collections 6:1

Every morning for the last two months, I woke up thinking the same thought: Today, I'm going to die. I haven't died yet, but today I was sure would be my last. As I traversed under the canopies before every door on Wabash St, I kept thinking, "This is where it all ends." I imagined a car losing control in the snow and colliding into me, crushing my frail form to a fine, stick dust. I imagined an icicle dislodging from the roof of a building and coming down, delivering that final blow as it impacts trough my skull and organs, impaling me on something that will inevitably melt away. I imagined a man drawing a gun from his coat and forcing it into my mouth, pulling the trigger just enough times to sever my cerebellum from my spine and leave me a lifeless husk as he steals my bag, my coat, my wallet.

None of those things happened. I made it to Jewel, I bought some tobacco, and I had another cigarette as I waited for my demise. This is my demise though... This feeling of uncertainty which has carried me this far, uncertain about love and happiness or hate and sadness. I'm uncertain about every decision I've ever made. Should I have forgiven the man who molested me or should I have killed him? Should I keep trying to attain revenge for the people who killed my father or should I just give up the fruitless war that no one will ever realized I blipped on the map for? Should I forgive my mother, the woman who betrayed me, robbed me, and abandoned me when I was only in high school or did I make the right decision to try and be her son again? And what about her husband, who beat me and left me fearful and taught me for the first time why suicide doesn't seem so painless or do I let him go and enjoy the pain he'll inflict on others? Or the girl who cheated on me, in front of me, with a man twice my size... should I have given her that ride home, even though I was heartbroken? There're so many people who have wronged me in my life, because of racism and alternative forms of discrimination- was I right to passively let them go? To consider forgiving them and demeaning my own wars?

I should've died in that car accident six years ago. When my car slipped on the asphalt because of the recent rain and sticky weather and the front end scraped against the side of the highway, and that car came speeding up as mine spun to its side... that car should've collided through me then. It shouldn't have stopped when it had and I shouldn't have been able to back up and straight my vehicle. It should've passed through me and stolen my ghost from my body.

That's only one occassion that I should've died. There was also that time on the free way when the roads were covered in black ice and pulled in front of a semi, only to lose control and go spinning into the median... My car was covered in snow and as I pulled back onto the road, I was nearly wrecked again by another semi. I should've died then too.

I should've died when my mother's husband was standing in front of me, drunk... as I stood between him and the battered wife who I called my mother. He could've killed the fourteen year old boy with one punch, but instead, that fourteen year old picked up the phone and threatened to call the police. He could've still killed the boy, but he ran out the door... even though he would've killed my mother had I not stepped in.

I should've died so many more times that I can't remember. Many are blocked out and many I never realized. My life has been a series of moments that I must consider, "I'm lucky to be alive." But the days that go by where I can't ignore the voice in my head that says, "it's time," are killing me. I can't wake up every morning like this, peering at everything in my room that I could use to end myself. I can't go to bed every night, wondering who would be the first to discover me hanging from a noose- would I hang in my class room? On the floor my classes are on? Where my student organizations meet? In my home? At work? Where my family lives? My diminishing sanctuaries?

Death is vanity- I'm clearly not getting enough of it lately. Wanting to die is as meaningful as wanting to be noticed. I'm not saying that I want to die... I just feel like I should. I'm not going to end my life any time soon, at least not on purpose... I just feel like it's going to happen at any moment. As though it'll strike me like an epiphany and then I'll be surrendered to darkness. I imagine the only thing I'll realize is, "this is my last breath," as it escapes lips and that'll be the end of it. I don't think I'll cry or be unhappy, because I'm not afraid of death. I'm ready for it... I've lived my life to the fullest, trying to attain things that people only fantasize about. I may have even attained some of them. Who knows? It doesn't matter though. No matter how many lives I've touched, my death won't matter any. My funeral might be big, it might be beautiful, and it might be everything that everyone ever wanted their funeral to be like... but it'll only be a whisper and nothing more.

I'm getting old, but I ain't dead yet. I guess there must be a reason I'm still here. I guess I have to keep pushing and sticking to my choices. Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, I'll remember how much fun it is to live again.

Are you there, God? It's Ben. I know you've given me your worst, because you're a sick, sadistic motherfucker. But I ain't dead yet. If you've got anymore, better shovel it on quick before I come back hard enough to put the devil to shame.