Lucky Number 8

This letter is a little long (TLDR) If your up for a quick read, just read the first paragraph and the at the end starting with the ***

This is a letter about my suicide attempt I made about ten minutes ago. I know talking about yourself is just public masturbation. I’m sorry. I really am. It would still mean a lot to me if you read this anyways. Thanks mate.

Call me *Number 8*
Let me paint you a picture. I’m sitting in a small room typing on a eight-year-old Compaq computer. The monitor I’m using is about the size of a coffee table. I call it my “window.” It’s propped up against the wall and my desk and supported by two stacks of miscellaneous crap. The massive light from the screen illuminates the room, so much so that I haven’t used the IKEA brand lamp in a while.

Now, a lot of people wonder what goes through someone’s head before they work up to suicide. What made them do it, why did they not tell anyone and whose fault it was in the end. Sitting here, typing this, I feel kind of like someone who came from the edge of death on a cheesy sitcom. You know, where the guy on the operating table claims he “Saw the light,” and god told him it wasn’t his time or whatever. I feel like that. Like there was some sort of miracle that I snapped out of a Zombie-Stasis and into an almost zen high-on-life. Let me walk you through this.

High school was a pretty good time for me. I know you hear your parents say “High School is the best time of your life,” or whatever and if you’re currently in school you probably want to puke every time you hear this. But it’s kind of true. Especially when you leave. Three hours of homework a night is like a Holiday for those of us with 25k office jobs. Unfortunately, you appreciate it more after you’re gone. Alright, now imagine me. Tall guy, handsome, intelligent and guitarist in the local band. I was shy as all hell, but still pulling off social wonders like I had Fairy God Parents. There were major problems at home and I rarely spent the night at my mom’s house due to all our fighting. She’s an alcoholic and an raging asshole. My Dad walked out, so I didn’t really have a choice as far as housing. But I had my “happy place,” and a good amount of places to crash at. Eventually, I slept on the streets so that the walk back to school from wherever the hell I spent the night wouldn’t be such a chore. All of that didn’t matter though. I had a trump card. I had my calling. My Raison d’ etre. I had Art.

So skip forward a little bit. It’s my Junior year and I begin to have obvious mental stress. I sleepwalk. Scream in my sleep. I start to develop a second personality. I can’t deal with the abuse and pretending I’m living the life every day. I get pissed off that I don’t have the skill to express my emotions through art. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. My girlfriend breaks up with me after I cry in front of her. My social life didn’t even change. But my life popped like a stale balloon. I had gone to a shrink before in middle school after the staff at my elementary school suspected that I was being physically abused by my mom. Since then, she canceled my Health Insurance in an immature temper-tantrum. Without the money or means to get a job, I decide to treat myself (also, I think you have to be 19 to get health insurance). Meditation, nutrition and balancing stress. All I can do. I can control my battered psyche to a limit. But one bad day and bang. It’s day one all over again.

So the worst of the worst happens. I enter a blue period. I get so pissed off at myself. I repeat what my mom has been telling me for years. I am Shit. I am complete and utter shit. I do what no artist should ever do in a million f**king years. I give up art. Slowly and slowly my mind goes into limbo. Running through the motions. Sleeping all day. Wake up, lament, go to sleep. Ditching school on a daily basis. My friends think I’ve transferred to another High School. I just don’t care. Every day is the bleeding same.

Army recruitment office calls my mom’s phone one day and she volunteers me at the office. Things get a little fuzzy in my memory around here, but I agree to go. Wither I got free food out of this or something, I don’t know. So I’m in the office and the recruitment soldier (NCO) is coaxing me into all these options. Showing me all the benefits. Here I am in some uncomfortable-ass chair with a look on my face like I’d rather f**k a cactus then be here. But there’s this slow realization that’s going down in my head as this happens. I want to die. I want out. I want everything that is shitty in my life to be erased like a pencil on paper.

It’s kind of hard to explain, but I pictured dying on a battlefield. Miles away from home. Letter coming home “PFC XXXX shot in combat” after I shoot jump on a grenade. That’s my final wish in the god damn world. No “Oh he took the easy way out,” or “He just couldn’t handle life any more,” a handsome man in a grave is how I want to go out.(Or what’s left of him) No bullshit, no drama. Sure it’s slow but it’s poetic and kind. It’s almost too perfect in my mind. I sign up for Split-Options training for the summer between my Junior and Senior year. The recruiter picks me up a few times from school and students begin to talk about me. Soldier Boy.

