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.

The Maudlin Mist of Morning - Part 2

The Maudlin Mist of Morning
I, like the fog
Was born with a veil
On my face.
I frolicked with shadows
Played hide-and-seek
Through the dark corridors
Of my soul.
I saw what others could not see
In the maudlin mist of morning.
I wept. And the fog and I,
From our eclipses,
Mourned the sun.
Audrey Lee

This poem now carries a second level of significance for me, it speaks to me of depression (or is it schizophrenia, just kidding). I have discovered, to my dismay, that my mother left me with one tangible gift, a semblance at least of her profound depression. I didn't recognize if for a long, long time, but I see and feel it now. And it is worse in the mornings, in those early hours as I am almost awake. It comes as a sense of unease, of dread for nothing specific other than some ort left over from a disjointed dream. It is very real, and is immune to the particular circumstances of my life - good, bad, whatever, and it has been there for a long time. I can't imagine how my mother dealt with her depression, perhaps that is why she killed herself.

My mother committed suicide, Stephen King would say she used a "flexible bullet." She contracted a treatable form of cancer then refused medical assistance until it was too late. Medical issues had always been her form of attention-getting. She had been in and out of hospitals for physical and mental problems all of her life. She did teach me one thing, from beyond the grave - she taught me that repressed memories are real, or are possible. She had made a tape recording for me a few months prior to her death. I was angry with her for her selfish act and didn't listen to it for a few years. When I did, I learned that I don't have as much control over my mind, my memories, and my coping systems that I had once believed.

Her message was long and rambling. She was apologizing for many things, and for once wasn't making excuses for my father, abandoning her primary vocation - that of his enabler. She and my step-father invented the co-dependent concept. They were both constantly out of commission, but never, ever at the same time. Anyway, she got to a point in the tape when she began recounting a particularly terrible incident when I realized that I had forgotten or blocked it since it occurred. Suddenly, with great clarity, the memory came flooding back very vividly. It was if it had happened the day before. I was back in the bathroom trying to hold my mother's cut wrists (they must have been superficial cuts, but there was a lot of blood nonetheless) while I directed my four year old sister to go for help. I don't remember what happened next, but that memory is back with me and will never leave.

So now, I must deal openly with this legacy of depression I have inherited. It casts a pall on much of my day. I am not profoundly sad, I just don't have the excitement and sense of accomplishment that I once enjoyed. Work had always been my escape, and I could bury this malaise with projects and challenges. But now I need to deal with it. I have learned that I have not hidden this condition as well as I thought I had over the years, and that it affects the morale of those around me. No great leadership lesson here, just that a negative affect in the workplace can be far more influential than a positive one! I can no longer kid myself believing that I compensate with the other attributes I bring - I and those around me are diminished peculiarly by this phenomenon, it cannot be ameliorated.