Okay, came back online albeit the fact that I should be in bed already since I need to get up at 5.15 and start cycling to work at six... I just fitted my entire outfit for the funeral and I have to say I'm quite proud of myself. Not once did I actually boil over in the shops, not even when I heard that the Elisabeth Shannon collection is leaving the building and therefore I had to go through the whole fuss of finding a good model and size and brand all over again. I fitted one ES pair of trousers that were otherwise perfect but as they were made 43 percent out of wool I started itching within the first ten seconds when wearing the pair. Too bad, I liked the shape. Eventually, I ended up in Seppälä to discover a new pair of pants which, as I am currently wearing them, feel really comfortable. Good that I coould find a shirt (a satin tunika, feels and looks really nice) and trousers relatively easily. And I finally get to publically wear the corset I found last December from Kappahl (or however it's correctly written). And my locket stays on display, raising questions who's inside. But would they really start asking about that, or about my personal life, in my father's funeral? Wouldn't that be, at least amongst the most traditional people, considered rather rude and insensitive?
Speaking of the funeral... I'm beginning to experience stage fright. These are my first funeral ever so I have no idea none whatsoever of how I'm supposed to behave, where to sit, whether I'm supposed to say something or go somewhere, and in what order...??? I'm puzzled. Sure I'll know after the funeral but that's a little late if I manage to act in a completely wrong way at some point. Do I need to sing the hymns? They picked them, I had no say in that (as if I had wanted to...); can I just adopt my school methodology again and merely stand up but not sing or even mouth the lyrics to pretend I'm singing? Am I supposed to cry there (still no tears out of sorrow; only a tear or two resulting in the feeling of enormous gratitude towards someone who spoke to me about this yesterday)?
I just saw the film based on Mikael Niemi's novel and I cannot help but recommend it to everyone with even a little sense of Finnish humour! Gods know I needed to laugh that hard and concentrate on other matters...
I'm not quite sure which I should find more alarming: that I could identify myself with Niila almost completely, or that the one to recommend this film to me last night said I would find it interesting? She can read me like an open book, to torture the cliché.
Niila... I may have to re-think my son's name again. I had already decided that but Niila sounds very nice... My daughter's name I decided years ago, so there won't be any changes coming to that (unless the Finnish admiknistration decides that the other name isn't justified, that is). But at least I could keep the first name, that's an important one! Curiously enough, both my son and my daughter would be named after literary figures, the other one coming from a bit more scholarly background than the other.
"You are Charles VI of France, also known as Charles the Mad or Charles the Well-Beloved!
A fine, amiable and dreamy young man, skilled in horsemanship and archery, you were also from a long line of dribbling madmen. King at 12 and quickly married to your sweetheart, Bavarian Princess Isabeau, you enjoyed many happy months together before either of you could speak anything of the other's language. However, after illness you became a tad unstable. When a raving lunatic ran up to your entourage spouting an incoherent prophecy of doom, you were unsettled enough to slaughter four of your best men when a page dropped a lance. Your hair and nails fell out. At a royal masquerade, you and your courtiers dressed as wild men, ending in tragedy when four of them accidentally caught fire and burned to death. You were saved by the timely intervention of the Duchess of Berry's underskirts.
This brought on another bout of sickness, which surgeons countered by drilling holes in your skull. The following months saw you suffer an exorcism, beg your friends to kill you, go into hyperactive fits of gaiety, run through your rooms to the point of exhaustion, hide from imaginary assassins, claim your name was Georges, deny that you were King and fail to recognise your family. You smashed furniture and wet yourself at regular intervals. Passing briefly into erratic genius, you believed yourself to be made of glass and demanded iron rods in your attire to prevent you breaking.
