I hate to start on a grim note, but context means the world with these things, so bear with me.
About one year ago, I attempted to kill myself.
Due to shock and blood loss, the initial event has become somewhat obscured in my mind, but some fragments of memory still remain. There were the bleached sheets, the jug of hot piss under my arm, the nurse who threw towelettes onto my chest. But that doesn’t matter so much.
It’s after the hospital discharged me that things begin to clear up.
I remember sitting on the bathroom rug beside the toilet, cross-legged with gauze wrapped tightly about my limp forearms. On the tiled floor before me, a mobile phone had been laid ceremoniously atop a pile of bloody clothing, low-resolution images of naked bodies flickering over the tiny screen. The lights were off and my penis hung flaccid in my hairy fist. Smudges of maroon speckled my fingers, my stomach, and my thighs. When I reached over to obtain some toilet paper, the bandaging snapped loose and unraveled into the urine-laden waters below (in an hour of darkness, flushing becomes suddenly irrelevant). I could hear my friends laughing about something in the other room. I started laughing because my lacerations smelled like human waste.
After ultimately abandoning the notion of masturbation, I returned to the living room, immediately met with the sullen gazes of my father and college compatriots. The younger men had seated themselves upon the surrounding couches and chairs, their speech severed by the return of my greasy presence. In the center of the room, my father stood as though perched upon a stage before them. Words caught in his throat as he attempted to curb his discerned tone, but they soon came sliding from his seemingly unmoving mouth. “We’ve got lasagna,” he said.
For the remainder of the night, the collective group watched samurai films and ate said slabs of questionable Italian meat. It was as though nothing serious had transpired in the prior hours, as though things had returned to normal and would remain so forever. Little did I know the bizarre cascade of shit that would soon envelope the apathetic lump of being that had become my life.
Yeah, I know.
Fuck it, I had to start somewhere.
(Next: Bags Of Flesh, Bottles Of Urine)
The following morning in the snow – February 4th, 2014