waiting room

January 25, 2015

today I am drinking tea and eating biscuits and contemplating the universe. one day I will understand how to hold all the pieces of my mind together without letting any bits crumble away, but that’s not today. today I am somewhere between infuriated and resigned at the mind I’ve been left with, the spotty, inconstant, failing, stuttering piece of machinery I am.

.

I’m not contemplating the universe. I’m attempting to do my assignment, my very overdue, but due-in-five-days-by-the-grace-of-God assignment, and wrestling with the rising tide of anxiety that swells up every time I start reading about coding or narrative analysis or validity or qualitatative data or whatever. I don’t know how to make myself stop, or tranquilise myself into necessary placidity so I can let my rational data-pushing brain do the work it’s supposed to, or compartmentalise myself into little boxes, locks and tidewalls and sandbanks and levees so the busy cities of my mind aren’t drowning every few sentences in these waves of unceasing inability, this blindness, this skipping of the brain, this fucking fear. I can’t keep doing this. I am wroth with myself. I am wroth with my inability to build a proper fucking sandbank.

I am wroth with my inability to be anything but broken machinery. somewhere underneath the tranquilisers I’ve wrestled in, the biscuits I’m eating, the focused breathing I’m doing, I am very unhappy with my inability to be anything but myself, my malfunctioning, cogs-missing, ticking-and-skipping cracked machine of a self. if I were a dog I’d drag myself out the back and put me down. if I were a robot I’d take myself apart for parts to be reused in toasters and espresso machines. if I were a car I would send myself to a scrapheap, some bits to be melted down to slag, others to be left to rust in a yard somewhere, a hollow awning for birds and rats and stray green daisies to nest in. dead flies. cats seeking relief from the midday sun. I would sing when the wind blew through me, rattling with long-gone life. Jesus, if I were any of these other things I would have been disassembled so very long ago but unfortunately for me, unfortunately for me I am human and so consigned to living in all my inevitable failure at glory.

I cannot live properly, I cannot do anything but fail and fail and fail again at living because I am a smashed pot on the tiles, and the curved shards of me hold only enough water to catch the light in on a good day. and I cannot die properly, because it would injure others, and I would not injure others. so here I am, suspended between death and life, attempting to forget I exist. I am getting so sick of this state. I am so sick of being broken and not being able to do a thing about it except try to pretend I’m dead without actually doing the deed. it’s a fucking miserable way to not go anywhere, slowly and as vegetatively as possible, drugged to your eyeballs in whatever renders you insensate. it’s ridiculous. there have to be other ways out of this insanity. there will be. there will be if I have to drag them out of the immanent Trinity myself.

… thank a threefold God I won’t have to. it’s been done for me. but bloody hell, waiting for damned restoration and transformation and the nigh-invisible work of the Holy Spirit is pissing me off no end. one day, Jesus, I will have words with you. I will be in that queue right behind Habakkuk and Job and Hopkins and Qohelet and you won’t be able to hear yourself for all the royally pissed shouting.

.

I’ve thought of a way to kill myself. it’s a long-term multi-year plan involving increasing societal withdrawal, insulting people until they avoid me and becoming more and more isolated and unreachable and eccentric a la Dickinson until almost everyone has forgotten I exist for long stretches of time and my absence bothers nobody. and then it’s a jaunt to a foreign country, removal of all forms of identification, finding software to put up the occasional Facebook and blog post for a few years postmortem and- well, I’m still tossing up between dying behind a police station or in a morgue for most convenient, least irresponsible location to be discovered.

it’s good to be considerate to whoever finds one’s corpse, you know? and yes, I know it’s a plan that requires a lot of effort and many years and much relational discipline to complete, but I like it. It’s responsible, it deals with the ‘injuring people’ aspect of my protests, and it amuses me greatly. It’s also comforting to have options. If you’ve never visited suicide country, then I’ll translate that for those of us who live here, plans for death often aren’t so much a threat as they are a comfort, an escape route to hold on to, that last ace up your sleeve in a terrifying game you’re losing heavily in. they’re the hope of an option out of a situation that is nearly unbearable, and that’s sometimes enough to keep you going through it for another day. bonus points if it makes you gleeful every time you think of it.

God it’s a good plan. I forgot how much it amused me. I’m going to go away now and drink tepid tea and stare at my data for five minutes before my broken brain starts shrieking at me again.

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