Guess I’m supposed to be here.
Impulsive death wish then want to live longer.
May I live to be older, much older than Mother.
Some of us are Einstein and Madonna.
Some are just smart enough to not be stupid.
Guess I’m supposed to here.
Compulsive mindset, never want to be who I am.
May I live to be normal, nominally normal like Mother.
Some of us are Cousin Charles and Dead Dad.
Some are just born to be forgot.
This poem is written on the third anniversary of my living alone for the first time (September 24th). I feel alive. I’ve survived. Tried to take less meds, got a little suicidal recently. Took my meds again and now I want to live again. Fuck. I feel fine now. And September is almost over, thank God.
September 13th will mark the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death. The other day I was at one of the hallowed shrines to my mother and a mecca to my obesity: Wendy’s. We used to go there at least once a week with an elderly couple I’ve since lost touch with. It’s strange to go somewhere that hasn’t changed any since 2011 (except for the price ). Were today September 9th, 2011, my mother would be at home barely able to walk, slowly painfully succumbing to her fate. Had she gone to the hospital the 9th instead of the 12th would she be alive today?
Death and misfortune are everywhere. Saturday I was returning from the beach and happened to look out the window of the bus and a man was having chest compressions started by first responders. He must have had a heart attack on the way to the beach on Labor Day weekend. How cruel. It’s strange to see someone dying when you already experience foreboding in September. September: the death of summer, the death of unconditional love when my mother died, September 11th anniversary, my estrangement from the rest of my family, and the end of my friendship with my gay lying friend.
Even when the sun is shining, the world seems dark. I may have gained my independence September 24, 2015 when I moved into my own apartment for the first time, but I am still bound to what the world outside thinks of me. There are very few people you can truly trust when the world thinks you’re dense. I’m tired of my many failures. My mind is drowning in my inability to be what everyone wants me to be, even with what I want me to be.
I wonder when it will be my turn with the CPR. Hamburgers and red meat are my drug of choice. I don’t want to die, but 2 for $5.00 Big Macs at McDonald’s are crack to me, and you got to take whatever small pleasures you can in this life. God, what do they put in that special sauce?