Suicide Couch

Apartment.

The landlord says, "Beautiful girl. Most women don't use guns to kill themselves."

 Photo of the girl on the coffee table with her boyfriend. Beautiful girl.

The landlord and I move the suicide couch into the dumpster. It is covered the blood and bits of brain and bone and hair.

We wear rubber gloves, but I can feel this girl's face through them.

I look down and see her ghost on the couch. She looks up at me, expressionless.

Home.

I can't seem to get her off my hands. Beautiful girl. She is there on my couch, her ghost. There. Transparent. Expressionless.

I wash my hands with dish soap. A tiny soap bubble pops up from the bottle. I imagine her face reflected in the bubble. My eyes close. Bubbles float about my imagination, her face in each.

I strip, then shower.

Nothing gets the feel of her out of my skin.

I look out through the shower curtain. I see her face in my steamy mirror.

After the shower, I dress in a pair of shorts. With a mop handle I pick up the clothing I wore when I moved the couch. I slip the clothing in the bathroom garbage. I pick up the can.

As I pass the couch on my way outside, her ghost is still there.

I slide open the door to my back patio.

Outside.

There is no grass. The only sign that I am living here are ashes in the barbecue. I dump the contents of the garbage can on the ground. I light a match and hold it to some toilet paper so I can burn the clothing. As I wait for the flames to catch, I see her behind the sheer curtains, standing. She smiles. Finally she smiles.

I turn to see my work. The fire has gone out. There are no flames, just a tiny patch of sparks spreading out over a sheet of toilet paper.

Fire. I need fire.

My mind turns slowly. Very s-l-o-w-l-y. Charcoal starter. It is near the back door. She smiles at me from behind the curtains as I retrieve it.

I spray the starter fluid onto the clothing. The can leaks onto my hands. I smell the fumes.

I imagine what it must have been like for her when she fired the gun.

I close my eyes. I strike a match. A spark catches my hands on fire. In my mind I see the flames that entered her when she fired.

I drop the match.

The clothing starts to flame.

I turn to look at her, my hands still aflame.

She smiles at me from the window.

Such a beautiful girl.

I hold up my hands. They are burning now, but the flames are dying away.

She turns away from my window. I see her behind the curtains as she takes her place on the couch. Then she disappears.

Such a beautiful girl.

I Get It Now! Happiness Is a Dive Off the Golden Gate Bridge into Bunch of Cute Puppies!

Finally I get it. I've been writing blogs all day, and with my kids, I've been talking about how I might be a little behind the times with my references. Really, maybe one of you guys know the figure at the left is Ernie Kovacs as Percy Dovetonsils. This was really funny stuff in the 1950s, but not all that funny now. Besides, if you guys don't know about this, you're not going take the time to learn about it and find it funny.

At work yesterday, I thought I had carte blanche to post on Facebook and Google+ to my heart's content. First thing this morning, I learned I misunderstood. Worse yet, I referenced Burma-Shave signs. Until the 1960s Burma-Shave signs were these signs that were placed along the roadway, maybe 3/4 of a mile apart. Usually, there were six signs, and they gave a little funny poem that ended with Burma-Shave. Here's an example: 

A peach / Looks good / With lots of fuzz / But man's no peach / And never wuz / Burma-Shave.

I loved this stuff when I wuz little. Only one person responded to my Burma-Shave reference, and then, because these two young guys have built the small empire I'm working for, and they want to protect what they've built, I was asked to clear my posts and delete what I had already written, even though they said I didn't post anything detrimental. This is absolutely the right thing for them to do. It's their baby, and they don't know that I'm not some malcontent.

So, while on the subject of "old" dad, Lauren and Brad and I, my daughter and son-in-law, who both work at Google, started talking about "memes." I asked, "When I posted on my own FB page, some lady said, 'I hated driving in the rain today,' and I said, 'I don't have my glasses, why did you have to drive in Iran?' So is this a meme?" Well my wife Lynn groaned and the answer was no. I thought it was pretty good stuff. Real knee-slapping funny. So funny that I've used it more than once. I know I used it on a post to Shelley, and even again, maybe twice more. What a goof-ball, huh?

