Walking the tightrope
What is an artist
The space between…
What’s the point?
You don’t share crazy
Black holes are real
Passing on sad genes
I worry for my children. I’ve struggled with depression my entire life and their mom has been diagnosed as bipolar by multiple professionals, which she strongly rejects the doctors’ conclusion, and has admittedly suffered from post-partum depression and some form of eating disorder for years. If thegenetics don’t doom both kids, the epigenetics will finish the deed. I worry they are both condemned to a life of coping with mental dysfunction because of faulty DNA passed on by mom and dad. Augie, my oldest child is three years old and still does not talk. He has gone through the battery of tests from hearing to testing for symptoms on the autism spectrum. Even though he was diagnosed as nine months delayed in speech, he scored“advanced” in his cognitive abilities.
As an older Dad, I worry about the biological disadvantages I might contribute to the kid’s health. The one thing I will never do is miss their attributes because of any unusual characteristics. It’s these differences which will define August and shape the person he’ll become. I understand his lack of communication forces him to interact with the world differently than most. It’s these fundamental differences which create artist. Unfortunately, this worries me most.
It’s not an earth-shaking statement to say I had a complicated relationship with my father. The revelation which most defines our relationship is the way he described me to his last wife, my stepmother, was he never knew if I was smart. This one admission, explained everything. It explained why I followed my mother’s path of being an artist as she nurtured and promoted my creative notions. It explains why I was never nudged to pursue a career as an engineer like my father. It gives some insight into why I was never encouraged to attend college even though both of my parents had advanced degrees. My father never treated my mother with respect and he didn’t have an appreciation for art as a career. My mother was the direct contributor of crazy to my genes and in my father’s mind crazy and artist were synonymous. He was creative in his way as one of the original “do-it-yourselfer,” he was the stereotypical, garage entrepreneur in the early seventies that made his television and stereo system from a Radio Shack kit. This was the same time people were making their computers from kits as opposed to buying them off the shelf.
I can see how easy it is to underestimate Augie as he talks below his age, and can’t fully articulate his thoughts; but, I don’t have to look too closely to see his genius, even at this young age.
What I worry about is that my children will experience the same frustrations and challenges as I have as they navigate day to day living with a different perspective on life. Today, the idea of innovation and creativity and thinking outside the box have some cache. But, I still see this as superficial because the same approaches necessary in creating something new is often described as being contrary, a trouble-maker or causing problem for those who are following the rules. There are so many examples how following the rules often leads to
A bad day in December
First and most importantly, let me assure everyone that you don’t have to worry about me.
I would not be sending this email if I was in a bad place.
Yesterday was not a good place. I was sad, hopeless, depressed and distraught.
It was the straw that broke the camel’s back and all I wanted to do was end everything.
I tried twice and was unsuccessful.
I want to describe that experience, you won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t want to read any further. I would completely understand.
I don’t know if I’m sending this to the three of you, or simply putting this out to the universe.
But, I can assure you I don’t write this for any actions on your part, different actions or seeking some type of response. Matter a fact, I don’t want anything and I know by sharing this with Danielle, it could easily be a “deal breaker” as she worries about my mental health. Or worries for her kids, or a stable relationship, or the baby….
The facts:
I am 51 years old and nothing has worked, nothing is working, and the last chance for a meaningful relationship walked out the door. Blah, blah, blah….. (I know. Get over myself.)
You have to understand, I was never sad yesterday. I wanted to die so badly, I was resolute, determined and productive. I was calculated and precise. All my trash was emptied and I was so preoccupied I never once thought about food or drink or anything other than executing the plan. I had a cup of hot chocolate because I was bored and cold. A person’s death is about the people who live. I was not worried about any of you. My life and personality fits perfectly for a suicidal ending. It would be ideal for my niece’s, nephew’s and friend’s narrative around who I am and what I do. I’m the eccentric in the family, the artist, the one who we don’t try to explain. Think about the price of my art. (There’s something that might get the family on board. Ha!)
Let me back up a few years. I recognize a pattern of depression. It occurs every day around 8 pm and recesses the next morning after 8 hours sleep. I go to sleep dull, depressed, low energy and wake invigorated, positive and ready to tackle the world. It’s the days that I’m working physically, psychologically or emotionally trying to create a better life that I’m literally emotionally exhausted at the end of the day. I find myself pressing, pushing and pulling trying to get the world to bend my direction or see my point of view or…. Blah, blah, blah. (Believe me, this even bores me.)
