Out of money, no motivation to go out and do much of anything, I found a five dollar bill in my jeans pocket a couple of nights ago. It was cold outside. Colder than I thought it was. Shivering, the pain in my feet skyrocketing, I went to the 24-hour pharmacy to see if there was anything I could get to last me a few days.
When I left, the light for me to cross the intersection was turning green to red. I'd have to wait. To protect myself from the cold breeze, I huddled behind the large sign outside the pharmacy.
At that hour, traffic has thinned tremendously, but was still existent. I watched as people accelerated to make the light, as they had no idea when it would turn red on them. As they sped by, the unbidden thought came to me. A few well-times steps, a fifty mile per hour collision, and this miserable farce I call a life is over. I can call it quits. All I need to do is wait for the right moment.
Well, obviously I didn't do it. The thought came and went, as it usually does when I'm on my meds. But while the suicidal plan vanished, I wondered why I'm trying so hard to accomplish anything at all.
My family doesn't view me as a burden. They see me as a fool who is wasting his time, or "faking" my disability.
I think of my friends, who say they will do something, make the promise to do it, and then I find myself chasing them to keep their promises.
I think of Mush, the friend I've had since age 14, and wonder why he's made no effort to call me since I called to beg him to help me get to my "dying" brother (who miraculously lived).
I think of my friend Julie, who is facing a fight with her live-in boyfriend for custody of his son, and how I can do nothing to help them.
I think of each month, and how I can never make my finances last no matter how frugal I become.
I think of the slum I live in, and how my neighbors have absolutely no respect for other people.
I think of the meds I'm now taking for a year, and wonder at the odds of me having become addicted to prescription painkillers.
I think of the foolishness on my other blog, and wonder if my message will ever get out there; a message that loses focus every day.
I think of the family I'll never get to have, since I'm far from a catch for any woman.
I'm getting tired again. Tired of existing. Tired of being unable to live.
If I were truly suicidal, I wouldn't write this. You'd never know what was going on in my troubled mind. But sometimes I wish I could simply surrender and be done with the nonsense that my life represents.