My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

“You know, the day I did it, I took two razorblades to the bathtub. You know why? Because I knew that once I started to bleed, I’d get weak. And I didn’t wanna drop one blade and leave myself half done. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine hating your life so much that you’d wanna bring a backup razor?” – Stay

Yes, I can imagine it. I do imagine it. Suicide isn’t necessarily a wish to die, sometimes it’s a desperate way to end terrible anguish. The idea of nothingness seems better than a waking nightmare. It’s hard carrying loss, regret, pain, there comes a point when anything that could lift that weight feels like a good idea.

I suppose I have a really odd perspective on suicide, it’s something I can think about, and can never do. I can totally feel that moment of wanting it, knowing I would do it, and then have the sorrow subside. I can feel it over and over, to no end. I get to think about sharp blades splitting my wrists wide open, the way warm blood would run down my arms, but they’re just thoughts. I get genuine desire without the possibility of action. Vivid material for writing after a passing feeling. It’s sadly beautiful, in a fucked up sort of way. I often worry that I could end up a broken mess, but I’m not there yet. Close, but not quite.

When I was in the hospital for depression, I was in a tiny, electronically locked room. White walls, big shatter-proof windows on either side of the door, a security camera quietly staring down at me. I imagine some nurse saw me singing along with Elliott Smith, or Aimee Mann, posting live updates on Twitter and my blog. The team of doctors came in to ask me some questions, to guage my level of crazy. They asked, “have you ever asked anyone to kill you?” I said, “no, of course not.” I would never ask that of someone, that’s just insane. Suicide, to me, is a very personal choice. It’s a controlled end, your idea. If someone else cut my wrists, it would be terrifying, because at some point it could stop being my choice. What if I changed my mind at the last second? I think the appeal of suicide is the control. Death is scary when it happens to you, when it’s completely out of your hands. Whenever something accidentally goes wrong with my vent, I don’t think to myself, “awesome, I might get to die.” I never want to die by some mechanical malfunction, a hose falling off my vent. If I’m ever really sick in the hospital, I want every measure taken. I’ll fight all the way down. 

I’ve learned that while I have it in me to kill myself, the circumstances will never come about for me to do so, and I don’t want to go any other way. The idea of endless loneliness, constant sadness, is getting to be quite frightening, however.

Writing, lately, is not going well. I’m really not in a good place just now, very scattered, very depressed. موقع البوكر I’ve been trying to post something daily, but I just can’t do it anymore.

I can physically type, but my head’s not in it. So, I’m simply going to write when I feel like it, at least for awhile. I also, eventually, need to do some offline writing, but I can’t write anything as fucked up as I am. العاب قمار روليت I need something I don’t have right now. بلاك جاك

Dear Internets,

I’m the dumb fuck who’s been spelling Elliott Smith’s name wrong in all of my blog posts. However, I’ve corrected the issue, and I sincerely apologize. I’m an idiot.

Warm Regards,

Michael

I wish I could sleep until life made sense. Though, if I tried that, I suppose I’d never wake up.

I should write something, but I won’t because I’m ridiculously tired and kind of sore.

In about six hours, I go for yet another fresh trache. I’ve written something like this for most of my trache changes, not including the emergency ones, so I feel weird not writing it.

It’s funny, I used to be terrified of them, but now I actually kind of like my five week visit to the O.R. Everybody’s quite nice, I really like my doctors, we’re pretty close by now. Before the procedure, there’s usually a solid two hour wait, but it’s not an awful sort. I always have my iPod. I close my eyes and listen to music, try to get lost with Elliott Smith, Aimee Mann, Nirvana. Usually, I think about things I want to write later. I think about a few people who really mean something to me, a few people I love, a few people gone and missed terribly. I get nice drugs to fall asleep before the little tube is yanked out of my throat, and replaced. I get nice drugs when I wake up, unless something absolutely ridiculous happens and I don’t wake up.

I’m never particularly scared before trache changes anymore, there are other things that scare me far more. If I die tomorrow, I’ll go out high on the ferris wheel, listening to great music. There are worse ways to meet The End.

So, today I went for a manicure. I see these tiny Asian ladies who don’t speak a lick of English, but they smile and nod a lot. I’m getting a fresh trache on Friday, so I didn’t want to go in with hideous nails…

It’s a small indulgence, but it’s oddly important. See, whenever my nails go bad it almost certainly means that life has gone bad, I’m either really sick, or astonishingly depressed. I’m often depressed these days, but not so much that I don’t care about the little things that make me, well, me.

