It opens up with the story of Phyllis Hyman’s last days. She told her friends and family that she was set to rid herself from the world. She wanted them to know so it wouldn’t be a surprise. The mercy part of a mercy killing, perhaps. She drugged herself into death. I think about that method often. Almost done it before. I don’t have access to any other way that wouldn’t be violent. I do but I don’t want to feel my life seep from my body. That’s too much.
I quit my job this week because I think I won’t be here on Earth for the next one. At least those are the thoughts that permeate my mind. On the surface, it’s because I woke up and thought “this isn’t what I wanted to do.” I’ve been on this ride more than one, the bumps and hills of retail are the same everywhere. You’re a fool if you think that “this time” will be different. It never is. I remember my Auntie telling me that I needed to think about my future. That I shouldn’t be working until I’m 70, that I should think about savings. I should be in a home or my own place at this point. I’m turning 35 in about a month. I haven’t been an adult in my mind for quite some time. I think about the first few years of living here. I felt like such a teenager. I regressed a lot. The person I was before my father went to see heaven was on her way, it seemed. Nothing got in her way. She gave a damn about a future with her in it.
Death can fuck you up in ways that you ain’t really ready for. I think the trauma of it all triggered mental illnesses and suppressed thoughts that have been embedded within me for years. Kinda like my Mom. My Dad said she was fine until I was born, my birth setting off her schizophrenia. I blamed my existence for her demise. I would read all of these studies and stories about how schizophrenia easily passes from mother to daughter. Maybe all of what I feel is on-set. She was 33 when she had me. We’re right on-time.
I went to church for the first time in eight months. This relationship I have with God is weird to me. I don’t often get it. I wonder if my passion for all things Creator was a mask to hide my fear ot what it would be like if I didn’t have someone keeping me out of harm’s way. I don’t really have that now. My Mom doesn’t live near me. My Dad’s body is crawling with maggots. My mother’s side of the family has their hands tied with my brother. My Dad’s side of the family doesn’t know how to communicate. I’m really by myself. Chosen families are cool until they choose their real families. I can never be mad at that. Blood is thick.
I’m writing this in a dark room, my window is barely the width of a 2×4 plank of wood. I live in the basement unit of a house. I don’t get natural light that often. When I was out of work the first time, I slept during the day. Easier to do when natural light ain’t here to keep you upright. Friends don’t visit that often. I’m here by myself for the most part. My roommates don’t really know me. It’s by design. I can’t stand to be bothered. I almost don’t want people to get close to me. I don’t want them to care too much.
You see the contradiction in all of this. I don’t want people to be witnesses to my weaknesses. I don’t want them to know that I’m not okay. It isn’t their business. I want them to leave the fuck alone. If I die in this room, it would take the smell of rotting flesh and missing rent to notice that I’m gone. I rather people find me that way anyway. Going out as a reminder of what it looks like when you don’t check in on people, or call, or text or knock on a door. Just so they can be better humans to others. A martyr for missed calls, texts and connections. Staining on consciousness.
I can publish this and not cause a blip. My work doesn’t resonate enough. I’ve said enough to alarm most. I’m someone who doesn’t get mad when others don’t care. Life is hard enough. I can’t guilt anyone into feeling things they never set to feel in the first place. That’s part of my vice: eliminating concern. I don’t want to you care. That seems super selfish, thinking that I actually matter enough to tell you to not care. The mind is a trickster in that way.
“An Ode To Phyllis…” remains unedited since two weeks ago. When I finish it is when you’ll know to be prepared.
ciara roslyn-james 