So the talk about memes led to the kids pulling up an online comic strip/blog called "Hyperbole and a Half" by someone named Allie. This is the most brilliant bit of drawing and blogging I've ever seen. Allie did a blog/comic strip called "Adventures in Depression" that spoke volumes about what it's like to be depressed in a funny, engaging way. I've never even come close to explaining depression so brilliantly. This blog, my blog, even has a subtitle that says, "Putting the fun in dysfunctional" and I've barely written one fun thing, unless suicide, eulogies, child abuse, and my whining counts. Worse yet, Allie writes and draws about dogs. She's so damn funny and knows dogs so well, that I really hate her though I'm sure she looks a cross between Zoe Deschanel and Marlene Dietrich- in that Blue Angel outfit--shit, there I go again. Even when I tried to convince you readers in my Dog Chronicles that the Chinese were putting cats in dog food, and that a dog was brought back to life after being frozen in a pot of chili, not one of you guys either got it or read it., and no one shared it.

So, I think I know what you want now. You don't really want to read about suicide unless some guy jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge into a bunch of cute puppies, or perhaps dogs that say stuff like "poppies suck." Oh, forget it, memes are pretty dumb to any but people who spend their entire day on a computer, like ah... me. Shit again.

You know what? I've still got a lot to learn. I'd like to educate people about depression and causes of depression, but really what the hell do I know about depression except what it feels like. So, like Allie's character in "Adventures in Depression," I say, screw it. Better yet, FFFFFFFFFFFFFF...it or something. I'm sorry I haven't been more engaging here. Sorry I've whined. Ah, the hell with it. Hope you find more reasons to read this.

Saving Beauhunks from Drowning

Bob Landis and I once saved a couple of servicemen at Marine Street in La Jolla. Well, we liked to think we saved them. These two guys were at our favorite belly-whomping site, and if I remember it correctly, they both started calling for help because of the undertow in the water. Really, the two servicemen weren't in much danger, but coming from someplace in the middle of the country, like Podunk, Nebraska, they thought they were in danger. I remember putting one of the guys in the standard, arm around the neck hold, and trying to drag him in, and he was complaining that I was choking him and fighting me. I remember thinking something like "well, drown or choke, you chose."

Bob and I never got much of a thanks if I remember. We bitched about this miraculous deed we had done, and then received not much more than a mumble from the guys. I expect the two were a little embarassed about having to call for help.

I once got in a sticky situation at Four-Mile beach, four miles north of Santa Cruz. It was winter, I was staying on the beach for a few days, alone. One day, the waves were big due to a storm rolling in. I grabbed my kneeboard and fins and into the waves I went. No one else was out that day, just me. In the surfing world, if you've got a surf spot all to yourself, the waves are either too small or too big. In this case, the waves were too big. I remember riding a couple of big waves, at least ten feet, and as I was paddling out again, a huge set started to roll in. I started digging to get out, and the freaking waves kept getting bigger and bigger. The idea is to get out beyond where the waves are breaking, so you don't get caught "inside" and pushed back to shore. So there I was, paddling as fast as I could, just floating over the tops of these waves as they just kept breaking. Then I hesitated. I thought, "What am I going to do once I get way the hell out there?  I could be pulled out to sea." The hesitation was all it took. I started paddling out like mad again, and got caught right in the impact zone of a wave, that was described by a non-surfing watcher on the beach, as at least 15 feet. I was down a long time after the wave hit me. It had knocked the wind out of me, pulled my surfboard away, and pulled off one of my fins.

Without a surfboard, a surfer is just a regular swimmer. The board is not only a means to ride waves but a lifesaver. There I was, way out, more waves breaking on top of me, no board, only one fin, and I caught a cold water cramp in one of my legs. I was drifting way south, towards some cliffs and rocks, and I could barely swim. Somehow I made it into shore, alive.

One other time, I was abalone diving with a friend way up north of San Francisco. My mask was taking in water, so my friend was doing all the diving. I was wearing a weight belt, holding onto a bag of abalone (heavy), and wearing this diver's floatation device that has air in it but not so much air that you can't dive. Next thing you know, this floatation thing pops, and now I have the weight of the abs, and the weight belt and I'm sinking like a stone. I start to make my way to shore, but there's nothing but rocks. I'm not getting rid of the abalone, I don't know if I ditched the belt. I don't remember. I made my way to these rocks, but as I sought this refuge, the waves are pounding on me and the rocks. I wasn't in much danger probably, but my friend Paul helped me out. I must admit, I was panicking. We saved the abalone and me.

