He called again and like before, I felt my head explode from his verbal jackhammer. Slow down, I wanted to tell him. Speak softer and while you’re at it, please change the subject. But no, it’s always the same tiresome topic and for the most part, I kept my mouth shut and listened as he jabbered away on the only solution—his solution—to save humanity from hell and damnation. When I meekly attempted to voice an opinion, I was accused of being heartless.
I have learned there will be no miracle—not for him and not for me. I thought of those old vinyl records … you know, the ones where the needle gets stuck in a grove, causing a word to repeat over and over. He, too, is stuck in a groove, a cruel one of mental illness which has stolen so much of the thinking, rational part of his brain, and I, like him, am also stuck in the abyss of MI, albeit of a different sort.
This morning my thoughts turned to lobotomies. I realize, of course, they are no longer being done and for good reason, but the thought of feeling nothing, to be free of emotional pain is so enticing. Maybe that’s why people commit suicide. They just cannot tolerate another moment of feeling as if their hearts are being ripped out of their bodies.
I know I have good things in my life, but somehow they don’t compensate. When I weigh the balance of happy against sad, that seesaw crashes to the latter side. I need a push, a shove to get me out of this obsessive line of thought or maybe a leap of my own accord. Yet I have tried everything (short of that lobotomy) with only limited success, which is why suicide remains an option. But not today, I tell myself, just as I did yesterday and the day before; keep trying, even if you have to pretend, and maybe someday you won’t have to pretend anymore.