In 1405 you stopped bathing, shaving or changing your clothes. This went on until several men were hired to blacken their faces, hide, jump out and shout "boo!", upon which you resumed basic hygiene. Despite this, your wife continued sleeping with you until 1407, when she hired a young beauty, Odette de Champdivers, to take her place. Isabeau then consoled herself, as it were, with your brother. Her lovers followed thick and fast while you became a pawn of your court, until you had her latest beau strangled and drowned.
A severe fever was fended off with oranges and pomegranates in vast quantities, but you succumbed again in 1422 and died. Your disease was most likely hereditary. Unfortunately, you had anywhere up to eleven children, who variously went on to develop capriciousness, great cruelty, insecurity, paranoia, revulsion towards food and, in one case, a phobia of bridges."
Lots of it, and all of it has to be done before the funeral. Nice timing, and quite paradoxal really. An example: the three of us (the children, that is) had to sign this bank document to give our mother the right to rule over our father's bank accounts. The paper was this tick-in-the-box-if-you-agree statements; funnily enough it was a little difficult to decide since no-one knows the exact state of my father's bank things but we couldn't find out about these things b e f o r e we had all given our mother the right to rule over the accounts. To simplify, we had to do the X in order to get the Y done, but we lacked information of the Y to do the X. Nice going, Nordea.
Now we'll have to wait for the estate inventory to know for sure the state of my father's bank issues. I can't help thinking of some possible surprises: what if he took off all the money from the account he and my mother shared (and from which the funeral expenses are to be paid) and used it all before he killed himself? What if he had accounts none of us had a clue about?
I have to go shopping tomorrow. And I really mean "have to": I couldn't care less about going to buy new clothes for the funeral, or for any other occasion. I just don't like fitting in far too expensive clothes that are not really me anyway. I'm made out of band shirts and black trousers. Well, at least I am (for once) allowed and even expected to wear all-black outfit. If I'll just track down a pair of Elisabeth Shannon trousers and some black T-shirt and a black coat or something on top of it. As long as I get to keep my locket around my neck and in plain view. If I could just find a shirt that I could use otherwise as well, at school for instance, then I'll be happy. My mother gave enough money for me to get the clothing and if there's some left after that I could consider dying the root of my hair black. Ahhh... a second thought, no, too much trouble. And besides, everyone present at the funeral know me already so why bother. And it probably costs as much as dying my whole hair.
- - -
The Meme of the Day from Millikan. The idea is to answer the following questions with the random article button on Wikipedia's main page.
01. What are you afraid of?
The Coalition of Black Trade Unionists (CBTU) which is a nonprofit, nonpartisan organization of African American trade union members affiliated with the AFL-CIO.
[right...]
02. What would you take with you on a deserted island?
The 1972 UEFA European Football Championship (Euro 72) final tournament which was held in Belgium.
[how can you take with you an abstract thing that you have no memory of?]
03. What would you like to have for a wedding gift?
The Red Oak Independent School District, a school district in northern Ellis County, Texas (USA).
[yeah, I could turn the rules upside down and found an elite school for LGBT students, teach them independent thinking, and then wait for one of my students to become the first female president in the US!]
04. What do you worship?
Ptolemy Keraunos who was the King of Macedon from 281 BC to 279 BC.
[I don't think so...]
05. What is your secret fetish?
Wonderful Parliament which refers to an English Parliamentary session of November 1386 which pressed for reforms of Richard II's administration.
[ye gods!]
06. What will you be dreaming about the forthcoming night?
Selection sort which is a sorting algorithm, specifically an in-place comparison sort.
[This would be a small miracle since I have ni idea what that even means]
07. If you could afford it, what would you buy?
The National Progressive Party, a political party in Kiribati without parliamentary representation.
[Sure I would.]
08. On what would you write a book?
Sarchu (altitude 4,290 m), tented camp in the Himalayas on the Leh-Manali Highway, on the boundary between Himachal Pradesh and Ladakh (Jammu and Kashmir) in India.
[I suppose it would make a nice setting for a story.]
09. What do you collect?
An agar plate is a sterile Petri dish that contains agar plus nutrients (media), used to culture microorganisms.
