Among The Living

I've not heard from some friends in awhile, and it's in my nature to think that they are distancing themselves from the rotten stench of failure and isolated despondency eminating from whatever compartment they have me occupying. There may or may not be any truth behind my take on what is happening, but I do know that the avenues and thoroughfares that connect me to my closest friends are virtually barren. There is very little in the way of correspondence, and when I do reach out in a moment of weakness and search for a word of encouragement, it either isn't there or requires fantastic effort to rouse it.

This is a very emotional issue for me, because I shun the attention of all but a very small group of friends. As they continue down a road that includes a career, a steady relationship, and their own larger circle of friends, I'm bound to be left behind. It isn't anyone's fault, not even mine, it's just the way of things. That way also leads to my total isolation from the world, and then my death, which will be of little or no concern to anyone. And that will be the story of me. Right now, I'm teary-eyed and a little angry that the story of my life will read like that, but I've known for a long time that it would.

I do long for it to be over. If they hadn't put me on a ventilator in the hospital during the last overdose, I would have died. They did, and I'm alive. I do some good, and hopefully I have made it clear to people how much they mean to me. I really do love people, with all their eccentricities and love affairs and ill-conceived notions. And every act of sincere compassion and concern for the welfare of others leaves me drifting in thought, and I am filled with awe. Yes, I'm a romantic. Who gives a fucking shit?

Fundamentally, what I miss is intercouse with the world. The comfort and company and challeges of other people. I miss telling a funny joke, making a pretty girl smile, rushing from one class to the next, and being a face people recognize. But while I was once human and one among many, now I am one alone. I could try to develop an interesting poem about how my attempted suicide was successful in reality, or about how I wanted to be dead and outside the world and I got my wish. Something melodramatic and ironic. The truth is that I'm a very sick man who suffers from mental illness. I've been responsible, and sought help via ECT, therapy, and psychopharmocology. I take my pills and go to all my meetings, but this is it, this is as good as it gets. And while I enjoy a modicum of comfort, I would give the next twenty years of my life to be able to live one year free of my illness. I remember what it was like back when I was 20 or 25, and it was far from perfect. But unlike now, back then I was among the living.