I woke in the morning to realize I had yet written another one. The type of letter contains pronouncements of our grief and unhappiness always qualified with a ‘well you are the only one I can say this to’ for fear of anyone else wanting to check me into some cushy infirmary around town. Oh, well maybe I am speaking of decades ago, now that infirmary would be a mix of all medical needs, I would just land in psyche but Hazmat would be everywhere.
Getting back to the letter though my state of mind as does all of our own suffers in recent months perhaps more than anyone imagined. We have the ability to put a positive spin on life, and yet, still sometimes, it is so difficult to find. I’m in a position where people might suggest I am starting to age and I worry sometimes that I will not do such in grace.
I don’t want to be that lonely, emaciated old man with a bitter grin on his face, who doesn’t look anyone in the eye except to suggest, ‘that’s my stuff y’know, get the fuck away from me,’ and then ambles away into the lonely darkness wondering where I might sleep tonight.
I see those people, we all do, and there is a tear in my heart when I realize the effort they have had to put forth to survive the life they now live moving closer to elder hours. I always worry about being that person, disconnected from everything I know and so then unrecognizable on the street, in an alleyway, leaning against some piece of city architecture until the morning sunlight tells me I must move again.
Those are the moments I decide I have had enough and now I will explore finding some way I might allow myself to be completely, silently, safely forgotten about. I don’t wish to bring attention upon my pains. Instead I would far rather the ability to find peace gracefully, in a manner of seeming destination. I’d preference the objective nature of mortality than be caught up in finding some subjective way to check out on my society.
I have friends, a lot of them. We all care a lot about each other, and would wonder if one were to disappear for a time. I have a close friend that sometimes I cannot talk to because for whatever reasons in our lives we became too close and now we do run away from each other’s compassion – well it is at least a shared result of the confusion our lives have created within the intimacies of love we drew upon one another over the years.
I have children whom I love very much, and it pains me to imagine hurting them in any fashion whether verbal or immediate. I don’t like to think about departing my children and immediate family. Even my ex-wife comes into play with my fear of a selfish move that leaves everyone feeling those confusions we have all experienced sitting in pews and memorials with wonder on our mind.
I know there are circumstances of terminal disease that certainly prompt choice, but I haven’t the luxury – only depression and despair – only a terribly broken heart over so many instances in my life I wish I could retrace and fix. I only have those moments of diminished confidence leave me wondering how or why I have made it as far as I have today without being revealed to be the fraud I really am.
I know I recently came to terms with realizing this next life of mine has a purpose, something to strike upon alone, to challenge my body and spirit to find some beauty, some elegance, some lovely contribution to our society that gives pleasure to the world around us. But I don’t know what it is. I’m afraid cleaning and designing my apartment is not enough. I fear putting miles on my bicycle this summer – though completely fascinating and exhilarating is just not enough. I’m afraid my writing will always stay here and slowly be filtered into the lost words of a world driven by personal testimony never read, never needing eyes beyond the original thought.
Last week I spent a few days in the hospital. I was taking my medicine incorrectly and I was discovered to be far nearer to a brain bleed than I would have ever fantasized. A few more days and I may have reached my wish unwittingly, though I had many pains throughout my body that became unbearable enough to believe I might have Covid, but I did not. I simply had thin blood pooling throughout my internal organs. I learned something last week in the hospital while undergoing tests to find my balance. Today, this week, it is very difficult to walk up and down stairs, I should have taken the cane they offered me. I chose against it, pride is a silly choice in our lives.
So my letter, well I guess I just wrote it here again, not nearly with the same immediacy but it does contain the struggles in my mind. This letter does contain the vicious nature of depression and how impulsivity can become an ugliness sometimes we are unable to over come.
I’m listening to the Beatles this morning. At least there is that.
© Scott F Savage 10/2020
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