal, either. I'm too old to be suicidal. Last time I got busted for that... well, look. If you're going to try and commit suicide, you have to do it when you're young (teens). If you do it when you're older (20's) it's just a bad scene. Unless you really mean it, and die. But since I'm typing this right now, obviously I never really meant it. Except for that one time. Fucking roommates. But that's a long story I prolly already wrote about in my archives. Shrugs.
Sorry for the ramble. I prolly should have been writing more of Suburban Girl, and I was, actually. And for some reason, this all just came up.
-shannon-
Labels: confessions, stuff about me
posted by Shannon at 3:48 AM
5 Comments:
Get back to work!
man you write well when you are into it!
God I so want to fuck you after reading your last chapter! Wanna come to my room and play little girl? I'll have to punish you!
1. You ARE dying.
We're all dying. And some day you really will only have 6 months to live, but you probably won't know which day it is. So if there's anything that you would do if you only had 6 months to live, then right now would be an *excellent* time to do it.
2. Love and Sympathy
A lot of what you seem to want is the love and sympathy of others. As it happens, you can get these thing without dying for them. But it takes some time and effort. Step one is to hang around with people who could potentially love you. That means healthy (mind and body), authentic people. You have a lot to offer. You deserve people who will love you when you are living, not just when you are dying.
3. Forgiveness and Closure
Some of what you seem to want is for people who wronged you in the past to come back to you seeking forgiveness and closure. Ain't gonna happen. And even if it did, it wouldn't help. Closure has to come from within yourself. You have to find a way to let go of the past and move on.
4. Taking responsibility
Part of the attraction of your terminal-illness scenario is that you don't have to take responsibility for it. But if you don't take responsibility for you own life, then you will be forever at the mercy of events. Worse, you will be forever at the mercy of other people: dependent upon their good will, and suffering from their indifference and malice.
5. The eternal now
We can learn from the past, and we can plan for the future, but we live in the present. All we have is the present moment--the eternal now.
I've been aware of the time going by.
They say in the end, it's the blink of an eye.
-- Jackson Browne
How's the song go? "Start by admitting
From cradle to tomb
Isn't that long a stay.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Come to the Cabaret..."
and
"dying is an art/like everything else/I do it very well/I do it so it feels like hell/so it feels real..."
Plath/who tried to commit suicide and eventually pulled it off.
Have you ever read Anne Sexton's poetry? It is consumed with suicide and rather brilliant. She, of course, managed it in the end. In her forties.
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