I don't know how I'm going to die, but I never want to drown. Never. Drowning is my Krytonite. No, not that way, please.

Here's the point. I've been really depressed at times in my life, but depressed or not, when your life is in danger, you fight it. That's the way it is supposed to be. If you go to the Golden Gate Bridge and want to jump, or you are staring down the barrel of a gun, something is seriously wrong. If you jump off the bridge, or pull the trigger, I guarantee, if you have any time whatsoever for reflection, you're going to try to save your life. Imagine, falling from the bridge, clawing at air, wanting you arms to be a hundred feet long--first you want to return to the bridge, next, if you are at all able, you're considering what might be the best way to enter the water way below so you don't die. With a gun, do you flinch as you pull the trigger?

I've addressed this point in this blog before. I think it's important to know that wanting to die is not the way it's supposed to be. If you feel this way, seek help.

Finally, I'm wondering if continuing this blog is worth my time. Not many seem to read it. I thought I'd get more readers and even a few comments. That's not happening. I do address a lot of different matters in my other blog, The Dog Chronicles. Do you have any ideas? Should I continue this blog? Let me know either via Facebook, or my email. My real email address is GrumpaF@sbcglobal.net. I check that everyday almost.

Boys Don't Fly

Ah, the dream of flight. We see a boy, seven perhaps. Weightless. Soaring. Flying. Something inside his brain recalls the tosses from his father, his uncle, his mother. The giggles. The thrill of fear mixed with trust of strong arms that never fail. But this time, the boy, thrown across the room, hits the wall.

What evil had he done? What transgression lies upon his head?

The leather belt sears the back of a four year-old.

The boy can not fly. The scars on the four year-old will disappear from his back.

Have no doubt. These scars may fade, but the damage never ends. The heart is always wounded. The children's bodies may heal, but they are broken nonetheless.

Here is the score for the home team.
Violence. Five boys. Five broken marriages at least.
Violence. Three boys. Three girls. Five divorces. One child who will never know his father because the father will not see the child.
Next season? Who knows?

Think it doesn't really matter? Find a monster. It's no surprise that physical or mental abuse is present in their past. The surprise would come if the abuse is absent.

Even if more than 50% of the marriages in the United States end in divorce, please, check the box scores above. More than 90% of the marriages on the home team ended in divorce.

The big wheel keeps on rolling.

Yes, single parents can raise good babies. That's not the point. Broken marriages break children. Children grow up. Repeat. If violence is present, the cycle may not end until someone is killed or jailed.

There certainly is no shortage of people in this world who have been touched by divorce. Billions probably have been touched by violence. It's okay people. We're okay. Divorce happens for good reasons and for bad reasons. If you could bet on marriage--on each marriage that occurs in the U.S.--and you put your money on divorce, well, Las Vegas was built on such odds advantages. But toss in a little violence--add a tablespoon of abuse--suddenly, divorce is not a coin toss anymore but practically a sure bet. All that damned pain.

It's not easy to break the cycle, but it must be broken. Even if one ignores the broken marriages that seem to escalate, violence and abuse lingers forever. Worse still, even as the memories fade, the scars remain. It's like losing a limb perhaps. Not only are you missing your leg, but the crutches chaff the area under your arms, you may develop a bad back, shoulder pain, neck pain, etc. etc.

The end of domestic violence and abuse starts with you. Don't stack the deck against your children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Break the cycle.

Murder of the Innocents

Which Caledonia?

And we sailed and we sailed  Way up to Caledonia looking for a brand-new start.

From Van Morrison's Listen to the Lion

So Caledonia. Sounds romantic. Is it romantic? Actually, it comes from a Latin word for Scotland. Possibily it is the root of a Celtic word meaning "hard," as in hard land or hard people. This subject came into my brain as I was listening to Van Morrison in the car. Caledonia--sounds mythical. Atlantis. Caledonia. The South Seas. Certainly it is an attitude what these words conjure. Don't know Caledonia is Scotland? Scotland, a land where if the weather is bad, the locals say to wait ten minutes and it will get worse.