Early June I’m dropped off at some hotel near the airport forty something miles from my house. The buffet set up for the soon-to-be-soldiers is tear-jerking. I eat a good meal for the first time in years. I sleep like a tranquillized horse. Those mental scars? They’re gone. It’s sinful how good I feel.

Sorry to spare you all the details of boot camp. Watch “Full Metal Jacket.” It’s almost the same. Except, in the army, you’ve got three Drill Sergent’s per platoon. They are constantly on your ass.

Now here’s the Shamylan twist in my story. I loved boot camp. The march’s were tiring. The harassment from the Sergent’s was non-stop and there was no cell phone’s allowed.
It’s a f**king paradise for me. I have purpose. I have legitimate friends. Even the guys who disliked me in particular would still risk their lives to save my ass. Nobody in this world will ever be more humane than my Boot Camp Battle-Buddies. For the first time in almost a year. I’m drawing again. I drew tattoos for kids in the barracks. I drew better than I ever had before. It was my personal heaven. We all knew that this couldn’t last long.

The final phase of Basic Training comes all too early. My mom has been calling the Drill Sargent’s office. Hitting on one of the Sargents. I’ve been avoiding her for three months. Now she’s coming up for graduation. Those scars start coming back. Sleep walking in particular. Intense sleep walking. Later on that week, I get in a fight with a mirror after staring down my reflection. I beg one of the Drill Sargent’s to help me stay at the base. But overall, my contract says I must return home. My fate sealed by my own signature.

After a painful reunion with my mother and step-sister, the time to go home arrives. I “accidentally loose,” my military ID and have to stay another week. Let me just say Boot camp is a lot more fun when you get to chill with the Drill Sargents from another platoon and watch Daine Cook re-runs all day. Eventually, I ride home solo on a ten hour plane trip home. Other travelers offering to buy me food and switch me to first class while I wait outside the terminal. All I want to do is sleep.

Life is different when I come back home. Living by Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Self-less Service, Honor, Integrity and Courage means nothing to the dopes in high school. I’m a stronger man, but I’m still doing the same shit. Except, now I have 5k in the bank and I’m a local celebrity. Like my Drill Sargent said, “Same shit, different toilet.” I don’t have a death wish anymore, but I feel like I’m repeating all the unfortunate events in my Junior year.

So here is the climax to my story. The Rosebud to my citizen Kane. When I graduate high school I’m sent off for Advanced Individual training. It’s kind of like boot camp with some days off. Once again, I find myself in paradise. Keeping in touch with my friends is painful. My band-mates have been spreading rumors about my “death in Iraq.” in a attempt to justify kicking me out of the band. My girlfriend cheats on me, but I wasn’t exactly heart-broken. My mother begins to show signs of Alzheimer’s from years of heavy alcoholism and no other relative in her family gives a shit about her. My guilt for her becomes my Achilles’s heel. When I come back home later in the year, everything is a nightmare. My friend slept with my under-age step sister, then cheats on her? What? When I go to pay him a visit, he’s already moved out. The worst of the worst. College starts the next day.

One of my close friends gets his sixteen-year-old girlfriend pregnant. In some bizzaro realm of reasoning, he decides to keep the kid. Here I am thinking about all the shit that drove me to be the repressed psycho that I am today. All the shit my parents did. Every single f**king problem that magnified as I grew. I want to yell at him. What the f**k are you saying? Nope. Of course that’s not what happens. I say congratulations and silently tell myself that he’s going to regret this. I have no idea what kind of friend he needs for the situation. Majority of my friends leave state and go to college elsewhere. After falling backwards into my depression, I face facts. I’m totally alone. Going to Art College in my hometown. Too pre-occupied with military matters to research my college. But I have money (14k) and a room and food and drinks and booze. I am anything but happy.

