|
|
| Unhappy Anniversary |
| |
| 04 September, 2005
--- 12:18 a.m. |
| |
Michael's dead.
I didn't go to your funeral.
What do you say to that?
NOTHING -
You're dead, you
STUPIDDUMBFUCK.After years of attention-seeking
ABUSE
Did I think you'd actually ever do it?
I guess I must have somehow known
It was all just a matter of time,
You had your funeral planned long ago…
The songs, the speeches, the
CASKET. How do you help someone
Who won't take their pills?
How do you stop someone
From taking too many? YOU SELFISHFUCKINGBASTARD.
I buried you
The day you walked out of her life
Leaving another mirror-smashed wreck
And
Did you ever spare a thought for those who would find your corpse
Last Tuesday? You were always a phone call waiting to happen
And
I hate that I feel sorry
You're gone.
Post Script:
I’m adding this to the original post because some of you wanted to know more about this dead guy. I didn’t really want to elaborate because, hey, he already got a poem out of this suicide thing, and that really is more than he deserved.
Michael was the boyfriend of a good friend of D-Missus’ and mine. I considered him a friend. He also hooked me up with my first job when I went to London, even if it was crazy 17-hour-day with four-hours-sleep-then-back-to-work madness.
He had bipolar. Or some shit. He couldn’t have mirrors in his house because he would stare at himself and hate what he saw and shatter himself into dangerous depression. He would sometimes carry a pocket mirror, like some in similar positions carried razor blades to cut themselves. Inflict pain.
He took pills, which he knew he needed to get better. But then the pills made him feel better and he stopped taking them and, surprise-surprise, he got sick again.
He had written so many suicide notes. So many cries for help. So many suicide “attempts”. So many Suicide Attempts. He kept a journal of his thoughts. He had his funeral planned.
I had to act like I knew nothing about it. Which meant I could never discuss this with him. Which is good, because I would have probably told him to get the fuck on with it and put himself out of our misery.
We had to help pick up the pieces. The frantic phone calls in the middle of the night from his girlfriend wanting an escort to some station out in the sticks because he was down by the tracks. Again. Threatening to jump.
Then we'd have to clear off to make sure he didn’t see us. But I always felt that he knew that we knew. Our eyes exchanged conversations that words could not.
His girlfriend made him promise not to do anything. This was a promise he wanted to keep. So he broke up with her so he would not feel guilt about letting her down. He missed the comfort in being sad. He wanted to love angels instead. He ruined many perfectly good songs by using them as self-hurt mantras.
This practically destroyed his girlfriend. We had to help pick up those pieces as well. She ended up just as fucked up for a time.
Then there was distance and healing. Countries apart.
And then I’d heard he'd finally done it. Checked into a motel in Auckland. Left a note. Took some pills. Laid down a plastic sheet so he wouldn’t leave too much of a mess for cleaning staff. How thoughtful.
But then I learned of his final act of sickness – he got back together with his girlfriend again. Then he killed himself. She got to clean up after him one final time. To arrange the funeral. To go through his sickness diaries. Was this his weird way of saying he loved her?
So this was about the anniversary of his death. It happened two … shit, three years ago. Actually … was it more? I don’t know. I don’t really care.
I’m glad he’s gone, instead of sticking around to fuck with people. I shed no tears. I didn’t go to his funeral, the one he so painstakingly planned for the mourners.
Yet, every now and then, I think about him. And wish things could have worked out differently.
R.I.P.
|
| |
|
|
| previous
--- next |
|
|