Caledonia. It is a state of mind.

We sailed and we sailed, way up to Caledonia.

or:

Caledonia you're calling me
And now I'm going home
If I should become a stranger
You know that it would make me more than sad
Caledonia's been everything
I've ever had

From a song by Dougie Maclean

Nice. Really life is what we make it. For some, when times are tough, they learn from experience. For other people, a tough time is just that. Never an opportunity. Never a glass half-full. I will not deny that I often fall into the glass half-empty category. My Caledonia is not always a mythic place. Do I learn from my failings? Not often enough.

Does failure make my faith stronger, or do I crumple under the weight?

I have been known to collapse.

She's my baby
I love her just the same
Yeah an I'm crazy 'bout this woman cause
Caldonia..., your name

From Muddy Waters

There is a train from Scotland to London known as the Caledonian Sleeper.

The Caledonian Woods were famous in Roman times.

Caledonia.

I want to fly on the wings of bird

Across the sea to Caledonia

Where my love waits for me.

Ah, surely I have stolen from every Celtic song I ever heard to come up with that.

Surely I have a point. I thought I had a point anyway. Perhaps it is that what we want to imagine, we can imagine. What we want to be, can be. Maybe Caledonia is your Eden. Or it might be South Carolina, California, or the desert in Arizona. Oh yeah, I got it! Is this trite?

Wherever you go, there you are.

or:

The only constant in your bad days is you.

or:

Keep your sunny-side up.

Caledonia, I'm coming home.

Reaching Out.

On Grafton Street in November
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay
Oh I loved too much and by such by such
Is happiness thrown away

From Raglan Road

Look, we're all reaching out. We wrestle our demons--even Christ fought demons. We reach, and we pray or dream or hope we may find a hand that reaches back. Is it an angel or ghost or a lover who reaches back? Is it a touch, a new computer, lovemaking, too much stuff, or a new tattoo that fills the need? We seek to fill the emptiness. To fill the void. To feel connected.

 I struggle to feel connection. Perhaps it was my upbringing that made me so. But we all struggle. Life is a struggle. And we persevere. We wrestle our demons. Sincerely, I wish I had an answer. For some it is prayer. It could be perverted and it may be hate that drives us. Self-righteousness is a curse. How can we be sure what is the way? I will chance a theory that the very act of prayer or hope is a struggle with the real value of prayer or hope. Is one prayer enough? Can one hope too much? God are you listening or are you busy making sure the Red Sox win the game today?

So we reach out or up or down hoping to find the hand of kindness. One touch that fills one's very soul. Often we end up dressing our dogs in little outfits, or seeking the one vision of sex that suffices for the lack of touch. Music might fill us. The written word might. I suggest that singing, or playing an instrument, and writing may fill the void. Talk might fill the emptiness, but is it talk on the Net? The unseen friend is the easiest. No touch. Words of love perhaps or all the empty spaces between the words, those invisible nods and smiles and LOL of our imaginations. It is incredibly easy to care for those who do not whine, burp, or scratch their asses.

The Net is so incredible, but instead of making us closer, it distances us. It's full of cute puppies and homilies. Who wants to read someone's post about how they hurt? It takes too long. It's not LOL. I want to see your babies, some hot actress, or a double-entendre. No diapers--no tongue-tied stupidity should pass my lips in the presence of Jennifer Garner--I get it, put something between us. Put anything between us but please not real feeling.

I make no denial that I want my 15 minutes, but on my terms. Perhaps in Heaven or Hell I will receive them. I wish I could make a difference. I really do. But I fear no one is listening. LOL.

I said LOL. Hello?

I'm Gonna Go Eat Worms! Suicide Is Not Painless.

I'm not going to try convince you that the world doesn't suck sometime. We all know that life can be difficult. Sometimes it seems like the disappointments and failures are all too much. We might think, "The world would be better off without me."

I want to make it clear, right off the bat, no one is really going to feel sorry for you if you decide to take a header off the Golden Gate Bridge. They are going to resent you. A lot of people will think you are weak. And you will not be getting even with anyone.

So, at least if you are going to kill yourself, make sure that you aren't doing it based on the misconception that you will be sorely missed. It just doesn't make sense if you're going on the theory that the world would be better off without you.