After a month of heavy though, I come to face facts. I’m gay. I’ve never been happy in a female relationship. Never been attracted to girls. Also, a few interesting childhood experience lead me to believe I’ve f**ked up my love life. I blame my mom, but that’s kind of like blaming nature for a tsunami. Everyone just says “NO SHIT!” I won’t get too far into that. Here’s the kicker however, where I live, there is no gay community. There is a handful of gay men and they all love theater, fashion and being a flamboyant prick.
My kind of guy? intelligent, creative, artistic possibly worldly. Will I find that man where I live now? NOOOOOOOO. So it’s online dating for me. I set up a profile on a site and immediately I am bombarded with millions of messages (I did mention that I’m handsome and tall, right?). People who I find particularly attractive rarely come with the intelligence I mentioned earlier. (ie: Hai Gui! lol101 .) But I’m sticking with it like a champ. Fishing through hundreds of profiles a day in a interesting American Idol style internet love triangle. I went on a handful of dates and almost gave up when I found him. The angel sent from heaven, the beauty of the earth. Let’s call him blue (Pokemon reference, get it?). I immediately decide to send him an email. After an hour of fretting and typing and erasing and typing and erasing I say “f**k it,” and send him my generic message.

“Hi my name is *Number 8* and I’d like to get to know more about you.”

Days go by. No response. For some reason, this makes him even more interesting. Weeks go by and still no response. Wither or not his profile is inactive is beyond me. I still assume the worst. I f**ked up. That blue period threatens to kick in. Not this time you mother f**ker. If this guy is even remotely like me, he will dig the f**k out of this message I’m going to send him next.

“Sorry I’m sending you another message.
But the “Hi, I’d like to know more about you,” line
was not as specific as I would have liked an
introduction to be and apparently it wasn’t frank
enough to grab your attention.
You’re unique from the uninspired, unintelligent
and uninteresting assholes on this site. I want
to get to know more about you. Not in that
“I’m just trying to make conversation,” kind of way.
Legitimately, I’m interested in whatever you want
to talk about. Hell, talk about the restraining order
you’ll place on me if I send you another message.
Even if you just want a pen-pal or something
along those lines. It would make my day to hear from you”

Okay, some of my friends thought this was a bit weird. The way I saw it. Either he likes it and replies, or doesn’t like it and refuses to. Either way, the worst thing he can do is not reply.

A week goes by. I convince myself to give up. He’s probably already been reeled in by some other lucky player. In a natural sense, life goes on. I give up and stop using the website. As they say; “Que Sera Sera.” Whatever will be, will be.

So I go and see Kevin Smith (f**k yes!) do a comedy sketch with Jason Muse (You know, Jay and Silent Bob) with my friends who came down from college. I’ve got military tomorrow at 4 in the morning but I say “f**k it,” and enjoy myself. Tomorrow is going to suck regardless of how much sleep I get. The show is awesome. It’s great to see my friends. Really, it was divine. When I come home; Guess who’s sent me a message?

Mother f**king Blue.

“haha hey, no worries.
I usually never respond on this thing because I don’t take it very seriously, its just kind of a thing when I’m bored or whatever.
But yeah, you seem pretty chill too, i’m down to talk whenever.
Whats up? ”

In a twist of Irony. I’m having the best night of the recent decade. I can’t go to sleep. I stay up all night punching the air in victory that my Shakespearean words have possibly captured an handsome man’s attention. Despite all attempts by my Army Unit to wipe the smile off my face, I smile all day. I am a happy man.

He still hasn’t responded.

It’s been a month since then.

After running possibilities through my mind, I come up blank again. He’s not interested. He just isn’t interested I suppose.

Let me tell you about Blue. I’ve never been more amazed by the concept of a person in my life. We both make music and record, he claims that he draws and illustrates and our taste in everything from music to life is identical. The website constantly reminds me that he is the best match they can offer me. I agree. He’s attractive but in that way where he’s no “Hot.” You know? In the good way. Like he’s unique. I try not to over-think this, less I come off as slightly deluded. But let me leave you with that. I am on pins to meet this man. This man who has not replied to the message in a month.

So after a day of dealing with my mom, alternator in car is shot, insurance and registration is due, looking for another place to stay (Tenant sold my room) and having a paycheck problem with the military (I’m on back-pay 10k) I try to draw for my next project. But I’m just shooting blanks. I can’t concentrate. I’m at rock bottom and everything in the god damn world reminds me of it. I’d also like to point out that I’m a Virgin. Yeah, I know, not necessary information. I’m sorry. I’m a huge sucker for the “Happily ever after,” Disney romance. I’ve had issues with sleeping with any of my girlfriends or ex’s. You could imagine that I’m a little pent up. (Not that way, sicko)

On top of this, military refuses to cover my medical insurance. I have glass in my right foot. I still have mental problems hanging over me like a helium balloon. When they finally agree to help, they only offer to pay a military doctor who lives 5 hours from me.

