I wish I could tell you how I needed the same things. How it sucks that you did what you did, and even said what you said. I wish I could tell you how shitty it is that you get to say you still want this, but need space, while I’m possibly the most hurt I’ve ever been. I wish I could tell you how many times I could’ve done that to you, but couldn’t. Still can’t even in hindsight. I wish I could tell you even though I’m a man and I am somewhat stoic and passive, that I wish you would fight for me, instead of acting like it never happened. I wish I could tell you that your need for things, and acceptance, and fleeting momentary pleasures will be your greatest source of unhappiness. There a lot of things I wish I could do or say right now and before. But I am this person, I am who I am in this, not just for me, but mostly for you. Because you need me to be. I wish you could see that.

“Eeeeew,” was the only sound to be heard. Did you even know that was a word?

There were wrinkled noses on every face, and Molly’s really looked stuck in place.

“What has happened to all of you? You love spaghetti, really you do,”

Cried Mom. But all she got was, “Eeeeew.”

“That’s ENOUGH!” Dad had entered the fray. Suddenly every face froze that way.

“Everybody up,” it was the drill sergeant voice. “Everybody up, and don’t make a noise.”

Now the boys stood lined up by their chairs, and Molly was giggling at dad’s fierce stares.

“I give you all five minutes or less, to get back here in full army dress.”

Then the only sound was pounding feet, as we all beat a very hasty retreat.

Not four minutes later this raggedy band, has back in a row awaiting commands.

“Now troops,” said Dad, “We have a mission. Listen close, there’ll be no repetition...”

“We leave no spaghetti behind!”

There was spaghetti on every face, and it might go down without much grace,

the slurping wasn’t very refined, but we left no spaghetti behind!

Now, Friday was never a very good night, fish just can’t go down without a fight.

That is until the very strange day, that dad appeared in costume to say…

“Now my cubs, as you know very well, bears love fish, I think it’s the smell.

So first of all I want to hear you growl. Good, now show me your best bear scowl.

And now that we’re all feeling good and bearish, let’s see you eat up all that fish.”

The fish was gone not a bone in site, and from that day on we were bears Friday night.

Who knew that a little variety, could cause so much mass anxiety.

“A dish of potatoes, is this all? I can’t eat just this,” was the general call.

“No, no,” cried Mom, “It’s shepherd’s pot pie.”

“If this is all you feed us we’ll surely die.”

Just then Dad showed up for dinner late, and taking one look at what was on his plate,

“All right boys, everyone sit up. If Molly wants to play she’ll have to keep up.

It’s men’s work that we have here to do; we’re seeking treasures rare and true.

I know it might not look like it, but if we dig and do not quit,

In these little potato-y pots, we’ll dig up treasure, lots and lots.

Now here’s the rule to this game, every treasure found must be called by name.”

We fished and we stabbed, we dug and we jabbed.

Peas of bright green, and carrots were seen,

Waved all about, as “Treasure!” we’d shout.

The occasional piece of ground beef; may have come to bit of grief,

But Rover cleaned up the bits on the floor, as dinner proceeded at a roar.

Then there was the very strange case, of the squash that got all over dad’s face.

Mom might say that it was good, but there in the doorway we all stood,

There was no way we were going to try, this thing we were sure would make us die.

Dad didn’t even try to coax, he didn’t argue or tell jokes.

He just sat down and took a bite, and suddenly we all took fright,

This time Dad was going to cheat, and leave us all with nothing to eat.

The way that Dad was carrying on, pretty soon it’d all be gone.

I gotta say, it sure looked weird, hanging there off of his beard.

But while he sat there and ignored, we suddenly with one accord,

Sat down, and when we took a bite, we all learned to like squash that night.

There is one Saturday I’ll never forget, when Dad had given his blood and sweat,

To BBQ to perfection, some burgers that upon inspection, we all gave a very thorough rejection.

You’d think he’d get mad, or at least be sad, but oh no, that’s not dad.

He just covered the meat, and told us all to take a seat,

while he with purpose in his stride, firmly disappeared inside.

It was the longest wait we’d ever had, while we wondered what had happened to Dad.

And there he was, dressed all in white, like some medieval castle knight,

Except for the hat pointing to the sky, “You don’t think I can cook?” it seemed to reply.

Dad line up four more hats in a row,

“All right, you experts, you have a go.”

What kind of kid wouldn’t want to chef, soon there wasn’t a burger left.

We piled those burgers with sauces, spicy and sweet, until you couldn’t even see the meat.

Then there were veggies, some normal some not, even the peppers that were usually too hot.

We piled them half a mile high, and topped it all off with a bun made of rye.