Do you have any such gauges, little things that mean you’re still yourself?

I’m not a religious fellow. I’m Catholic enough to believe in Hell, and that I’ll probably go there. God and I aren’t really pals lately. Still, I love talking about religion.

So, Catholics believe in God the Father, God the Son (Jesus) and the Holy Ghost. They’re three separate beings, but they add up to the One True God. Nobody really knows how this is possible, it’s just supposed to be believed. It’s supposed to be taken on faith that They’re separate, but One.

Now, God of the Old Testament was often pretty harsh and vengeful, He fucked over plenty of people. Jesus, His Son, however, was all about love and forgiveness. Jesus, the Prince of Peace. The Holy Ghost is also supposed to be quite loving, very kind. Currently, They’re all said to be in Heaven, Three as One.

I often wonder if just because Jesus loves us perfectly and forever, couldn’t God still be hardcore and fuck us over when He feels like it? Could the One God actually hate us? Of course, He can’t hate us if He doesn’t exist at all.

Personally, I believe in God, but I don’t think He cares one way or another what happens to us. What about you?

So, thanks to the NeuroSwitch I’m typing decently again, and that’s great. Right now, though, I’m stuck. My head’s full of noise, noise that isn’t coherent enough to write. My head’s full of noise, noise that I can’t quiet. Part of the problem, I think, is that I set a daily word count for myself. That sort of thing just makes me uneasy, and I’m uneasy enough already. No word counts until the noise clears.

Oh, and if you dream about my death, or feel like writing about my death, but we’ve never been in the same room together, just save that for your diary. I need less noise, not more.

It’s become kind of a tradition to get a new tattoo just before I get a fresh trache, the next being this coming Friday. So, last night I decided to hit Doc Dog’s Las Vegas Tattoo to have my man, Colt, etch a couple of words into my arm. Colt has done my last six tattoos, and he’ll be doing them until I drop dead, as was recently prophesied, or until I just run out of room or ideas. We’ll see which happens first.

Part of getting a tattoo, at least for me, is the shop’s atmosphere, which is why I love Doc Dog’s. It’s a very cool family business. Doc is Colt’s dad, he owns the shop. Doc actually started the first tattoo shop in Vegas. Colt’s mom is a lady named, Belle, she and Doc run the place. Belle also does piercings. Doc and Belle are always at the shop, or the Boneyard, the kickass bar next door. Colt hangs at the Boneyard between tattoos. I once wrote about them…

“I get my tattoos from a fellow named, Colt, a tattoo artist like his father before him. His mom and dad are usually around the shop, or the bar next-door. It’s an odd little family business, but they’re happier than most nine-to-fivers, it’s obvious they don’t go home and hate each other.”

They’re one of a few reasons why I like Tampa anymore. As for my twentieth tattoo…

It’s my third Elliott Smith tattoo from another of my favorite songs, Stupidity Tries. Specifically, I think it’s a song about his career and his life. He feels like a fuck up who writes songs about it, songs that people love, but he doesn’t get why. He’s fuck up, but he keeps going, though he’s not sure why. It’s a song about futility, about how we try for some kind of peace, even if it’s probably stupid to try. The song reminds me very much myself. I’m a fuck up, I consistently do really dumb things. I’m a fuck up who’s good at writing about it, and people say I’m amazing, but I don’t feel amazing.

Last summer, after Sara (the ex) had to move to Boston, and said that she wanted me to join her, I decided it would be a good idea to be drunk as often as possible. She figured I had it in me to do so, so just before she left, she asked me to promise to quit drinking entirely. I lasted a few weeks. I couldn’t handle the stress of figuring out how to move, the still newness of the trache, problems I was having with it, and the fact that I was just so lonely without her. Oh, and I never like being told I “can’t” do something. Her and my family were both against me drinking for different reasons.  So, after a particularly bad week I went out and drank way too much scotch. Apparently, I sent Sara a few drunk IMs before I passed out, and that was it. I fucked it all up.

I’m a fuck up, but I keep going anyway, even if I don’t always see a reason. I still want the kind of relationship I had with Sara, I want that life, and I keep trying to have it, even if trying might be stupid. I love someone else, and maybe that’s stupid, but whatever. Stupidity tries.