My mom has left her house under my care. I stay there when she’s out with her boyfriend and leave immediately when she comes back. With my car busted, it usually means I walk to wherever the hell I can and sleep wherever she is not. I check my colossal computer screen for Facebook updates and Email. Nothing. This has been a slow week for me. Friends are in College abroad and here I am typing away late into the night. But something makes this night unforgettable.

Blue changed his profile picture online. He’s been online for a while. And he hasn’t bothered to reply to me. This isn’t speculation. This is proof. This is a match-stick. This is a match-stick in a tomb of gunpowder inside my repressed stasis. I snap. Anger from High School, anger from being lied to. Anger from wanting something. JUST ONE f**kING THING. Wanting one thing so bad, that I push all the pressing shit in my life to the side in hope that this ONE THING would go right. No, says the omnipotent hand in heaven. You do not deserve this. I scream at the ceiling. f**k YOU. f**k you for picking on me. f**k you for not throwing me a god damn bone. People live in mansions and people live in heated houses, depressed because of some arbitrary bullshit and you pick on the broken soul sleeping on asphalt who doesn’t even hold a f**king grudge against his cock-sucking mother. Who’s beaten him, lied to him and repressed him beyond means. She’s the one finding happiness with some guy. She’s the one who’s satisfied.

*** Running out the front door, making an excellent pause to slam the door as hard as I can. Hastily grabbing a cigarette out of my clenched carton. This will calm me down. This is the key to which the lock of anger is unlocked within me. I smoke as I storm down the street. Past my old friend’s house, the one who tried to start rumors of me dying in Iraq. Months ago, I was bat-shit crazy enough to choke this guy for what he did to me. Now I just wanted to talk. I would pardon anything he’s ever done for just someone to talk to. Sitting outside his house, I finish my smoke. I think. The roaring of anger, wrath, regret and apathy within me pounding like drums.

This ritual happens once a year. I get angry enough to burst, take a walk and a smoke, then I’m fine as I come home. As I enter my house, I take another particular moment to slam the door. I’m not angry, but I’m desperate for solutions to solve my shitty life. When I use the bathroom, I spit on the reflection of myself and restrain from hitting the mirror. Angry, sad and confused. I don’t have an solution to anything. Moving through my luggage, I rummage for a present an old war veteran gave me. A German pistol era 1968. Full magazine. Full metal Jacket. It’s starting to look like my best friend. Like the barrel was designed to fit in my mouth. Like the only reason this gun was ever in my hands, was for this moment. This is all to tempting. I put the gun down to think. Which is ironic, because I can do everything but. Swiping everything off my desk. Dishes from dinner clatter on the floor in chaos. Smashing a mini-dresser. From behind, falls onto my desk, my old tarot deck.

In a state of unorthodox calmness. I let fate hold the gun. Shuffling the deck. Cutting the deck. Waiting. I feel my card. I draw it.

STRENGTH

For those of you unfamiliar with tarot, it’s a deck of cards with miscellaneous pictures on them. Used for reading and the like.

Strength is a card of a lady petting a tiger, which has gone submissive and licks her in a gentle grace.

My tarot is a little rusty, so I open up Google and look up it’s meaning.

http://www.aeclectic.net/tarot/learn/meanings/strength.shtml

The lion, representing our brute natural side is tamed by a deeper knowledge of life. An infinite kindness and understanding calms the wrath of our uglier side. Major Arcana. Lucky Number 8.

I sit here in a natural high. Wrap the gun and place it back in the case with the socks and shirts. It all makes such perfect sense. It’s Zen. It’s Happiness. It’s an answer to every bad day blues and every stroke of bad luck in life. Strength. It makes so much sense, I sit by the computer in a grateful and wonderful state. Bobbing my head back in forth, a symphony of wonderful instruments playing in my healing psyche.

So you hear of people who commit suicide without notice or without reason. And for some, it sounds so strange.

But remember this. Everyone has a life’s journey.

Everyone has had challenges and failures in their life.

Sometimes it’s the little things that grow on you.

Sometimes it’s the big things that just kind of jump out of nowhere.

But please remember this

Treat everyone like you would’ve treated me, had you known

and this will never happen to anyone again.

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