Post by kapziel on Oct 4, 2008 6:41:27 GMT -5
The following piece is a memoir (duh, memoirs section) and, though quite real, is not in any way, shape, or form, changed in order to add drama or scene. This is exactly how I remember everything happening, down to the last detail. This might be considered a teen-level piece of work with questionable content (namely, suicide, specifically, the attempt thereof).
Furthermore, please do not ask me questions about the event in this topic; if you wish to pursue more or would like to ask, send it in a PM or an e-mail. I would like discussion in this thread to be based on the piece as a piece of writing, a piece of memoir, not a discussion on my life. Thank you in advance, and I hope you enjoy.
"Not Yet, Not Now, Maybe Later"
I stared at the painted message in front of me, “Danger! Do not turn engine on while door is down! Carbon Monoxide emission is lethal!” I read the letters over and over, not allowing the actual words to form in my mind. I kept thinking about the past hour, and I was sure of what I wanted to do. It took me this long to muster up this much courage, and I wasn’t going to let this chance go by. I placed the keys into the ignition, but I didn’t turn the engine on straight away. Instead, I lingered for a moment, sat back and thought about things. A few minutes ago, when I was sure of what I wanted to do, I had piled everything in my garage as far back as I could. The garage was a mess because my family had decided to take all the patio furniture in the backyard and store them in case of hurricanes. We were too lazy to put them back out, so we kept them in the garage instead. ‘Ugh, I’ve got to work for what I want,’ I thought to myself. My neighbor noticed me moving things around and waved. I waved back and thought, ‘Man, that’s the last guy that’s going to see me before I go. I wonder what he’ll tell everyone else. Did I look happy? Did I smile at him?’ I don’t remember smiling, but I might have. I excelled at hiding my emotions.
I sat back and thought for a moment. This was what I wanted. I wanted to be free from my duties, but mostly, I wanted to escape emotion. I was tired. I was bored. I was living on a day-by-day basis, already knowing what would happen the day after, and the day after that. It felt like life had become a routine, a depressing routine that I couldn’t get away from. I’d wake up and take my younger sister, my friend Max and his older sister, Angie to school. I’d drive back and get ready for class. I’d drive to class, sit there, take notes, and drive back. In the afternoon, I’d pick them up. I’d sit in front of the computer for the rest of the day, typing away, stories, poems, you name it.
I was tired of taking care of my family. I was tired of the fights my parents had on a daily basis about money and their constant debate about who was sicker. My dad argued over his colostomy and having to live with a bag attached to him for the rest of his life, whereas my mother argued over how he never said a word to anyone (except when he was angry) and his lack of communication was tearing the family apart. My younger sister never said anything. I was basically taking care of three children, two of which never stopped bickering, and the third, I couldn’t even get to speak.
But what I thought about most was how selfish the whole thing seemed to be. I thought about my friends, who I knew would blame themselves for not having seen it sooner, or not having done anything to stop me. I thought about my family, my grandparents, mostly, who took care of me when I was little, when my parents worked for the first five years of my life as nurses in Saudi Arabia. I thought about how they would have felt, standing there, knowing they’ve outlived their grandson.
The more I thought about the whole thing, the worse I felt about the whole situation. I recalled everything I read about suicide and all I felt was a deep, sinking feeling in my stomach. I shook my head and thought, ‘No, not again.’ I had waited for something like this to come along, a day where I was finally brave enough to go through with it. I had waited over two years, and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity go to waste.
And for a moment, I grew angry. I thought about how selfish everyone else was, wanting to keep me around despite how miserable I felt. It was a backward way of thinking, but for once, I thought that it was right. Everyone knew I was emotionally unstable, that even the smallest argument or comment could set me spiraling into manic depression, but everybody insisted that I was strong enough and that I could get through it. It was b*llsh*t, but I never said anything. I nodded and smiled and agreed with what they said because I wasn’t the kind to argue in the first place.
I reached for the keys and tried to turn the engine on.
It was stuck. The key wouldn’t turn. I stepped on the brakes, and they had locked up. I checked the gear, and I was in park. I tried to turn the keys again, to no avail. I pulled the keys out, waited a few moments, plugged them back in, and it still wouldn’t turn.
I began to panic. I banged against the steering wheel, but I managed to avoid honking the horn. I started to spout profanities left and right, screaming about how it wasn’t fair, how I’d managed to work up all this courage for nothing.
Finally, I started to cry. I hadn’t cried in over a year. I didn’t cry when my mom went in for surgery because she had breast cancer. I didn’t cry when my aunts, uncles, and cousins came over to pray for her and cried the entire session. I didn’t cry when I found out my father had colon cancer, and had been hiding it from us for months. I didn’t cry when he had to have his colon removed, when my mother and my younger sister clung to me, tears soaking into my shirt, when my father was finally wheeled out of surgery, a colostomy bag attached to his hip. I didn’t cry when my maternal grandmother died earlier that summer, even when my mother slapped me for being an “emotionless monster.”
I stayed in the car for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, my face against the steering wheel, my hands limp on my lap. Every few minutes I tried to turn the key to the ignition, but it remained in its locked position. I gave up and just sat in the darkness of my garage, my shirt and pants clinging to my sweat, and finally, I took out my cell phone and dialed my mother’s number. She answered, frustrated, “Why are you calling? I just got out of work. I’m driving home now.”
“I think I need help. I think I need to see someone. I’m sitting in the car, parked in the garage. I just tried to kill myself,” I said. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear what she was going to say. I knew what she was going to say. I was going to hear this big tirade when she got home about how my life has meaning, and how people need me.