It appears I have a pattern of becoming excessively depressed during the holidays. It was almost 12 years ago when I first truly experienced suicidal feelings and sat in my house for days contemplating ways to die. I actually wish I had had that gas heater yesterday. I wouldn’t be blathering on like this today. :O) There are still people I don’t speak to from that period because the experience woke me up to how alone I was, how unavailable people where to me, and serious my depression could be. It didn’t make sense to continue superficial relationships if they couldn’t save me when I most needed them. How sad is that to have to reach out to strangers in your greatest needs? Kinda sucks. When I was in Frisco, I had a holiday season that was pretty tough, but nothing as severe as the time 12 years ago in Richardson. And yesterday was my worse bout of depression if you gauge it on a scale from happy to dead.
I’m telling my short history so you’ll know you don’t have to worry about me this year. It’s done. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I see where I am in the pattern. I can see mustering the energy to do all the crap I have to do to survive the next six months. I can imagine things I need to do to remedy my situation. Namely, get a fucking job. At this point, I really don’t think it matters what the job is. :O( (It just sucks that I worked so hard and dedicated so much effort to this place and there’s nothing here once I arrive. Ugh.)
I have always sought the place in between. I didn’t want to commit to any one group, click or family because I never found one place that fully satisfied me. I never felt a part to any one group. During holidays, I feel like an intruder in other’s family gatherings, and I’ve always, always wanted to create my own place, my own family. A place that would welcome people like me, but also love those who called it there place. It has become so common for me to be alone on holidays that my family doesn’t even call. (Please, don’t see this as an indictment. It is NOT! I promise. I’m simply describing my life and why I am unfulfilled and unhappy and how I’ve allowed my situation to deteriorate.) This is a conversation with Danielle, which I can answer for her: How could she have Thanksgiving or Christmas while I sat alone in my apartment? I bring this up because the answer works for everyone: Because it is what I want. You know I choose this situation for whatever fucked up reason I can think of and it’s usually easier for everyone to just accept it and not argue with me. For Danielle, it is because she knows the best holiday for her kids is to be with their father (Matthew) and since I can’t be with their father, she must choose him for the kids. This is a situation that I’ve created for myself. I understand I have made it easy for everyone. I understand that I have never reached out, or spoken out, or demanded otherwise. I only mention this point because, I understand the situation, and it is not the way I do things by trying to put myself, selfishly in front of others. (I know this is contrary to the way most of you see me.) I have spent years this way because it was easiest, least ….. whatever. I don’t mean to portray myself as some type of martyr, I am simply explaining where I am today and why I am experiencing the world I am. It is my fault and I am not, not, not blaming anyone. It is my doing, my world. This is me trying to change this world and amend my ways if this is what it brings me. My punishment seems extreme and severe; but, I accept it and want to change the world I am living in today. It is not working.
Since, I am outside all families, friends and groups. Since, I don’t have a career, job or plan to get one. Since, I don’t have a family or the means to support a family. And most importantly, since I have not been available for anyone, there is no one who depends on me. I know some people might think this is what they want, less obligations, less responsibilities, less stress, it can be too detached and isolated that one no longer matters and it’s easy to lose hope or any sense of a future; especially, when nothing is working. This is why I was ready and eager to die yesterday.
[Seriously, you might not want to read the following text. I had no desire to write a suicide note [I didn’t]; but, I want to capture the details and nuances of my suicidal thoughts on screen and say out loud. I can’t tell you why. I think I want to see them in the light of day and try to understand my thinking. I don’t want this to be rattling around in my brain. I want someone other than me to share this experience with me.]
Danielle left yesterday and before she could pack up the house, I was out the door. I went straight to Walmart. For some reason I remember seeing a gun counter at the Walmarts and wanted to start the process of purchasing a gun. I’ve thought a lot about this: the interaction with the sales clerk and how I assumed he would instantly know I was buying the gun to blow my brains out. I thought about what I’d say, and the reason I could possibly want a gun. My story is for protection. Just moved into a house or apartment and not feeling completely safe. The funny part about it, intellectually, I knew the kid wouldn’t give a crap, be looking at me, at all, or even care one bit why I was buying a gun. I was trying to think how people buy guns that are comfortable with them and like looking and talking about them. It seems so foreign to me. I imagined going to a firing range where they sell guns and playing the role of being the novice looking to get into guns, and hoping this was a normal thing to do. I thought it would be good to feel the gun fire in my hand before holding it to my head. My worse fear is having a suicide go wrong and then have all my issues compounded by having some severe brain injury on top of everything else. (That absolutely would be my luck - I even imagined duct taping the gun to my throat so it would not jerk away and miss.)
