Self Conclusion in One Simplified Motion
©Rachel C
My hands are cold. There is no comfort in cold hands, not even though they are your own. I have the inclination to hold them under a hot faucet, but lately the hot water in this house has been lax. I couldn’t say if it is because of the frozen air outside or because the bill hasn’t been paid this month. Whatever the reason, the water isn’t near warm enough, and my hands would only be wet in the end.
I’ve been “home” for a full business week—though I have done nothing businesslike in my stay—and each day I feel more and more stalemated. But, in all fairness, I know I would only feel the same if I were sitting on my bed in Chicago as I feel sitting on my bed here. Stalemate is a hard thing to over-come. In chess, there is no pushing through it. It is the end of the game, there is no where else to go; you are stuck forever. Until you clear the pieces and replace them in their rightful position, all memory of who captured whose queen, who knocked out whose pawn forgotten for a new trial. Imagining a new game in life is more fantastical than when playing a sport, because there is always a next move, it is only hidden from the naked eye until someone suggests clearing the board.
There is that idea—clearing the board. Self conclusion. When I say that you see that next move hidden under the stray pieces, I guess sometimes you don’t. I honestly don’t know that I have ever considered my own end, my true stalemate. It was never the kind of option I wanted to look into—it was always out of the question. What good could dying do? What could death solve? I guess I have never understood the concept of self conclusion; I know people who have...when I tell them there was one single moment, they look at me like I am crazy. Shouldn’t it, fairly, be the other way around?
Yes, there was that small moment, when I thought it was as worse as it could be. But, there was no definition to it, there was no certainty. For a brief moment I considered how I would try, and once the image cross my mind of my own fingers slitting my own wrists, I removed the thought from my mind permanently—maybe my one moment of true self-control and conviction.
Two hours, I have always said, when someone tells me of a friend who has taken their life. Two hours, and everything could have cleared up; or, someone could have heard their plea; or, someone could have given them their worth. Two hours, and the troubles of youth can change—everything can change so fast.
I am no longer a teenager, struggling with the self-depression of high school, or even the temporary depression of uncertainty and divorce. Today I face problems I never expected, today I face a life I have no control over, today I face a future of hard work, early adulthood, maybe even poverty. Today I am a big girl, yesterday I was a child. And the curiosity of death has left my mind. No conclusion of mine could be so extreme. I could never plummet. It is not an option. My wrists are strong and unscarred, my neck free of contusions, my stomach filled only with the necessities of life. My options are surviving these trails, pushing through this stalemate before the board is eternally cleared. My options are only to keep moving pieces until I have succeeded—check mate, Life.
For now, with all pieces still, my hands are cold in my lap as I scan the board for my next move. All I can do is wrap my fingers in scarves until the movement of the game heats them up again.
December 23, 2006
Author's Note: I think I may have something, for the first time in a while...this is a continuation of Sunset Soon Forgotten and Commentary on Torrential Downpours (in that order).
My hands are cold. There is no comfort in cold hands, not even though they are your own. I have the inclination to hold them under a hot faucet, but lately the hot water in this house has been lax. I couldn’t say if it is because of the frozen air outside or because the bill hasn’t been paid this month. Whatever the reason, the water isn’t near warm enough, and my hands would only be wet in the end.
I’ve been “home” for a full business week—though I have done nothing businesslike in my stay—and each day I feel more and more stalemated. But, in all fairness, I know I would only feel the same if I were sitting on my bed in Chicago as I feel sitting on my bed here. Stalemate is a hard thing to over-come. In chess, there is no pushing through it. It is the end of the game, there is no where else to go; you are stuck forever. Until you clear the pieces and replace them in their rightful position, all memory of who captured whose queen, who knocked out whose pawn forgotten for a new trial. Imagining a new game in life is more fantastical than when playing a sport, because there is always a next move, it is only hidden from the naked eye until someone suggests clearing the board.
There is that idea—clearing the board. Self conclusion. When I say that you see that next move hidden under the stray pieces, I guess sometimes you don’t. I honestly don’t know that I have ever considered my own end, my true stalemate. It was never the kind of option I wanted to look into—it was always out of the question. What good could dying do? What could death solve? I guess I have never understood the concept of self conclusion; I know people who have...when I tell them there was one single moment, they look at me like I am crazy. Shouldn’t it, fairly, be the other way around?
Yes, there was that small moment, when I thought it was as worse as it could be. But, there was no definition to it, there was no certainty. For a brief moment I considered how I would try, and once the image cross my mind of my own fingers slitting my own wrists, I removed the thought from my mind permanently—maybe my one moment of true self-control and conviction.
Two hours, I have always said, when someone tells me of a friend who has taken their life. Two hours, and everything could have cleared up; or, someone could have heard their plea; or, someone could have given them their worth. Two hours, and the troubles of youth can change—everything can change so fast.
I am no longer a teenager, struggling with the self-depression of high school, or even the temporary depression of uncertainty and divorce. Today I face problems I never expected, today I face a life I have no control over, today I face a future of hard work, early adulthood, maybe even poverty. Today I am a big girl, yesterday I was a child. And the curiosity of death has left my mind. No conclusion of mine could be so extreme. I could never plummet. It is not an option. My wrists are strong and unscarred, my neck free of contusions, my stomach filled only with the necessities of life. My options are surviving these trails, pushing through this stalemate before the board is eternally cleared. My options are only to keep moving pieces until I have succeeded—check mate, Life.
For now, with all pieces still, my hands are cold in my lap as I scan the board for my next move. All I can do is wrap my fingers in scarves until the movement of the game heats them up again.
December 23, 2006
Author's Note: I think I may have something, for the first time in a while...this is a continuation of Sunset Soon Forgotten and Commentary on Torrential Downpours (in that order).
2 comments:
WOW girl, i feel like im reading out of my journal sometimes...ive been thru alot of what your writing about, not all of it, but alot of it. You will come out on the other side of it all and you WILL be a stronger person for it. Although, you seem pretty strong already. Keep your chin up dear. Try to enjoy your holiday. :)
This is really great. It seems like there's no wall separating you from your feelings, and life. (You know I'm all about The Wall.) It's raw, yet tender at the same moment. I like the chess anology. It fits, somehow.
--Andie
Post a Comment