And when Stevie tried to get his in his mouth, half of it landed on the tablecloth.

We giggled and laughed ’til we were almost sick, and those burgers went down pretty quick.

Yup, dad sure thought that he was slick,

BUT…

Then there was that fateful Sunday, it was so bad you’d have thought it was Monday.

Everybody had to say “Eeeeew.” There wasn’t anything else to do.

Mom looked at Dad. Dad looked at Mom. We all waited for the bomb…

Mom said, “Liver is good for you.”

And Dad said, “Honey, there’s nothin’ I can do.” Dad had met his Waterloo!

Okay, here’s the thing: About a year and a half ago, I slit my wrists from my thumb to halfway to my elbow. It wasn’t easy, first I drank myself to the point where I got the sack to buy a box cutter and a bottle of Tylenol PM from the Wal-Mart. Some of you may know that. For the rest of you, I guess maybe you were busy looking at pictures of cats on Facebook or something. Or maybe you had your own problems to deal with. Either way, I was kind of angry with you about it.

You know why? You know what I didn’t see? I didn’t see anyone posting suicide prevention hotline info. I didn’t see anyone ‘reaching out’, I didn’t see anyone ‘caring about other people.’ What I saw were unanswered phone calls. What I got was defriended on social media.

You know why I saw that? Because that’s the reality I engineered for myself. My suicide attempt was premeditated. It was a mix of feelings from self-loathing to delusions of grandeur. I didn’t like the world the way it was and I didn’t feel like I had to play by its rules. I hated my situation, I was angry at the hand that I had been dealt. I wanted to see what death was like. I wanted to know the point. So, away I went. This was not something that was anybody’s fault. It couldn’t have happened any other way, because I would not have allowed it.

I finished the books I was reading, drank away all of my money, quit my job, pissed off all of my friends and loved ones to the point where they wouldn’t speak to me anymore. I did this to prove to myself that the world wasn’t worth my time. “The ex doesn’t see my value, better take a box cutter to the old jugular.” (oh yeah, I also have scars on my neck and in the bends of my elbows.) In the end, I guess that it came down to simple laziness. I didn’t want to put an effort into anything. I wanted all the good shit with none of the work. So I looked for an easy action with a big payoff.

I'm not a cutter. I never wanted to do anything like this before. This was a one time deal. I got one shot at checking out early. I just figured that I was at a good stopping point, and I didn’t really want to deal with shit anymore. And I tried hard. I did not leave a note. This was not about them. It was about me. I wanted out. It was not a ‘cry for help’. The only thing that stopped my success was my own ineptitude (just another of my many failures!).

When I was finished, I was laying in a puddle of my own blood and vomit. My apartment was wrecked, there were blood stains all over the floor because I hadn’t eaten in two weeks and I couldn’t stand up without having a seizure due to blood loss/alcohol withdrawal/malnutrition. I had been crawling around. No one came to help me. I had driven them all away. So, sometimes I want to respond to ‘help prevention’ posts. Sometimes I want to say that there is nothing you can do to prevent suicide. There are only things you can do to exacerbate its possibility. If someone chooses to look at the world a certain way, you can only be part of the problem. Only a full attack of kindness and compassion will do, and nobody in this ‘me first’ society has the capacity to do that. I know that this seems negative, and believe me, I'm aware of the futility of trying to make commentary on the hypocrisy of social media by... posting on social media. But what is the alternative, do nothing? I can't do that either. I just know that anyone who tried to help me just got a bigger dose of crap, I just acted shittier until they went away. If someone is going to take their own life, it’s going to happen whether you try to call them or not. They just won’t pick up the phone. It's a hard road for all involved, and I know that there is no easy answer.

I just know that, for me, there was nothing that anyone could have done. I just had to figure it out for myself, and I'm lucky to still be here. Ultimately, I suppose, the only real solution is a devaluation of all the things that cause us misery and an elevation in the idea that happiness does not come from any external means. The placing of value on money or property or personal relationships is futile because all of these things are temporary and fallible. No amount of approval or money or success or praise can make a person feel worthy, we have to find it for ourselves and, unfortunately, sometimes people don't make it to that conclusion. I know I was desperately close to being one of the casualties of this problem, and I still don't know exactly how to communicate a solution to anyone else beyond 'If you keep trying, you'll figure it out. The only way you really lose is to give up.'