So, it turns out the Walmart in Plano does not sell guns. With some research (later), I found out that Walmarts carry some guns, but no handguns. So, while walking the aisles of Walmart I thought about having a garage and pulling my car into the garage. I bought two large rolls of duct tape. This plan quickly formed in my head and sounded good to me. I would use the Tyvek roll of paper/fabric to seal the garage. During the day, I thought a couple times how poetic it was that Tyvek had played such a big role in my life, twice now. By the time I got back from the store, Danielle and the kids were gone. I went straight to work.
I had to unload my trailer, so I could park it across the complex and use the freed up space for my car. I carefully organized the garage to accommodate my car and allow me to walk easily around the car. I pulled the car in and shut the garage door. I made sure to unlatch the release so a garage door opener could not open the door from the outside.
Next, I meticulously covered the garage door with Tyvek. Generously sealing the edges with duct tape. After the garage door was sealed, I put a barrier/seal over the garage door into the house. Just to be safe. I left the bottom corner un-taped so I could slide in and out of the garage until I was ready. Danielle left around 8 ish and my hope was to be in my car in the garage by 1 pm. I did it.
Before going any further, I looked up car fumes and noxious gases online to make sure this was something that could happen and not something out of the movies. I only read one page and it confirmed, I was good to go.
12:45 I went to the garage, taped the door shut behind me and jumped into the front seat. I left the back hatch open, the passenger door open, and my driver side window down. 1:00 pm on the nose, I turned the car on, radio off and reclined my seat and thought about the idea of going to sleep and leaving the pain, disappointment, and failures behind. I was really, really ready to go. Not sad, not afraid, not anything…. Just ready to stop struggling. That morning, the only time I began to cry was passing a little Taggie I had purchased for the baby. I cried for a lot of reasons; but, I knew the baby would be fine with Danielle and I didn’t think much about whether she would ever tell him about me. If I was dead, it didn’t matter. That’s living people’s concerns. I trusted her decision and didn’t think about it again.
I sat in the car with engine running and garage sealed for 50 minutes. [Damn catalytic converters!] It turns out that your catalytic converter takes 99% of carbon monoxide out of the exhaust. They mentioned this on the page about car exhaust, but they still said it would work and had some chart of percentages needed in the air to be lethal. I figured it would take about 4 hours and I only turned the car off because my neighbor came home. She walked by the garage door. I could see her shadow pass the light on the Tyvek. Most of that time, no all the 50 minutes I thought, “hurry up and pass out and please don’t anyone find me before I was gone.” All I could think about was how embarrassing it would be. What I would say if someone banged on the garage door. Whether anyone could hear the car running. I kicked myself for not reading more about the process and effects, so I would know what to expect. Not too long after the neighbor came home, I turned off the car and went inside. I had even waited a bit before going into the garage because a man a few doors down was moving and I didn’t want him to hear the car running in the garage. Once again, it is funny how I think people would care or even be semi-aware to notice. So, I went upstairs to reevaluate the plan and do some internet research. Was the exhaust fumes going to work? What could I expect from the fumes? What were other people saying about this? Did I have to revert to a gun? (Damn! Guns are expensive by the way. I’m not saying to buy me a gun for next Christmas… Ha! I guess I’ve never noticed the price of guns. I seriously was looking for something under $200, maybe $125, ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Hell, even pawnshops are as expensive as retails stores.)
So, this is what I did for the next couple hours. Turns out burning charcoal in the garage would have been a good solution to getting a higher concentration of carbon monoxide, but my car was sealed in the garage and I could not imagine taping and un-taping the entire door again. I spent some time considering walking to the Tom Thumb, but I figured little grills would be a seasonal item and I wouldn’t have any way to burn the coals without burning the apartment down. Geez. Everything has to be complicated.