Lastly, I cried. 

Fantasies of suicide and machinations of self-destruction are like potent comfort foods for my troubled mind.  They give the illusion of control when I feel inundated by things I cannot control.  Things like a government that has become tyrranical, an economy that rewards abuse of the weak with frivolous concentrations of wealth, and a political process that functions as nothing but a diversion for the masses while the rich and powerful capriciously dictate policy. 

People like me, whose psyches are split by childhood trauma, are not energized and rejuvenated by interpersonal interactions.  Any candid, unscripted exchange between ourselves and others creates unbearable anxiety.  Fearing the spontanaeity of a friendly encounter, we isolate with our computers, staying safely hidden in our single-room apartments.  We submerge and, like pearl divers, some of us have learned to survive returning only rarely to the surface.  Allowing ourselves precious little human warmth, we instead seek inordinate reassurance in things conceptual, like American liberty, or the belief that right should prevail over might.  We hope with bated breath that one day social justice will wield as much influence in our culture as competing concepts like capitalism, state domination and government sponsored terror-mongering. 

We hold our breath a lot. 

Then I get a note, friendly—loving, even—telling me to stay around.  It said other things, some of it rather flattering.  Taken as a whole, this note was encouraging me to face the truths of life, which is exactly what I do not want to do.  I know suicide is only a fantasy which I entertain to soothe my fears; I discovered that I am unwilling to do it now, and if I ever get so sick that I become willing, by then I will probably be unable. 

The note I received reminded me of one truth in particular; that in this life which we live, despite all else, we each matter.  It is inescapable.  But it steals from me my safe hiding place of isolation because, if I matter—if my action in this life has any significance at all—I cannot morally justify staying hidden and inactive. 

Shit. 

And though they may be only soothing fantasies, my contemplations of suicide only reinforce the lie that I do not matter.  Therefore, if I am to accept the truth, then suicidal fantasies are out, no matter how soothing their effect. 

Double shit. 

Then comes the rage.  Why does it have to happen that, just when I get my routine polished and down pat, the routine that allows me to avoid living but stay alive, that just when I feel that I finally figured out how to have one small little bit of control in a life of chaos—why does it have to happen that the moment I get it in my grasp, I have to let it go?  Fuck! 

You see, I was convinced long ago that I don't matter.  And this sandcastle of me has been painstakingly built on that foundation as if it were the truth.  It was a nice sandcastle; three bedrooms with two and a half baths, a dining room, a patio, and a pool.  It had turrets, too, and watchtowers with garrets.  And unlike most sandcastles, everything worked.  This sandcastle was not just a frivolous diversion, this was a serious sandcastle.  The only thing I left out of the design were guns. 

So, I watched in the night as cold raindrops fell, like bombs over Dresden, and they slowly disintegrated the intricacies of my dream. 

It was hard to watch, but there was nowhere else to go.  It was painful, it hurt, and it made me very sad.  This was a place I made to be indestructible and immune to the truth; a place I made to be safe.  Because if I didn't matter in this life—and that's what they told me, that I didn't matter—then I could build a place where they couldn't touch me, and that is where I would live.  Now it is gone. 

Lastly, I cried.