[You should see my bacteria collection!]
10. What is your best memory connected to?
Karen, which is a Danish form of the name Katherine and means "pure".
[Can't think of even the feeblest connexion...]
11. The most useless thing you know?
Michael Fullerton (born 1971) is a Scottish artist living and working in London. He is primarily a portraitist and paints in a traditional style.
[Who is he?]
12. What is your favourite subject of discussion?
Cezzar Ahmet Pasha (1708-1804), also identified in some transliterations as Djezzar Pasha, was an Ottoman governor who defended Acre successfuly when Napoleon Bonaparte besieged it during his campaign in Syria. Djezzar, which translates as Butcher, was known for his brutal techniques when handling enemies.
[Possibly...]
13. What is the thing you are/will be working with in your profession?
The Later Jìn (936-947) which was one of the Five Dynasties during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms Period in China.
[Good to know.]
14. What makes you laugh every time?
The third USS Preston (DD–19) was a Smith class destroyer in the United States Navy during World War I .
[Yeah. Hilarious.]
15. What makes you cry every time?
eFunda is an online reference work and community designed for engineers. The 'e' stands for 'engineering' and 'Funda' is for 'fundamentals'. Started in 1999, it is based in California.
[Engineers make everyone weep.]
16. What was the first thing you saw after you woke up?
Venceslaus Ulricus Hammershaimb (1819 – 1909) established the modern orthography of Faroese, the language of the Faroe Islands, in 1854.
[Hopefully never wake up next to his corpse.]
17. What do you have in your pockets?
Abu Ameenah Bilal Philips is a Muslim teacher, speaker, and author.
[A physical miracle!]
18. What could replace you without anyone noticing the switch?
Meade Stadium is a 5,180-seat multi-purpose stadium in Kingston, Rhode Island. It is home to the University of Rhode Island Rams football team.
[Go fuck yourself, Hans.]
19. What were your first words?
Danny Dickfos, who was an Australian rules footballer who played for the Brisbane Bears and Brisbane Lions in the Australian Football League.
[Dick...?]
20. With what will you be buried?
Yaroslav Popovych (born in Drohobych, Ukraine on January 4, 1980) is a cyclist with the UCI ProTour Discovery Channel Pro Cycling Team, and considered as a possible successor to Lance Armstrong as team leader.
[I am not marrying a man!]
21. What do you have hidden in the drawer next to your bed?
Conklin is a town in Broome County, New York, USA.
[In a miniature size, naturally.]
22. What do you love the most in the world?
Danitza Kingsley, who is an American photographer, writer, model, actor and film producer.
[No, I love Her.]
(Whatever happened to number 23???)
24. When you look out of the window right now, what do you see?
Rebecca Bellingham is a female badminton player from New Zealand.
[Wouldn't know what she looks like.]
25. Who you really are?
Asthenization is a condition experienced by astronauts following long-term space flight, in which following return to Earth the astronaut experiences symptoms such as fatigue, irritability, lack of appetite and sleep disorders. The condition's name derives from asthenia, which is a medical term denoting a feeling of weakness without actual loss of strength.
[Well, finally. At least one correct out of twenty-five.]
Do you have this vague memory of someone saying that a common result amongst the relatives and friends of a suicider is that they tend to blame themselves? Yeah. That may be the thing in some cases, but in my family it is each other that they're blaming. Would it really be that bloody difficult to pull their heads out of their asses and look at the facts? First of all, blaming will not bring him back and does no-one any good in the long run. Secondly, blaming others only makes the atmosphere even worse for those who feel no need to blame anyone. Thirdly, coping with my father's death is probably difficult enough without destroying the remaining relationships.
