Flexible Bullets

I have spoken before about flexible bullets, those creative ways to kill oneself so aptly named by Stephen King. My mother used one, and I have seen countless others employ this ever-so-real literary device to end their lives. Alcohol, drugs, promiscuity, speed, are just a few of the calibers, some larger and lethally more efficient. These tools are utilized when the prospect of dying just slightly outstrips the moral and societal prohibitions on self-release. There is a certain comfort in inviting your own death I suppose, especially if you leave the timing and details to your assassin. Honestly, I have felt this urge in the past, and I can surely understand its allure. Pain, or its terrible absence,eventually erode hope, erode the desire to persevere.
As I try to rehydrate the agony of those moments,hoping for some insight, some mechanism to help others, I find that I cannot resurrect the despair, the emptiness necessary to put a bullet, flexible or not, into my brain. But I know I have been near the brink of that resolution, and I know how compelling the notion can be. I also suspect, in my rare glimpses into my soul, that I might have fired a few bullets of my own, a lifetime ago.
I remember launching out into the night, heading out to drink, heading out for the unknown. I remember not remembering the previous episode's consequences, almost as if each new foray was an amnesiatic adventure, full of promise and fun. But I realize now the convenient fugue was just a filter, something to keep caution from creeping in, something to inhibit any derailing of my self-destructive journey. And as I have mentioned before, I was amazed at the people that would follow me repeatedly into this country, knowing full well they had no problems with their memory.
I drank and drove, I drank and drove recklessly, I picked fights and barely defended myself, and I visited places I had no business being in. The stupider the enterprise, the greater the survival story. And unfortunately, in my body politic of the time, I was deemed a fearless brigand - even admired by some. All I needed to drive away the last vestiges of prudence or guilt. I honestly don't know how I survived.
I am not sure if those bullets are still on path, or if their trajectories have been
altered with age and reason. This uncertainty I feel is warranted, for although my faith has improved my sense of decorum, I avoid medical necessities, and I am still prone to wander out and into dubious circumstances without mitigating fear. Of course I have a hundred and one rational justifications for these behaviors, but I do wonder sometimes if there is still a bullet in the air, and if it has my name on it.
There is no lesson learned here, no words of wisdom. Just empathy and a resolved desire to survive, and in doing so, help others. What I do know is that I can relate to people who suffer with the promise that death relieves life. I would like to recognize the signs earlier, be able to reach people before they pull those triggers. If not, I would pray I could help them deflect those inbound projectiles,that I could help them find hope. For I miss David, Bill, Larry, and my mother, and I would prefer this list to grow no longer.