"This is my moment and now is my story
Who knows what tomorrow will bring"
-The New Christy Minstrels
I recently came across a quote, a line spoken by Keanu Reeves in the role of Frank from the movie Destination Wedding, which I’m paraphrasing here: “There are eight billion people in the world. So when one of them behaves badly towards you they’re actually doing you a great favor because they’re saving you time. They’re telling you that they’re not worth your while. They’re freeing you to say, thank you for the information, I will now move onto to the seven billion, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine other people, some of whom may have some value.”
The end of the old year greets me with the scent of betrayal, the sense of dejection, of goals exceeded, yet still apparently so far out of reach. When people promise you that they have changed for the better, yet the noxious, poisonous behaviors still persist, where is the threshold of compassion? Must the winds of forgiveness undermine the years of hard work you’ve done to heal your soul? There are eight billion people in the world. Must we return to the same ones, time and again, if the ultimate result is that they cause us pain and take us away from our journey?
I should back up. In 2019, my life went into free-fall. My medication for bipolar disorder all of a sudden wasn’t enough to contain the mania and the rage that had been insidiously plaguing my home life, and I checked myself into an inpatient unit not once but twice in the span of three months. The programs in there were intense to say the least; I had small but measurable consolation knowing that legendary songwriter James Taylor had made the trek before me in the very same ward. When I came home, I was beset by chronic anxiety, and it took the better part of the rest of the year to normalize me to being in the world outside once again.
One thing that was determined while I was inpatient was the fact that I was, in a word, suicidal. Now the concept of suicidality is oft misunderstood; it’s worth understanding that this condition manifests in manifold ways. In some cases (my case) it presents similar to alcoholism, where the patient is dependent, in some way, not on the substance, but on suicidal ideation. What this means is that in the same way that a recovering alcoholic is self-aware enough to know that there’s never “only one drink,” a suicidal knows that whereas a non suicidal may have a random thought one day of jumping off a bridge (know as intrusive thoughts), when the suicidal has similar thoughts, they last for days, sometimes weeks, and can grow and sprout into terrifying detail concerning the means, methods, wheres and whys. Something about the ability not just to harm oneself (that’s a different thing) but to end one’s journey once and for all, is captivating to the suicidal.
One can understand why. The greatest constant in the world is uncertainty, and there’s a certain comfort in knowing that if things get too dicey, you can reset the game (or end the game, if reincarnation’s not your thing). It’s a compulsion, and it takes work, a lot of work, sometimes hours of focus at once, chugging away, double tasking as I somehow try and complete the work of striving musician and artist at the same time, to turn the mind away from what for the suicidal are scarily reassuring nihilistic mind patterns.
Here's how this relates to Keanu Reeves getting a pedicure. It takes a staggering effort for the suicidal to live a life that even comes close to what you could call normal. More often than I care to admit even to my wife, the first thought in my mind when I wake up rings along the lines of, “you know, that lower limb on our Sycamore—I reckon that’s probably strong enough.” Fucked up, right? That’s how it goes. And I’m not about to spend the next four hours trying to meditate my way out of this, so I get up, turn the mind as efficiently and as unswervingly as I can, and I get on with my day. I have time for me. I have time for my wife. I have time for my work. These are the gifts I give myself.
What I don’t have time for is people treating me poorly, gracelessly, and disrespectfully (and neither should you, by the way). Bad enough that 60% of my mental radio static is self-generated existential threats, the last thing I need on top of that are people telling me why I don’t measure up to their expectations. I’ve given up a lot to create a worldspace based on mutual respect, support, and validation (the good kind), and I will not give it up easily. I’ve sacrificed success, longstanding communities, old friendships, all in the name of mental healing, all in the name of just making it through to tomorrow. I’ll admit, at times it has been painful, but I wouldn’t change a thing if I had to do it all again.
I have to live immaculately. The only other choice is death. My mind must be clean, well-oiled, and quicker than a fisher cat chasing its prey. I must constantly learn how to express emotions more and more healthily. I must communicate with compassion and with precision. I must love with all my heart, even if that means it sometimes breaks. And most importantly, no toxicity must enter my worldspace. This is the killer of souls, the breaker of the foundations upon which the suicidal’s daily work must rely. I will not bow to this energy. Never again. There are eight billion people in the world. I will find those whom I value, and who value me.