I called my mother today to inquire the names of the newspapers in which she had put my father's obituary notice. (She talked to me after the Combat class to offer her condolences and askme if I was okay; she had read my father's notice from a paper and connected him to me due to my unusual last name.) Before I got to ask her about the notice she described the situation at my grandparents' place where they had all been earlier this week, selecting hymns for the funeral with a priest. It appears that both of them, my father's parents that is, are blaming my mother for their son's death. And as I imagined someone would be flat out accusing my mother that it's her fault my father killed himself. But what I didn't imagine was that it would be my grandfather to say it. Well, at least he had enough reason to apologise my mother. My grandmother (a dyed-in-the-wool fundamentalist Christian who, naturally, after living her whole life in hypocrisy) didn't say it out loud, although I'm quite sure (No. I'm absolutely certain) that she thinks that way. I think it's my aunt (my father's sister) who doesn't blame my mother.
It's probably only a matter of time when they start accusing the children. I know I'll be able to handle it since I've had over a week to deal with it myself (without anyone feeding me these ridiculous ideas) and I am strong enough to stand behind my own principles publicly. It's my younger siblings I'm worried about. They are there, right in the middle of the crossfire of the battle between our grandparents and our mother. They're not strong enough to handle that kind of arguing, the manipulation used in our parents' constant arguments when we were children. I hope you're wrong, Millikan, for my siblings' sake. I need to keep it together, because on Thursday we're going to have to have someone in the funeral who is able to control and reason those emotional disagreements between them; someone who is able to tell my grandmother to quit the navel-gazing and realise that not only did she lose her son, but that we lost our father, my aunt lost her other brother, my mother lost her husband.
Fuck. I have to somehow get familiar in advance with what the bible says of suicide to know what to expect from my grandmother. I couldn't care less what that thing has to say about suicide, although I can already guess how the Old Testament views the matter at hand. I don't want to read some stupid, ridiculous, paradoxal book to gather small pieces of prejudiced attitudes. FUCK! It's because of these fundamentalists who take the bible's word literally only to ignore the important ones ("don't judge so you wouldn't be judged") that make me loathe Christianity. A small yet very loud minority.
I can't wait for the actual funeral day: more arguments, more useless blames, more fundamental Christianity. Jesus fucking Christ. If only he could see what his original message of loving others as they are has been turned into, what it's being used to justify. I am ashamed of being a human being, but proud of not being a Christian.
The employees of the factory are all leaving one by one. At ten o'clock within the hearing distance the are only me and one of my co-workers. I'm listening to music from my portable CD player, she is listening to radio. I have this very annoying habbit of mouthing the lyrics of the songs I'm listening to, sometimes even saying them out loud (not singing along, though!). Then comes a moment when all the machines in the hall happen to be silent. Now imagine being my co-worker, a rather silent and appearing somewhat timid, sitting there opposite me. Suddenly, on that silent moment, behind a thin wall in front of you, you hear the following, said with a husky whisper: "Let's make a bomb, let's blow the place up to the very foundation."
I was listening to Velcra's 'Quick and Dirty'. You can probably imagine the look on her face one second later as she glanced at me.
I need to stop doing that in public.
- - -
The Meme of the Day:
A while ago I ordered a certain hedgehog shirt. Inspired by that I want to share with you this sympathetic spiky creature with lots of foul language to challenge your ability to keep a straight (...) face.
The funeral will be held next Thursday. My mother arranged them quickly enough, as if she was burying the shame along with my father. She has always kept saying how suicide is so very selfish; I doubt the latest events have changed her opinion that much.
I'm doing great, a bit too great considering that my father just died (we still don't know the exact time of death, we have to wait for the autopsy results; my life resembles a C.S.I. episode...).
