&, oh.

Standard

this morning, early on, i watched _____ leave the house and i realized, too late, that she was out to commit a self-destructive act, and like many self-destructive teens she needed someone to call her on it. but i realized too late. i was tired from staying up all night. excuses, excuses. she clattered out to that cab. it drove her away. i don’t know if i will see her again, or if it even really matters–just that she is so fucking smart and i am sad that her life is like this.

i am hoping that things aren’t always this way. i remember, a few years ago, when someone who has done a lot of fucked up shit to me sent me an email when i was reeling from some awful things–that they had done!–to say that they are sending “positive vibes [my] way”. it was then that i realize that wishing, and hoping, in lieu of direct action, is fucking bullshit. not to discount good energy–i do believe in it, i do–but it isn’t enough. it never will be enough.

i can take a tiny amount of comfort from the fact that several people have apologized for not intervening at various points of my own fucked up youth, and what they mentioned was never anything i remembered needing. what i needed was always something that nobody noticed, and the things that haunted other people were not really a big deal for me.

but, cool, i am 31 now and i dreaded getting older for so long but now i love it. now this thing is 15 years behind me, that thing is 21 years behind me, that thing is nearly 2 years behind me. i am growing, i am growing stronger and i am leaving things behind, always. that thing was 12 years ago and i was finally able to write about it. i am writing a book about the last 15 years. i want it to come out so desperately but i fear that when it does, i will be so slandered. the pain of having it not come out is equal to the pain of nobody ever reading it.

i came home on a crowded transbay bus, slept for 6 blissful pill-induced hours. woke up and went out for a pleasant evening with my lover, in which i could not stop beating myself up for my multiple failures as a human being. i should have said something. should have done something. i didn’t. i got a letter from ******** that scared me–not because of what it said, because of what it didn’t say. i fear that this will be the last i hear from them, that anyone hears from them. i went on facebook to make sure they’re still alive, because sometimes that is all you can do.

i remember one thing that saved me. in high school, my poetry teacher reading a poem that he’d written, about his students who romanticize death. there was a line:

there are no beautiful suicides,

only cold corpses with shit in their pants

and the end of the gifts.

–phil asaph

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