Saturday September 25th, 2010 - First Chapter of my book Positano

Today's post is my first chapter of my book Positano. I've completed about 30 chapters, but I had to rewrite the first five chapters to reflect a tragedy that happens later in the book. Let me know if you like it. You can the first four chapters at  http://www.paulsharits.com/positano.htm

Chapter One

Suicide. It runs in my family. It runs through my blood. Merely speaking the word sends shivers down the backs of anyone within ear shot. They are watching me; always watching me. I don’t know what they expect. It is all around me. You hear it on the news every day. I talk about it with my therapist twice a week. It’s as much a part of me as I am a part of it. They tell me not to think about. My mom says, “Honey, don’t talk about it. Let it go.” She might as well say don’t breath. Suicide. There, I said it again.

I don’t want to die. I know I have a long and beautiful life ahead of me. I have a girlfriend and my life is rebuilding, but, still, it’s there. They don’t understand the difference of awareness and honesty as opposed to the verb. It is an irrefutable part of me. It’s forever in my core. I can’t stop it. The very act or thought of suicide is lurking deep in the dark damp recesses of my mind where no one dares to travel just waiting to strike.

I know the road to death. It is littered with hopelessness, isolation, humiliation, hate, loneliness, loss, and confusion. That night; on that night I felt all of those things. By God’s good grace and caring hand, I failed, but I can’t erase that moment. I hear the gentle waves lapping up the black pebble beach. Swish; swish goes the deep blue sea below me. My crying eyes burn with every salty gust of warm wind. The moon is so beautiful vicariously hanging above the shimmering and endless water. I’ve slowed my panting and I take one final deep breath. I slowly close my eyes and let one foot free. I’m not scared. I can do it. One more step as I felt my body lunge forward and my last foot slipping off of the earth and dangling in the wind as I slowly spin around seeing the surf then the sky then back to the earth.

Pain. I was paralyzed with pain. It hurt to hear, but I could hear. I could hear the ghosts swarming around me speaking in Italian. Then everything went black. I rose again and painfully opened my eyes. I was in a blindingly white room with the rhythmic sound of beep, beep, beep. I couldn’t swallow. Something was in my throat. I could move my arms or feet. They were being held. It hurt to flex my fingers. I realized I was in a hospital. The rhythmic beep was now in a chase as it quickened into a beep beep beep, then I heard people rushing into the room; again speaking in Italian. Then an angel bent down to my ear and said, “It’s going to be okay poor bambino. Just sleep. You’re safe.” My eyes grew blurry and I feel into a half consciousness. I could hear people, then black.

How can I forget that? Seriously; how does one forget that? I’m writing this story today because my therapist said it would be good to write it down and then throw it away. I’ll write the story because I need to. I’ll write the story because I can. I just hope; no I pray, I beg for peace. I just want some quiet. Is that too much to ask?

Sometimes when that moment of terrifying reflection subsides, I wonder what it would have been like to die. Was it as painful as living? Does your light just gracefully fade or do you hang around a while like ghosts in movies? What is heaven really like? I’m sure it’s not like sitting on some stupid cloud looking down at all of the fools. It has occurred to me that I could have gone to hell. That’s what the Catholic Church says. If you take your life into your own hands and deny God’s will you have committed a mortal sin again God. So then I wonder what hell could be like. I seriously doubt that there is any fire involved. Maybe you are cursed to revisit all of your sins and watch the world around your crumble over and over again for all eternity. That would really suck.

I was raised in the church. I’ve been told that God is a loving God and he doesn’t give you more than you can handle. That’s wrong. I couldn’t handle it then and I can barely handle it now. Maybe God does love me. Maybe Jesus died for my sins. Maybe God saved me. Although I live in fear, I am much better than I was two years ago. I’ll go with the God loves you thing, because it comforts me.

I’m free to talk about my new found faith, but not about death. About a year ago I felt compelled to start an anonymous blog. I called it “Suicide Interrupted” and I didn’t use my name or anything that could connect me to this poor soul. However, I did mention it to my best friend and he felt he had to tell my parents and they told my therapist. I tried to explain that the blog was an homage to death, but they put me back into the hospital. They took my clothes; they took my shoe laces and they checked in on me every 15 minutes. For the first 72 hours I didn’t see anyone except for my parents and nurses. I was there for a week. In some weird way, the mental ward is a comforting safe place. They tell you when to eat, when to sleep, when to do anything, but it’s safe. I still wouldn’t recommend publishing a blog.