"De mortis nihil nisi bene"... sorry, Kheilon, but I disagree. Just because someone is dead doesn't mean the living have to start glorifying them. If they were assholes when they were alive, being dead doesn't change that in any way. Actually, I feel rather relieved (as do many others, as I've found out lately). I don't feel the least guilty or responsible for his decision. Nor do I judge it, either; suicide is "prepared within the silence of the heart, as is a great work of art" (Albert Camus). And how could I judge it since I once seriously wanted to die myself? I planned my suicide thoroughly but never carried it out; instead I settled on hurting myself otherwise. I think I still have that suicide paper somewhere; my suicide methodology hasn't changed at all over the past seven years, although I still don't know where to get cyanide. My suicide would have been partly due to my parents, partly due to my school conditions (I think my schoolmates would have lovingly referred to me as "freak" or "loser" or "jerk weed"). Therefore I assume that my father's motives also included some of our family life, and possibly that of his own when he was a child. I just don't feel guilty because I know that my part is just one small particle of all the things that made him decide to end his life, that changing my part wouldn't have changed this outcome.
I know someone would undoubtedly consider the following the worst possible thing to say, but I think that his suicide was best for all in one way or another. This takes away the worry we all felt all the time, of his well-being as well as that of ourselves. As I said before, I feel relieved: now I don’t have to worry about the immediate effects of the alcoholism to my mother, and especially to my brother since now the reason he tried to kill himself is gone. But most importantly, this was the solution for my father; I suppose he really didn't see any way out of the situation he was in, or maybe he didn't even want to get out of. Maybe the way would have meant conquering so many difficult obstacles that he didn't consider it worth the trouble.
In any case, this is what he wanted to do, and so he did. In a way I'm happy for him; he was pressured to do something else with his life than, I assume, he would have wanted. His whole life there was always someone telling him what to do: his parents and rest of the family, then my mother... Even if it meant this, it's good that he got to do at least one thing completely on his own, decide for himself. The rest of us have to accept it, even if we didn't understand it completely.
I just finished re-reading (for X times now) the novel "Loppuunkäsitelty" by Anna-Leena Härkönen. It tells about her own experiences after the year following her sister's suicide. I've liked the book since I first read it two years ago; now I find much consolation in it, and understanding. I find someone who has thought of the same things and asked the same questions I have, only contemplating them from a different point of view and mental (as well as ideological) background than me. I also have Antonella Gambotto's "The Eclipse" (it's one my to-be-read list next), and currently I'm reading Simone de Beavoir's "Les Belles Images". That one is very nicely written; it took me ten pages to realise that both the third person and the first person narrators are one and the same person, Laurence. And besides... it's de Beauvoir.
Which reminds me... do I get a day off from work but also get paid due to a fneral of a close relative?
- - -
I finally got my hands on 'Hadal'. It is as good as I thought it would be. For some reason the change Velcra has gone through for this album isn't anywhere near the shock Sonata Arctica's transformation caused. My current number one is –without a doubt– 'White Knuckle Mountains'. Other good pieces are the first single 'Quick and Dirty' ("Never too rich. Never too thin. Never too young. Never ever perfect"), 'New Recruit' (as I thought on 29th ) and the ballad-like 'Dusk Becomes Dawn'. It's so beautiful. "So good that I have known you, loved you, held you before we had to go." In general it is difficult to categorise 'Hadal' as a clear metal album since there is no live drums in the entire record and even metal guitars are absent most of the time. But let it be noted that not once did I seriously miss Frey's screams (only once, temporarily, during the first round of listening to 'Hadal').
I think this is the point in which I need to get Velcra to accompany my band shirt collection.
"You are suicide method #1345: Dark, cold, scary and painful. You are suicide via drowning. People have to plan a little before they come to you for help. You're not as easy to employ as some, but you spark the imagination like few other forms of relief can. At your best, you're a pocket full of rocks and a head full of determination. At worst, you're a Baywatch castmember hellbent on saving people from making their own choices. Only a selected few have what it takes to make use of your talents, and those few don't mind a significant amount of discomfort before greeting the void."
Nope, I wouldn't drown myself. Nice try, but way off.
The picture below is from the cemetery of the town Pietrasanta in Tuscany, Italy. It memorializes a young man who drowned in 1922, at the age of 23.