Thara m'er thoul.
The end of the old year greets me with the scent of betrayal, the sense of dejection, of goals exceeded, yet still apparently so far out of reach. When people promise you that they have changed for the better, yet the noxious, poisonous behaviors still persist, where is the threshold of compassion? Must the winds of forgiveness undermine the years of hard work you’ve done to heal your soul? There are eight billion people in the world. Must we return to the same ones, time and again, if the ultimate result is that they cause us pain and take us away from our journey?
I should back up. In 2019, my life went into free-fall. My medication for bipolar disorder all of a sudden wasn’t enough to contain the mania and the rage that had been insidiously plaguing my home life, and I checked myself into an inpatient unit not once but twice in the span of three months. The programs in there were intense to say the least; I had small but measurable consolation knowing that legendary songwriter James Taylor had made the trek before me in the very same ward. When I came home, I was beset by chronic anxiety, and it took the better part of the rest of the year to normalize me to being in the world outside once again.
One thing that was determined while I was inpatient was the fact that I was, in a word, suicidal. Now the concept of suicidality is oft misunderstood; it’s worth understanding that this condition manifests in manifold ways. In some cases (my case) it presents similar to alcoholism, where the patient is dependent, in some way, not on the substance, but on suicidal ideation. What this means is that in the same way that a recovering alcoholic is self-aware enough to know that there’s never “only one drink,” a suicidal knows that whereas a non suicidal may have a random thought one day of jumping off a bridge (know as intrusive thoughts), when the suicidal has similar thoughts, they last for days, sometimes weeks, and can grow and sprout into terrifying detail concerning the means, methods, wheres and whys. Something about the ability not just to harm oneself (that’s a different thing) but to end one’s journey once and for all, is captivating to the suicidal.
One can understand why. The greatest constant in the world is uncertainty, and there’s a certain comfort in knowing that if things get too dicey, you can reset the game (or end the game, if reincarnation’s not your thing). It’s a compulsion, and it takes work, a lot of work, sometimes hours of focus at once, chugging away, double tasking as I somehow try and complete the work of striving musician and artist at the same time, to turn the mind away from what for the suicidal are scarily reassuring nihilistic mind patterns.
Here's how this relates to Keanu Reeves getting a pedicure. It takes a staggering effort for the suicidal to live a life that even comes close to what you could call normal. More often than I care to admit even to my wife, the first thought in my mind when I wake up rings along the lines of, “you know, that lower limb on our Sycamore—I reckon that’s probably strong enough.” Fucked up, right? That’s how it goes. And I’m not about to spend the next four hours trying to meditate my way out of this, so I get up, turn the mind as efficiently and as unswervingly as I can, and I get on with my day. I have time for me. I have time for my wife. I have time for my work. These are the gifts I give myself.
What I don’t have time for is people treating me poorly, gracelessly, and disrespectfully (and neither should you, by the way). Bad enough that 60% of my mental radio static is self-generated existential threats, the last thing I need on top of that are people telling me why I don’t measure up to their expectations. I’ve given up a lot to create a worldspace based on mutual respect, support, and validation (the good kind), and I will not give it up easily. I’ve sacrificed success, longstanding communities, old friendships, all in the name of mental healing, all in the name of just making it through to tomorrow. I’ll admit, at times it has been painful, but I wouldn’t change a thing if I had to do it all again.
I have to live immaculately. The only other choice is death. My mind must be clean, well-oiled, and quicker than a fisher cat chasing its prey. I must constantly learn how to express emotions more and more healthily. I must communicate with compassion and with precision. I must love with all my heart, even if that means it sometimes breaks. And most importantly, no toxicity must enter my worldspace. This is the killer of souls, the breaker of the foundations upon which the suicidal’s daily work must rely. I will not bow to this energy. Never again. There are eight billion people in the world. I will find those whom I value, and who value me.
Thara m'er thoul.
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