All the while, a voice in the back of my head kept taunting me. It mentioned my failure, over and over, and nothing, not the ringing of my phone, the banging of the garage door, or the sob that escaped from me every now and then could shut it up.
Furthermore, please do not ask me questions about the event in this topic; if you wish to pursue more or would like to ask, send it in a PM or an e-mail. I would like discussion in this thread to be based on the piece as a piece of writing, a piece of memoir, not a discussion on my life. Thank you in advance, and I hope you enjoy.
"Not Yet, Not Now, Maybe Later"
I stared at the painted message in front of me, “Danger! Do not turn engine on while door is down! Carbon Monoxide emission is lethal!” I read the letters over and over, not allowing the actual words to form in my mind. I kept thinking about the past hour, and I was sure of what I wanted to do. It took me this long to muster up this much courage, and I wasn’t going to let this chance go by. I placed the keys into the ignition, but I didn’t turn the engine on straight away. Instead, I lingered for a moment, sat back and thought about things. A few minutes ago, when I was sure of what I wanted to do, I had piled everything in my garage as far back as I could. The garage was a mess because my family had decided to take all the patio furniture in the backyard and store them in case of hurricanes. We were too lazy to put them back out, so we kept them in the garage instead. ‘Ugh, I’ve got to work for what I want,’ I thought to myself. My neighbor noticed me moving things around and waved. I waved back and thought, ‘Man, that’s the last guy that’s going to see me before I go. I wonder what he’ll tell everyone else. Did I look happy? Did I smile at him?’ I don’t remember smiling, but I might have. I excelled at hiding my emotions.
I sat back and thought for a moment. This was what I wanted. I wanted to be free from my duties, but mostly, I wanted to escape emotion. I was tired. I was bored. I was living on a day-by-day basis, already knowing what would happen the day after, and the day after that. It felt like life had become a routine, a depressing routine that I couldn’t get away from. I’d wake up and take my younger sister, my friend Max and his older sister, Angie to school. I’d drive back and get ready for class. I’d drive to class, sit there, take notes, and drive back. In the afternoon, I’d pick them up. I’d sit in front of the computer for the rest of the day, typing away, stories, poems, you name it.
I was tired of taking care of my family. I was tired of the fights my parents had on a daily basis about money and their constant debate about who was sicker. My dad argued over his colostomy and having to live with a bag attached to him for the rest of his life, whereas my mother argued over how he never said a word to anyone (except when he was angry) and his lack of communication was tearing the family apart. My younger sister never said anything. I was basically taking care of three children, two of which never stopped bickering, and the third, I couldn’t even get to speak.
But what I thought about most was how selfish the whole thing seemed to be. I thought about my friends, who I knew would blame themselves for not having seen it sooner, or not having done anything to stop me. I thought about my family, my grandparents, mostly, who took care of me when I was little, when my parents worked for the first five years of my life as nurses in Saudi Arabia. I thought about how they would have felt, standing there, knowing they’ve outlived their grandson.
The more I thought about the whole thing, the worse I felt about the whole situation. I recalled everything I read about suicide and all I felt was a deep, sinking feeling in my stomach. I shook my head and thought, ‘No, not again.’ I had waited for something like this to come along, a day where I was finally brave enough to go through with it. I had waited over two years, and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity go to waste.
And for a moment, I grew angry. I thought about how selfish everyone else was, wanting to keep me around despite how miserable I felt. It was a backward way of thinking, but for once, I thought that it was right. Everyone knew I was emotionally unstable, that even the smallest argument or comment could set me spiraling into manic depression, but everybody insisted that I was strong enough and that I could get through it. It was b*llsh*t, but I never said anything. I nodded and smiled and agreed with what they said because I wasn’t the kind to argue in the first place.
I reached for the keys and tried to turn the engine on.
It was stuck. The key wouldn’t turn. I stepped on the brakes, and they had locked up. I checked the gear, and I was in park. I tried to turn the keys again, to no avail. I pulled the keys out, waited a few moments, plugged them back in, and it still wouldn’t turn.
I began to panic. I banged against the steering wheel, but I managed to avoid honking the horn. I started to spout profanities left and right, screaming about how it wasn’t fair, how I’d managed to work up all this courage for nothing.
Finally, I started to cry. I hadn’t cried in over a year. I didn’t cry when my mom went in for surgery because she had breast cancer. I didn’t cry when my aunts, uncles, and cousins came over to pray for her and cried the entire session. I didn’t cry when I found out my father had colon cancer, and had been hiding it from us for months. I didn’t cry when he had to have his colon removed, when my mother and my younger sister clung to me, tears soaking into my shirt, when my father was finally wheeled out of surgery, a colostomy bag attached to his hip. I didn’t cry when my maternal grandmother died earlier that summer, even when my mother slapped me for being an “emotionless monster.”
I stayed in the car for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, my face against the steering wheel, my hands limp on my lap. Every few minutes I tried to turn the key to the ignition, but it remained in its locked position. I gave up and just sat in the darkness of my garage, my shirt and pants clinging to my sweat, and finally, I took out my cell phone and dialed my mother’s number. She answered, frustrated, “Why are you calling? I just got out of work. I’m driving home now.”
“I think I need help. I think I need to see someone. I’m sitting in the car, parked in the garage. I just tried to kill myself,” I said. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear what she was going to say. I knew what she was going to say. I was going to hear this big tirade when she got home about how my life has meaning, and how people need me.
All the while, a voice in the back of my head kept taunting me. It mentioned my failure, over and over, and nothing, not the ringing of my phone, the banging of the garage door, or the sob that escaped from me every now and then could shut it up.