The hard marble is carved into breaking waves, flowing over the skull. The victim's bony fingers are submersed in the water, grasping at the waves, as he tries to pull himself out. Absolutely beautiful piece of art. And people actually wonder why I find cemetaries inspiring places.
- - -
Post scriptum: Why is it that I'm just really, truly, bluely incapable of writing short entries?
So, the Polytechnic (oh, I'm sorry, the "university of applied sciences") entrance exam was today. Before getting to the actual matter I just *have* to state that the building is ten times more beautiful than the university. What is a modern, white-and-glass building compared to an old-fashioned stone school with real old-fashioned wooden doors to classrooms and colourful hallways?
- - -
The exam itself was allright. I went there half an hour early (good that I had Frida Kahlo's biography with me), like many others. The exam began with the feared test measuring our capabilities to the field we are applying to. The first parts consisted of fill-in-the-blanks questionnaires. The language part had a test in which we were expected to circle the one word that wasn’t part of the group, and complete sentences in short stories. Then we read an article about the physiology and sociology of laughter and crying, and summarise the article with criticism. In between (to test how well we acquired new information and were able to remember it) we made different maths tests, in both numeral and literal exercises.
The second part was made out of different kind of personality tests. It had one test twice with different time limits; the idea was to fill in these squares, each of which bearing a line or a dot etc. that we were supposed to complete with a picture. I've actually done that one before, and I rest my case: the interpretation of the picture tells more of the psychologist than it tells about me. An example; I drew a sword. Now, does it mean that I'm suicidal since it is a weapon, or does it mean the exact opposite since a sword, at least according to Freud and Jung, is such an obviously phallic object? The same goes to the Rorschach inkblot test we did (can't quite yet tick that off my "things to do before I die" list, I have to wait until July when I can call the psychologist for a detailed analysis). If you’re interested in seeing the inks yourself, see this web site http://ar.geocities.com/rorschach_inkblots/. It’s in Spanish but it has the pictures in colours. You know, as I was looking at them on that site, I noticed how they seemed all different seen close than from afar; they were reflected on a screen from a computer, resulting in the pictures losing their hues. Therefore only the outlines were the basis of my interpretations of them; some had the lamps in front of them so they couldn’t even see them in full. Anyway, the last thing we had to do in the written exam was to draw a mind map of our current self and life at the present time, as well as of our future. That really brought back memories of primary school: we were actually given colouring pens to encourage our creativity when making the map.
The rest of the day we had discussions, two group discussions and one, individual talk with a psychologist who, expectedly enough, asked why I had applied there and what qualities in my opinion would make me a good nurse etc. It was very much like a job interview, really. I was actually expecting something completely different: during the group discussions it turned out that during some interviews the psychologist had acted… in a weird way, like conducting the interview from under the desk. Intriguing.
"Whatever happened to playing a hunch, Scully? The element of surprise, random acts of unpredictability? If we fail to anticipate the unforeseen or expect the unexpected in a universe of infinite possibilities, we may find ourselves at the mercy of anyone or anything that cannot be programmed, categorized or easily referenced." (Mulder in "The X-Files: Fight the Future".)
Now we can only wait and see if yours truly will be a nurse. I’ll post the results when I get them, by the 20th of July. Hell, maybe I’ll share the Rorschach analysis, too, provided that they don’t declare me a sociopath or otherwise disturbed.
- - -
The Meme of the Day:
Since I’m anxious of getting labelled as having some kind of a personality disorder (which, considering the current situation, wouldn’t be that unlikley), I want to prepare for the blow by taking this scientifically astute and infallible quiz at http://www.4degreez.com/misc/personality_disorder_test.mv. That’s the quiz’s opinion of me below.