The bug guy at my apartment building saved my life. The bug guy, a guy I never met and who I will never see again, came into my apartment, saw me there, called the cops. That’s my story. That’s how I was saved. I didn’t save myself, and no one intervened on my behalf. None of the people that I wanted to hurt with my own death gave a shit. None of those relationships were reconciled by my bullshit. The people that I wanted approval from were the first to bail. Funny how life works, kind of seems like a big joke. I have not heard one word from some of these people, and the rest have faded into the past as well. When I reached that stopping place, I killed off my entire life, my entire way of thinking, everything that was dissatisfying, which was just about everything.

How did I survive? It was nothing short of something bigger. The bug guy, and everything afterward, was a fucking miracle. When they got me to the hospital, the boys who stitched me up marveled that I was going to retain the use of all of my fingers. One pointed to my open wound and exclaimed, “If you had cut that tendon, you’d have lost the use of your hand.”

It was another loss for the way that I looked at the world. I said, ‘here’s what I think of your ‘plan’’, and the universe proved to me that its plan was bigger than the flaws in the way that I was looking at it. It was bigger than my hate of the people around me, it was bigger than my disapproval of the nature of existence and my lack of faith in humanity. Of course, when I was ready to look, I saw kindness and compassion and beauty all around me. From the people who watched over me in the hospital, to my sponsor in the 12 step groups that would follow, to a random few who actually did show kindness without expectation, you know who you are and I can never thank you enough.

I know the pain of people who end themselves. If you are successful, I still kind of envy you. I miss Robin Williams, Sylvia Plath, Chris Cornell. I kind of wish that I was with them. I still struggle with the idea that it would be a lot better if I just wasn’t here anymore. I see that their own misery and the manner in which they succumb to it now makes a contribution to the discussion that is worthwhile. Their deaths bring attention to the value of human life, and how fragile the ego (even the celebrity ego) can be when recognizing that value.

I still think about people that would be better off not to have to deal with me, and I still don’t want to deal with them either. The thing that I’ve realized since I was forced to continue living: I don’t have to think like that. I’ve learned how clouded and delusional I was, and how this is a natural state for me. It is a challenge that I am presented with on a daily basis, maybe it’s just a little more extreme than others. I’ve seen a lot of people talk about their struggles with depression, and I think that everyone does struggle, to varying degrees. Who hasn't wondered what it would be like to die? Those of us who can’t get over these thoughts actually give dying a try. We test the fates to see if we are worth continuing. Most of us just question ourselves and never get to the point where we try to take control and check out. If we do, it is the ultimate form of selfishness and cowardice. I still think that I could just end it all, maybe this time I’d get lucky and not wake up. It’s always an option. The only cure for this thinking is a daily bargain that I have with the universe. I realize that, with the nature of my behavior and wounds, I should not be here. I don’t deserve this life (yes I do). I have to give it up to the universe for that. So, I owe something big time. I guess I’m obliged to pay up. I just figure, ‘hey, just tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it. But if you fuck me, you know I ain’t afraid to take matters into my own hands.’ Every day that I give up my plan to the plan of the universe, the universe shows me that it’s got my back. It’s that simple.

Again, these are things that everyone deals with, to a certain degree. Think about the things in your life that you try to control. Your friends, your coworkers, your house, your bank account, the dishes, the afterlife, whatever. It comes from a desire to have a handle on things. We all do it. That’s why the first step in the 12 steps is admitting powerlessness. That’s why the Gods of religion all want your trust and loyalty. Part of being connected to this world is realizing that we aren’t in control. For me, it’s a relief. Because I’m pretty shitty at being in charge. I am afraid and I just want to quit. It’s the same fear that makes us try to clutch to some form of order in our lives. Just apply that same fear to the idea of your life, and you have the kind of fear that it takes to try and kill yourself. I just wanted to be in control. So much so that I felt that I should be able to decide when and how I died.

I used to think that I would never understand what would push someone to that point, then I got there. It can happen to you too. You’re not that far away from it.

So the next time that some celebrity ends themselves, just be thankful that you’ve never been there. Reach out to a friend that seems low, because you never know how low they might be. And if you’re there, just know that life has a way of giving us what we want, but there are always conditions. Mine is the knowledge that if today doesn’t suit me, I could always try again, but I’d just have to deal with all of this crap in some way anyway. So, I’m grateful for the life that I am given now. I try my best and, because the universe has my back, just like it has yours, I’m doing fine. I see even my challenges and troubles as gifts to help me get by. Because of my specific experiences, I'm not afraid of death. In fact, I have a lot less fear about a lot of things, and that makes life a little easier. I know that all life is worth the effort, all existence has a purpose. If you don’t see that, I feel you. I’ve been there too. If you want to chat about it, give me a shout and I can tell you what I know. I can tell you the specifics of how I got from there to here. I’ll tell you, you’re not going to like it. It’s hard, but it’s better. And my story is not exceptional. It’s the same as a lot of people. It’s not as bad as some I’ve heard. I’ve tried my best to leave it behind and to put it out there, just in case you need it. But, like I said, if you want (or need) to hear more of it, give me a shout. If not, take care. Again, I don’t blame anyone for the way that I felt, the things that I did, and I don't blame you for how you feel either. I also don’t credit anyone with my recovery. I know that if someone is not ready to move forward, no one can make them.

