Afghanistan is a bad place to run out of anti-depressants. But it’s a full moon so I light a candle, sprinkle a mix of “P&P” (Positivity and Protection) over the flame and worry away at a thick piece of Jet. And repeat to myself, “I’m okay. I don’t really need medication” like thinking it will make it true.
Just like thinking thin helped me drop 10 pounds.
And believing, I mean REALLY believing that G-d would answer my prayer, that my father would wake from his coma.
But more days than not since then, I wake with the firm belief that G-d doesn’t exist at all. But that thought is as frightening as the infinite, vacuum of space: it’s dark, eternal, bottomless hopelessness. Eventually I dutifully return to reciting my prayers even as I eye the sky suspiciously.
But there’s nothing like a war-zone to put your life into perspective, for better or worse. Sure, I’ll come home, blissfully thankful to be reunited with my bed, my pets, palm trees, hot showers and cold sangria, but it doesn’t entirely alleviate that nagging doubt in the back of my mind that something isn’t right.
This is not a suicide note. This is more of a “Hey mom, if I happen to die today, I’m okay with that” note. I’ve been ready to die for the last two decades. Not that I would ever take my own life but if G-d or the Taliban decided to take me out of the game today, I wouldn’t bitch. My affairs are in order. I’m insured. And I’m alone.
Sure, I love my mother and my family would be sad but they would get on without me. But what is there to keep me here? A husband and children, if I had them.
I don’t want to die (or live) like Dorothy Parker: alone and unhappy.
Even if Ruth wasn’t her husband’s first choice, she at least got laid and had kids.
I’m not so much alone as I am lonely. There are certain emotional and physical needs that just cannot be met by parents, siblings, friends, pets, and hobbies.
And I never worried about NOT having these things because I assumed it would ‘just happen’ eventually. Now I’m researching harvesting and freezing my eggs and fretting at the low odds of pregnancy from such procedures.
Maybe I just want kids so that I have someone to wipe my ass when I’m 90.
Maybe I just want a husband because I’m tired of my vibrator.
Okay, I’m DEFINITELY tired of my vibrator. It has been a long time since anything other than a tampon was up there. Just call me a Sexual Camel.
I am loved but I am lonely.
I will not leave a legacy, biological or otherwise.
It may have been General McChrystal who said that everyone’s military career ends in failure. On some sad level, that nearly makes me feel better. I don’t necessarily enjoy someone elses’ unhappiness and misfortune but I do take comfort in not feeling like the sole member of the Losers Club.
On other levels though, I’ve lived someone else’s dream. Scratched someone else’s itch. Although I’m certain I could have been successful given the opportunities, I will never win an Oscar, and Academy Award, a Nobel Prize, or a Grammy. Those things would have been nice but I never expected them. Never pursued them. I was and AM the Responsible One.
All I expected was a normal life: Married, couple of kids, a steady career…a comfortable, middle-class suburbia housewife who writes award-winning porn under an alias while the kids are napping. What everyone else has and takes for granted. I don’t have that. And I choke up to think about it.
My mother understands. She says, “This is not the life I would have picked for you.”
I’ve lived enough. I’ve hurt enough.
So if those Taliban fucks land a bomb right on top of me tonight, all I hope for is a quick death.
I think G-d at least owes me that.