Avoidant: Very High *)
Antisocial: High
Histrionic [ed. note: = attention-seeking]: High
Narcissistic: High
Obsessive-Compulsive: High
Dependent: Moderate
Paranoid: Moderate
Schizoid [ed. note: = loner]: Moderate
Schizotypal [ed. note: = mild schizophrenia]: Moderate
Borderline: Low
*) "Avoidant personality disorder is characterized by extreme social anxiety. People with this disorder often feel inadequate, avoid social situations, and seek out jobs with little contact with others. Avoidants are fearful of being rejected and worry about embarrassing themselves in front of others. They exaggerate the potential difficulties of new situations to rationalize avoiding them. Often, they will create fantasy worlds to substitute for the real one. Unlike schizoid personality disorder, avoidants yearn for social relations yet feel they are unable to obtain them. They are frequently depressed and have low self-confidence."
- - -
The picture below is the first card of the Rorschach test. Let me know what you see in it, I'm interested.
I found out yesterday that it's not just my brother who is moving out from the house in which I grew up, but my mother is going with him. In other words, my parents are getting a divorce.
Ever since I was a child my mother has threatened to leave my father if he doesn't stop drinking. She said it so many times, and sometimes she even took off her wedding ring. But every time she gave in; she never left him. I am the eldest of the three children and I moved out when I was seventeen. My sister also moved out at the age of seventeen. Now that my brother is seventeen it was expected that he would move out like the two sisters before him. But for some reason, the possibility of my mother going as well never occurred to me. They are moving next Friday.
- - -
I cannot pretend not to feel slightly worried about my father, despite everything he did to me, to us, to the rest of the family. The house is located twenty-five kilometres outside the actual centre of the town, near the town's borders. As far as I can remember, he has never been too social, and all the times we've had to leave the village (to visit relatives on national holidays or the like) he has seemed reluctant to go. All my life he has left the house for three reasons: to buy alcohol, to go drink alcohol with other drunkards in the village or for work. Before I moved out and ever since after it I have had the image that his visits have become rarer and rarer. He can no longer get much work due to the alcohol abuse and even his drunk buddies have gone (some died, some moved elsewhere, some have turned their backs on him).
I'm worried that of the two possibilities he will choose the bad one. I'm worried that, instead of getting a grip of himself and getting rid of alcohol and making things up with my mother, he will isolate himself from the outside world once my mother and brother leave.
I'm worried that he will take his abandonment on the two cats that have to be left behind since they're used to being able to go outside whenever they feel like it, having forest around in which the little predators can roam freely; they're not used to being locked inside an apartment, as they would be if they went with my mother and my brother.
I'm worried that he will sink even deeper in alcohol. My mother already told me that his reaction to her announcement of separation was the usual: he’s been drunk since Tuesday.
I'm worried that he is going to die within a few years. He may kill himself (would not be unexpected, he has tried it before); shoot himself with the gun he killed our dog, or take an overdose of sleeping pills, or get in a car with a tube from the exhaust pipe to the inside, start the car and keep it going until he dies of inhaling enough carbon monoxide. Or he may have an accident while he’s drunk; he might trip and brake his neck; he may trip and brake his legs, and wither away after laying on the floor alone for days; he may drop a cigarette as he passes out after drinking enough and he sets the wooden house on fire. Or then he may keep on drinking until his liver simply gives up. He may be dead for days, or weeks, before anyone bothers to check up on him. That person is likely to be a neighbour (they used to be our friends), or maybe my father’s parents, but even they cannot live forever to take care of their first born.
What the hell can I do? I can’t make him realise that this was caused by his alcoholism, and to make things even a little better he must get sober for good, not only for the family but for himself as well. I can’t force him to go outside the house; he hasn’t done it before and he sure is not going to start now. His self esteem is so low, battered to the ground by everyone (including me), not least by himself. But I can’t force others to keep him company, either. The loneliness, the abandonment, these are the consequences of his actions as well as those of the rest of us. If others don’t want to have anything to do with him, I cannot do anything about that. But I don’t want to go there either. The bus connections being so poor I couldn’t get away without hitchhiking a lift to the nearest bus station, as he would likely be drunk and unable to drive a car. I remember when I had to ride with him when he was drunk; I was afraid. Of course I was afraid.
