"Paint me a picture and hang it on the wall...
...Color is darkly, the lines will start to crawl
Down... down... down...
Spin me around and around
Draw me away to the night from the day,
Leave not a trace to be found... down... down...
Nothing is real but the way that I feel
And I feel like going down down down..."
I love how I have these ideas and beliefs that the world likes to give a good curb stomping to every once in a while.
I believe that the right* to die, in a time and manner of one's choosing, is an important one. Yes I have a lot of sub-opinions and caveats on the issue, but basically, I think suicide should be allowed.
I've listened this eve to my mother sobbing and ranting and asking over and over why she can't just 'stop' and 'go away' and go to Switzerland to have the whole sorry thing put to the sword. This has happened before; but this eve was an impressively long and greatly impassioned (if not overly coherent) rant.
And half my brain is saying 'coward' to me over and over again. If I had the courage of my convictions, surely I should plant foxgloves or gather hemlock and start routines that make it appear my mother regularly goes on woodland walks and has a distressing habit of eating flowers?
But I don't. I don't because although my mother is desperately miserable 75%+ of the time, she cannot answer the questions I need closure on to actively do something so soul-stabbing as give her a cup of poison and help her drink it. "Do you constantly wish you were dead?" "If I gave you a magic death-pill to take would you take it now? Tomorrow? Next week? When you could no longer talk? When you could no longer walk? When you were lying blankly in a bed wetting yourself? When?" "Does nothing make you smile? Or if you do smile, is it worth it vs the other stuff - or not?" "Can you be happy and make a sort of peace with your circumstance?"
So. She's alive and miserable, I'm here and a hypocrite, my father is likely out of his depth but refusing to drown through sheer force of will I think, and we all hope for a better tomorrow despite the fact it won't come. Wheee.
* = I hate that word. I have a huge fekking rant about all this shit people talk - the 'right' to education or to clean water or a house or to wear a pink t-shirt - arrrggghhh. Right as what - for what - by whom - and why?! Rights as a human being? What the fuck does that actually mean? We're walking lumps of meat that got smart, quit whining about rights - they're mostly goddamn assumptions. Fekk - you don't even have a 'right' to breathe - it's more an arrogant expectation you want to make sound meaningful.
=======
I actually meant to write a quite shiny post about silly dreams I'd had recently (war, dangerous missions, Chris Larabee being my commanding officer, drama and getting shot / tarot, garden fetes, the old house in Kew being about to explode, seeing my cats again) about the scribbles for Grim I'd done (all the vamp stuff is penciled - go productive corvid go!) and about the foolish (but hopefully entertaining) snippets of fic I've been writing and a sort of light spoof of my day as I juggle art, chores and shambly-watching duties. Turns out my neurons got sidetracked by oh-holy-gods-the-chronic-shittiness-of-this-situation and wrote this instead.
=======
I have one cigarette, cleverly hoarded from earlier in the week. I have no satisfactory strong liquor and even if I did I need to be up and functioning tomorrow. And yes, yes I do desperately want to smoke five fags and down several shots but - and here's what kinda worries me in an odd way - I don't want to obliterate myself with them.... The body and mind acclimatizes to poisons and stress, building up resistance. I think I'm building up resistance to my mother's zombification. I really don't know whether to be grateful or horrified. Both I suspect.
=======
I go visit Ketch tomorrow. There will be nonsense and nicotine and whiskey and films like Kiss Kiss Bang Bang which I'm hoping will be bloody hilarious. And lo, in such ways does a corvid patch up her brain and moods.
Down... down... down...
Spin me around and around
Draw me away to the night from the day,
Leave not a trace to be found... down... down...
Nothing is real but the way that I feel
And I feel like going down down down..."
I love how I have these ideas and beliefs that the world likes to give a good curb stomping to every once in a while.
I believe that the right* to die, in a time and manner of one's choosing, is an important one. Yes I have a lot of sub-opinions and caveats on the issue, but basically, I think suicide should be allowed.
I've listened this eve to my mother sobbing and ranting and asking over and over why she can't just 'stop' and 'go away' and go to Switzerland to have the whole sorry thing put to the sword. This has happened before; but this eve was an impressively long and greatly impassioned (if not overly coherent) rant.
And half my brain is saying 'coward' to me over and over again. If I had the courage of my convictions, surely I should plant foxgloves or gather hemlock and start routines that make it appear my mother regularly goes on woodland walks and has a distressing habit of eating flowers?
But I don't. I don't because although my mother is desperately miserable 75%+ of the time, she cannot answer the questions I need closure on to actively do something so soul-stabbing as give her a cup of poison and help her drink it. "Do you constantly wish you were dead?" "If I gave you a magic death-pill to take would you take it now? Tomorrow? Next week? When you could no longer talk? When you could no longer walk? When you were lying blankly in a bed wetting yourself? When?" "Does nothing make you smile? Or if you do smile, is it worth it vs the other stuff - or not?" "Can you be happy and make a sort of peace with your circumstance?"
So. She's alive and miserable, I'm here and a hypocrite, my father is likely out of his depth but refusing to drown through sheer force of will I think, and we all hope for a better tomorrow despite the fact it won't come. Wheee.
* = I hate that word. I have a huge fekking rant about all this shit people talk - the 'right' to education or to clean water or a house or to wear a pink t-shirt - arrrggghhh. Right as what - for what - by whom - and why?! Rights as a human being? What the fuck does that actually mean? We're walking lumps of meat that got smart, quit whining about rights - they're mostly goddamn assumptions. Fekk - you don't even have a 'right' to breathe - it's more an arrogant expectation you want to make sound meaningful.
=======
I actually meant to write a quite shiny post about silly dreams I'd had recently (war, dangerous missions, Chris Larabee being my commanding officer, drama and getting shot / tarot, garden fetes, the old house in Kew being about to explode, seeing my cats again) about the scribbles for Grim I'd done (all the vamp stuff is penciled - go productive corvid go!) and about the foolish (but hopefully entertaining) snippets of fic I've been writing and a sort of light spoof of my day as I juggle art, chores and shambly-watching duties. Turns out my neurons got sidetracked by oh-holy-gods-the-chronic-shittiness-of-this-situation and wrote this instead.
=======
I have one cigarette, cleverly hoarded from earlier in the week. I have no satisfactory strong liquor and even if I did I need to be up and functioning tomorrow. And yes, yes I do desperately want to smoke five fags and down several shots but - and here's what kinda worries me in an odd way - I don't want to obliterate myself with them.... The body and mind acclimatizes to poisons and stress, building up resistance. I think I'm building up resistance to my mother's zombification. I really don't know whether to be grateful or horrified. Both I suspect.
=======
I go visit Ketch tomorrow. There will be nonsense and nicotine and whiskey and films like Kiss Kiss Bang Bang which I'm hoping will be bloody hilarious. And lo, in such ways does a corvid patch up her brain and moods.