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  • I have a secret.

    My secret is that I am sad.
    My secret is that I am depressed.
    My secret is that I love my mother.
    No. It's none of these.

    My secret pulses every minute of every day. Like the deep note from a bagpipe drone. Like the thump of my heart, the rushing of my blood, the whispering of my breath. I can ignore it, but not forget it. It is my soundless dzoke, both meditation and prayer.

    This is a big secret. My biggest. I have others, but this one...if I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone.


    Iwanttodieiwishiweredead. Really, I wish I was never born. But since I was I have to wish to be unborn. I want to die. I wish I were dead.

    Suicide is not the answer. Unfortunately. I love my mother and she would never get over it, never understand, blame herself, always and forever. So I just wait and hope and wish.

    I wish for a tractor-trailer, a tornado, a piece of skylab, a tree landing on my bed in the night. A black widow, a copperhead, a serial killer, a mass murderer, a tidal wave. A terrorist bomb, a faulty airplane, a flat tire at 85mph, or a collapsing bridge. Maybe a drive-by-shooting or even a bus. A raging rabid dog, a fall from the roof, an aneurism, a tumor, a sudden stroke. Just a moment, a single moment in the right place at the right time.

    I can hear it. I like the Italian word "sentire" means hear and feel. Like that low note from a bagpipe.

    My secret is that I'm not sure I can remember a time when it wasn't like this. When I was 12 I swallowed a bottle of darvocet. I puked a lot and no one noticed. Before that I remember wishing I didn't exist, wishing for death. I stopped trying when I got caught. I was about 15. That's when I learned what suicide would do to my mother. I'm 44 now. I hate her sometimes. The things I have to endure. On and on and on and on.

    I know. Life is suffering. I'm confused, but somehow I really deserve it.

    This is my secret.

    Don't tell anyone.
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