I’m worried people will even call him, to know how he’s doing. But that means me as well. I know more than well what he’s like when he’s drunk; I left to get rid of all that and talking to him on the phone would bring me back to that shit. Funny… right now, thinking of him dead, I think I would regret that I stopped answering his calls a year ago. He has ever only called me when he’s drunk, and I don’t want to talk to him in that state. But what if… what if they were all cries for help, brought out in the only way he knows? What if I should have answered them, at least I wouldn’t have blocked him out so completely.
- - -
I see I already write about him in past tense, as he were already dead. I’m worried my father’s funeral will be held before my brother’s graduation party. I stare at the keyboard before me and some words jump out on their own from the randomly set letters: “after”, “drunk”. Maybe I’ve just written them too many times.
- - -
I don’t drink alcohol at all (for obvious reasons) but I know most people, especially here in Finland, use it to great extent. Tukiasema spread information on mental issues via Internet, including alcoholism. For the sake of yourself as well as those around you, see if your alcohol consumption has got out of hand at http://www.tukiasema.net/gallup/default.asp?gallupID=26.
Fuck that promise. I will never learn to shut up but always remain the one who says stupid things about wrong people at wrong time in wrong places. But I cannot stop writing. Especially tonight.
- - -
On Monday, as I was cycling back home from work, my mother called me and after getting her main thing sorted out, a similar conversation to the following took place:
"Have you, by the way, heard what your little brother did last Saturday?"
"No. Did he get the police after him again?"
"No. He took ten of your father's sleeping pills at school."
"At school? On Saturday?"
"Yes."
"At the graduation ceremony?"
"Yes. He's alright now, the doctor said he's fine."
It took two days for me to hear that my only brother had tried to kill himself, and I hear it from a woman who said it with a very matter-of-factly tone.
My sister stayed over at my place last night for she had an entrance exam to the local polytechnic today. My mother and my brother came here to come and get her, and they turned up behind my door without notifying me. As I looked through the Eye in the door and saw my brother... I don't know what I was thinking, or whether I was thinking anything at all. During their short visit not once was the Saturday's events mentioned or even referred to. It was that same huge hippo in the living room, or as in my case in the kitchen, whose presence everyone were determined not to acknowledge. Everyone, including me (albeit for reasons unknown), acted like nothing of that sort had ever happened. Anyway, it didn't hit me until later tonight, now, that anytime may be the last time I see my brother alive.
The annual Parental Award definitely does not go to our parents; one has had an eating disorder and a tendency for self-mutilation by cutting the arms, one *seems* normal, and the third... well, an actual suicide attempt should say all that needs to be said. And yet, after all this, our parents choose to ignore everything and continue to refuse to look in the mirror. Really, my parents are the very evidence that proves that s t r a i g h t parents do not automatically produce stable and productive member to this society.
I don't condemn or judge my little brother's actions. It is his choice. Not to mention that when I was fifteen I almost completely planned how to kill myself (the plan still stands, in spite of the problem of how to get hold of cyanide). He’s already going to a psychologist, and since I went to the very same psychologist I know she should be more than able to help him. Anyway, they’re looking for an apartment for him to live in for the last year he has left in high school. We’ll see if we have his graduation party next year, or whether we’ll be attending his funeral instead.
I think I'll re-read Anna-Leena Härkönen’s "Loppuunkäsitelty" tonight.
- - -
The rain comes falling down
My life flows to the ground
No longer feeling the pain
My flame now fading away
Sentenced: The rain comes falling down
- - -
"There are certainly far more people who do not kill themselves because they are too cowardly to do so, than those who kill themselves out of cowardice…"
Paul-Louis Landsberg in 'The Experience of Death and The Moral Problem of Suicide'.