We’re all headed to the same place and, as someone who’s had a glimpse of it, I’ll tell you that it’s great. All we have to do is trudge the road of life to get there. And we have to do it whether we like it or not. So we might as well have a good time, okay? The more clearly we see reality, the happier we are. Let me say that again: The less we fool ourselves, the more we understand that everything is okay. If you don’t feel that way, you’re fooling yourself. If I don’t feel that way, I’m fooling myself. There are things in our way, stuff obstructing our view. If we can’t see the joke of life, we are the punchline. Don’t be the punchline. Get the joke, my friend, it’s much better. And let me tell you, the joke of life is hilarious. Now, even when I look back at how miserable I was, it seems kind of hilarious. You might find that kind of morbid… but that’s funny too.

I know that it’s kind of cliche to say that you never know what might happen. I know that’s a terrible argument for someone who is thinking about killing themselves. I guess that I just have to say that I’m the proof that it is true. Some of my scars will never fully heal, but everything I lost has been returned to me. Everything that was dissatisfying now works just fine. If I had died a year and a half ago, I never would have known this year, the best year of my life. And I’m not saying that to downplay the happiness that I’ve experienced before, but this is just different. Through experience, I’ve overcome what got me to the horrible bottom in the first place. It didn’t happen overnight. You’ll note that I’ve only been sober a year, and I started from a pretty awful place. But in that time, I’ve traveled the country, shed my dependence on the external for my sense of happiness and wonder, found love again, found an outlet for my art. I’ve found my self-confidence and my self-respect again, which came largely from my renewed confidence and respect for others, for the universe. It's a hard line to walk, and I know that I could fall off at any moment. So, now I just try to keep my own head clear, and that daily task turns into a daily adventure. Every day of my life is the best day of my life, without exception.

In the beginning there was nothing, I watched the blank paper and pen, I decided to start my creation. I lifted the pen and said "Let there be a title" and so there was. I saw my creation, and I was pleased. And that was the first page.

I'll separate the title from the rest of my creation "A prologue shall separate the cover from chapters" and so it was written. I saw my creation and I was pleased. So it was the second page.

From the paper the first chapter was written "I shall create a world, with house, plants and animals, unicorns and monsters" and so it was done.

I saw my creation and I was pleased. And that was the third page.

It shall be at the time that I so desire, present, past or future "It shall be from the time behind us. The time will pass with the sift of the sun and moon." And so it was done. I saw my creation and was pleased. And that was the fourth page.

There wouldn't be empty houses in this world "Every house shall belong to someone, there shall be people of all colors, even witches, and other explorers of darkness to challenge my creation" and there were characters. I saw my creation and I was pleased. And so it was the fifth page.

There was still a missing piece, a piece of God "I'll create an image of me to travel this world and it shall be called Main Character" And so it was. I saw what I created and I was pleased. So it was the sixth page.

And on the seventh page there was nothing... because it was Sunday and who the Hell works on Sundays?

Is a God without followers nothing but just a myth? And is a writer without readers nothing but just a human? Then thank you. Because you, my reader, have made me more than just a human.

I made the world blindfolded, 

I held dreams in my hand. 

I made seas left and right

And scattered commands. 

I made doves for peace

And snakes for war

I created and created 

Till my back was sore. 

But something was missing, 

There was no thought

Nothing of intelligence

I had wrought. 

But intelligence is dangerous, 

Said the voice in my head. 

With thoughts come wars, 

And killing and death.

But I was still blindfolded

So I made just one man. 

One man can't bring harm, 

He certainly can't.

But he cried in the night

And was lonely and hurt

So I made him a partner 

A beautiful girl. 

I witnessed a love

So wondrous and clear

That I wanted to hide knowledge

I wanted to hide fear. 

But my humans were eager, 

They ate of the tree. 

They multiplied the Earth 

And made a fool of me. 

They destroyed my nature, 

They cut down my plants

They were blindfolded also

Deaf to my commands. 

I cry in the night, too 

Wishing this was not so

But I created the world 

And I'm watching it go.

Please love me.

Remember me.

On the days

So ordinary, you

Exploit me.

                                     -The "Dull" Prose