Part 1 - A Journal Towards Suicide
For The Heart Cries is dedicated to the memory of George Leo Frawley and Anne Riley Bennett
February 16, 1994
Ash Wednesday
"Remember man that you are dust and into dust you shall return."
Book of Genesis
I begin with "A" words: Andy, my dog, ambush,assault, attack, astonish, abuse, agony, abandonment, atonement, absolve, ashes - Absolutely Adorable Anne
It is both appropriate and deliberate that I begin this journal on this day of Ash Wednesday. It is also a coincidence of this year's calendar, but no matter - three months from today, I'll be dead. For on Sunday May 15th, I am going to kill myself.
For years I have thought of keeping a journal, but never took pen to paper until today. Why? Why now? Because I feel it is important to write about the final days of my life. A suicide note, a message to my family, of my thoughts, fears, reflections, opinions, hopes, feelings, sufferings, loves and daydreams.
A brief narrative of who I am and who I was, of time past and of time present.
I noticed I just wrote the word "hopes." There is no hope, I am hopeless. I have nothing to live for nor the desire to keep living. Yesterday's hopes are today's shattered dreams - misery and madness live within me.
I am dying. Such simple words to write, I am dying. Am dying of depression and despair - a depression that is dark and dangerous, a despair that is deep and devouring. These twin demons have driven me into an isolation that is drowning me in loneliness, helplessness and hopelessness.
I have been battling depression for almost my entire life, at least since I was in the first grade at the age of five - a lifetime of gradual mental erosion. But this lifetime bout will soon be over.
Since I lost my job with the Cape Cod Times in September 1990, I have been spiraling downward, deeper and deeper into a black hole from which there is no escape - no exit signs. Unlike Alice, there is no wonderland at the end, only a deeper blacker hole.
My mind and being are in turmoil, full of torment and torture. There are days, maybe even weeks, when I cannot control my mind - as thoughts race, ricochet and riot inside and scream for release. The pain is paralyzing and at times so intense that it's beyond comprehension - let alone explanation. Suffice to say, it has become deadly.
I have no fear of dying, my fear is in living. Thus the solution and decision came simply and easily - deliberate death, self-inflicted murder, suicide. Death is my only viable option and I see it no differently than taking two Tylenol for a headache.
I thought of jumping off the Sagamore Bridge, it would be ideal since I can't swim. But I have a terrifying fear of water that jumping into the Cape Cod Canal is something I just cannot do. I bought a Smith&Wesson .38 police special, but I've decided not to use it. It would be too messy and too bloody and it may cause serious trauma and anguish to the person who finds me. The last thing I want to do is to harm someone by my death.
So, pills and alcohol will be my remedy. For the past few years I've been seeing a doctor in Harwich about my depression, anxiety and sleeplessness. Thus I've been stockpiling some very potent pills by the bowl full, knowing the day would come when I would need them.
My ammunition includes Valium, Xanax, Doxepin and Doral/Quazepam. I've been studying the Physicians Desk Reference with great care, and know with certainty that these pills can kill me easily and painlessly. Maybe not as quickly as Mister Smith&Wesson but with just as much finality.
I am at peace with these thoughts, these plans. My arms are open to death, the soothing and comforting embrace of death. I have always thought I would die a violent death and regardless of means, suicide is violence imploded.
This morning I went to Mass and received ashes on my forehead in the sign of the cross. The church was full of old people, retired men and women, on their knees, beads in their hands, lips moving in sacred silence. Were they doing penance, asking for forgiveness? Were they preparing to make their God, their Maker, as I am?
When I look inward I see a soul that is battered and beaten. John Lennon wrote, "When you're dead you don't take nothing with you but your soul. Think!"
I think your soul takes nothing with it except its deeds, be they good, bad or indifferent. The soul's final journey is just an extension of your life. It receives in death everything it did and gave in life. There's no recourse, no turning back, no excuses - there are no might have been's, no final one last chance. There is no time. At the final end, deeds delivered are deeds done.
I must do penance this Lenten season. I must repent and ask for forgiveness - for my sins are many and for far too long I held hands with Satan and danced with the devil performing devious deeds. Sins multiply, one after another. I am a good sinner. So, bless me father for I have sinned. I am a good boy who has gone bad, very bad.
Well, that's it for today. I do not know the journey this journal will take, but I do know when, where and how it will end. With an apology to Robert Frost I write - whose mind this is I do not know, but I have miles to go before I die, miles to go before I die.
7:30pm - Eldredge Library - Chatham, MA
contact; fortheheartcries@gmail.com
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