When a person dies, suddenly they become a bit of a problem. There's some logistics involved. Unless Norman Bates from Psycho is your relative, or the undertaker is kind of weird, there is a hurry to get the deceased into the ground, or into the oven. Forget the pretty thing. If Marilyn Monroe wasn't worth hanging onto after death, chances are you aren't going to be stuffed and mounted.

So, the first rule for a successful suicide is out the door. No one looks good after death.

Rule number two: Suicide must not hurt. It should be painless.

Rule number three: The method must be effective. One should not hang around weeks and weeks in the hospital, dying or not quite really recovering.

Let's go over some of the more popular methods of suicide and see how they stack up.

Gunshot: Effective, probably painless but who looks good with a hole in their head? One of Hitler's generals, who was accused of being in on the plot to kill the dictator tried to shoot himself in the head and missed twice.

Self immolation: Are you kidding?

Jumping off a high place, like the Golden Gate Bridge or a tall building: Terrifying for a few moments, painful if you live, and sometimes ineffective. No chance of looking good with a bunch of broken bones, head injuries, and if you end up in the water for awhile... well, floaters are not pretty. A friend helped pull a floater out of a river once. Not a fun job.

Slitting the wrists: Seen it. Not pretty. Lots of ugly stitches. Ineffective. Hurts. Forget short-sleeves forever after.

Hari Kari: Hurts. Effective but messy. Ugly especially if you have someone nearby to cut your head off in the traditional manner. Forget this one.

Drowning: The popularity of this method has waned for good reason. (See floater above.)

Overdose: Often ineffective. Potentially disabling. Don't get caught or the doctors will stick a tube down your throat and pump your stomach.

Getting hit by a train: Ugh!

While were at it, let's eliminate poison, carbon monoxide, suicide by police, murder/suicide, hanging, etc.

Ever know anyone who heard about a suicide and thought it seemed a good idea? Like, "Gee, that was brilliant. That person had nothing to live for."

Okay, except Hitler. That was a good idea that came too late.

I have known a couple of people who committed suicide. One was a woman at a sort of exercise class we both attended. One Saturday or Sunday, we were working out together and she asked me if I could come work out with her every weekend. I wasn't married at the time to my wife, but we were together, and it seemed like a bad idea to get involved, so I made an excuse. A week or so later, I found out she killed herself. She had broken up with her husband, and felt distraught, and I believe she hung herself. I felt bad about it. She was a lovely woman, and had I known her situation, I would have handled her request differently. I will venture to say she had a lot to look forward to if she had lived. I'm sorry for her.

Enter here!

A fellow worker I knew also killed himself. He was a streetwise guy, from a large city in the Midwest if I remember. He had a decent job, was good looking, and seemed content. The only real personal time I spent with him was over dinner and a few beers. The Christmas Season was upon us. After I had one beer too many, I went shopping for a gift for Lynn, not yet my wife. I never expected this gent had any problems, but I guess he was lonely, and after I left the job, I found out he killed himself. Thinking back on it, I felt less surprised than I expected. I knew he lived in a small studio or boarding house or  something like that, maybe a hotel downtown. He had no support system in San Francisco.

Look, killing yourself is never the answer. If you want to upset the people who upset you, living well is the best revenge. Always things change. They get better. I know it's tough sometimes. I have been there. Believe it or not, you can have everything you ever thought you needed and still feel suicidal. It's a disease. People in the midst of severe depression aren't thinking right. Watch someone fight for life who is dying. Self-destruction is just not a normal process. Preservation is a built-in default. So how can anyone really be thinking coherently and want to kill themselves? It doesn't compute.

Hang on. Get help. That's what we're really looking for is help and understanding. Hang on and lend your wisdom and creativity and your life force to help someone else. You might be the difference in someone else's life. You can't do that if you don't exist.

"Don't give up, you have friends..."

I'm running a contest. There are 13 photos here of people who committed suicide (or are suspected of it, no conspiracies here). Can you name all 13? No cheating. The contest runs until the next blog here is posted. In case of ties, I will draw a name. Then I'll send a gift off to the winner. Everyone who guesses right will be mentioned in the next blog. Oh, please sign up to enter. If you can't sign up because you can't figure out how to do it, I will take that into account.