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Anatomy Of Melancholy Part II

I’m having a difficult time today.
I’m not sure if it’s my 15th Anniversary of Surviving Suicide inching closer, the Divorce Process I started(I found out he falsified his injuries in Afghanistan.   Devastation is an undercurrent now)
Or, is it My Colitis has kept me bedridden and hospitalized since Tuesday.

All I know is I’m hurting.
I’m alone.
And I think about it more than ever.

It’s a Disease. I am conscious of this.
I can never turn it off, silence the conclusion, dim the pain.
I have to wake up, live it, move on.

But, I am reminded everyday of the interconnections I have with objects of Suicide.

When you look at a Train, you think of Transportation, movement, time.
When I see a Train, I drift away and envision how Attila Jozsef was crushed by a Carriage Car after he threw himself on the tracks to end his life.
*There were witnesses to his Suicide.

Or the stories of the New York Subway Suicides my late Uncle would recall on our Sunday phone chats.
He would run down to the platform to catch the Subway to work, and the walls would be painted red.
“Someone jumped. They just jumped.” my late Uncle Karcsi would say as if the shock of Public Suicide wore away.
I was fascinated.

The longer I remain here the more I become disconnected.
A change of country or state, furthering my education and Writing will only prolong my suffering.
I am willing to accept these maladies with a universal longing for a Cure.

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I have NEVER found Suicide a Selfish act.
Actually, I feel with all my soul it takes infinite courage to end your own life.
What’s selfish is living life dead.

Anatomy Of Melancholy Part I

How do you tell someone,  anyone, that everyday you wake up, you think about it.  Day dream about it.  Plan it. 
It’s a disease.  A forever wound.  A cerebral struggle.

I think back to my first Reading of
The Savage God, A Study of Suicide by A. Alvarez.
The first forty-five pages are dedicated to his description, his memory, his meetings with Sylvia Plath.
How he did not know her, or who she was.
Or, the fact she was a Writer.
A fellow depressant.

A. Alvarez’s book goes on with His personal and public analysis of Suicide. He acknowledges the taboo of the attitude toward Suicide, the disposition of the Forever.
Alvarez breaks down the basic human principles of life, and how Suicide challenges our biological existence.

His book is not for the muffled, the delicate souls.

I waited seven years after my last Suicide attempt to read it.

Everything changes when you survive Suicide, and the State feels you belong in a Private Mental Facility.
(The term, ‘Mental Hospital’ is old fashion, inhumane).
And, if you don’t complete the Program, you are locked away, Institutionalized.

That’s the real battle.
Never really giving away too much material of self, so all it takes is one moment of regret.
Then one locked away in a cage of isolation and government pharmaceuticals.

A. Alvarez did not write about this.

I have to fill in the blanks, the missing accuracy of today’s Suicide.

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“Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I’m reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop his ending.
Now waking to the sun
I calculate what I had done
Like jumping from the bow
Just to prove that I knew how
My will to quickly end it all
Set front row in my need to fall
Into the ocean, end it all.”

Blue October