Why I Committed Suicide (49 page)
Read Why I Committed Suicide Online
Authors: sam paul
“In this lucid moment, Epps concentrates and see the world with harsh, objective clarity: all of God’s children are simple animals, of no more or no less interest to the clinical observer than a leaf or a clamshell…”
—Caricature, Daniel Clowes
Epilogue:
So they, meaning
them,
the powers that be in all their glory, deemed me worthy enough to take my 36 hour pass. Finally. After all the sweat, blood and tears, I am being granted the freedom to roam (under
their
tightly organized schedule of course) away from the compound for a day and a half. My sister picks me up and we go home where the usual awkward fawning over the wayward son goes on. The “Oh don’t say anything too controversial, he might go crazy and attack us with a heroin gun or something” kind of conversation.
Please.
I finally see and touch my niece for the first time and she fears me because I am old and a relative stranger to her. Jenifer says they watch me closely whenever I interact with her too. I would never have noticed if she hadn’t said that. I wish she hadn’t said that actually. And then we go to the movies, trying to see something or other and I end up riding with Jenifer in her car from my parents’ house to the theater. A couple of miles, tops, and I look around and notice all the details. The faint hint of vinegar scent in the upholstery and the brown flecks of stain. The little droplets of dried smack on the windshield where some of the precious liquid shoots out the end in order to clear the potentially fatal air bubbles from the syringe. I am getting nervous because between us, and the obvious awkwardness of the situation where we have been so often in the past, is the console. The little storage place in her car where she keeps everything—everything that got me arrested. I know at that moment if I open the top of the compartment between us I will find the remnants. The cotton and needles and everything that’s needed and I don’t know what to do. She’s nervous and a little fucked up and I am nervous and scared to get fucked up and there we are in a situation I should not be in. My cells are screaming with ache to peek and look and put something into my veins and I just can’t do it. None of it. Not the casual socializing or talking or love or anything. Not while the console and all of its contents are there between us.
And that’s when I know. All the bullshit from the counselors and numerous attempts to open my eyes come down to this. Would I give my life for hers? Absolutely. I tried for so long. Would I change places with her in a second, be paralyzed never again knowing the intimate contact of sex or even the simple gratifying ease of knowing when to use the restroom? No question about it. But do I destroy our lives together? There it is, the big question. The answer leaves me reeling. I start to shake and I know I have to get out of there. I know I love her. I know it and I know that I always will love her but this isn’t right. This is no longer who I am or what I want to be. I’ve had a revelation, a dream, a will, a need to exist and survive. The knowledge that there is something more. To go back to her will be all there is and we will die.
I fought it for so long. I feel so guilty and selfish like a fucking bastard. But there they are. The fucking smack drips and the hollow eyes meaning the person I fell in love with is not in that car with me.
I didn’t make the decision far away in a safe shelter where I knew that harm would never come near me. I didn’t phone a friend and tell them to tell her that we should see other people. I didn’t fade away and avoid it all, like I want to now that I know. I held on to the dream and prayers for hope that I needed to believe in. I went back to her with the same love and devotion I’ve had since that miraculous sunset in Oregon and I finally saw what the score was. We were apart too long and I guess we are going to stay that way.
Before the wreck we were falling apart. Held together through commitment and friendship and a common need, but we were nothing but the robots we tried not to become. Not the worker bees that we feared but lecherous vampires that prowl upon them. It was all so glamorous and shitty and not at all who I am anymore. I will fight no more forever. I am born again, completely new, and there is a lot of pain and loneliness and guilt ahead. Some days all I have is a reminder that I’m not the poor bastard they dragged out of the cell next to me. Some days all I have is the memory of God’s mischievous silent smile as he touched my mind. Every day I have is a gift, thanks to that poor fuck and God’s intervention.
That was the day I killed myself.
That’s why on a cold lonely evening in jail I took that belt from around my waist and methodically attached it to the empty bunk in the holding cell. That’s why I gave my final pleas and told the world go about its business without me. That was the day my old life died and that’s why I committed suicide. That was the day I started this painful process of re-crawling out of the womb and into the harsh lights and sounds of what we call reality.
And you know what? I am very glad that I am here to talk about it. All the rehab and psychotherapy in the world can’t make things right until they are supposed to be. The patience and understanding and knowledge didn’t come from me. I feel more secure
knowing
that I had help. I feel even better knowing that I am here when I didn’t want help even though I’m the only one who made it difficult to get life’s lessons through this thick head of mine. True happiness is a drop of morning dew dripping off the leave of a giant redwood as it basks in the rising sun. The world is perfection and we are only graffiti.
.gradually we just drifted apart, me on the strict path that a moral society supposedly needs to set as its standards and her on her own longer path to acceptance and recovery. After the visits tapered off and dried up we became better together as friends. As lovers we are poison to each other, but to know that one of the greatest minds and loves that I will ever have is still around makes it ok that we’re friends nonetheless.
“I’ll call you” and “We’ll have lunch” invariably gets delayed and protracted over days, then weeks, months and now years. Sure I’ve run into her every once in a while and we still have that magic spark of electricity when we speak and touch, but it isn’t an all consuming torch or flame anymore. We both know the situation and with more than a little regret we remain close friends. Ex-lovers with a large dancing child and a big elephant in the room, bonding them forever.
Well, I hope this all works out.
Thanks to Neal Cassady—d. 1968
* The dictionary says metamorphosizing is not a word. It should be.
* A hot-shot is just the slang term used for a really strong dose (usually lethal) of Heroin (or anything) due to the quantity cooked up or a higher purity level. Most junkies die because of a change in the quality of their usual supply. If the quality gets worse, there’s no problem, just a lot of pissed off junkies, but if the purity gets better and someone uses the amount they usually use, it can be too much and kill them. This happens in NY a lot where the stuff from overseas varies in consistency.
