“Dying isn’t half as hard as living.” Those words are etched in my mind like the drawings of cave men that echo “We were here…”. My father let me know this in the seconds before death overcame him and his conscious mind was replaced by nothingness.
From the time I was a small child he’d say, “None of it matters, but it does.”, I never understood why he would say things like that or what they meant. I can’t understand a lot of things about him like why he’d tell me this as his final peace with me. Did he want to die? If he did, how could he? If a friend was telling me this same story I would say, “Well isn’t he an awful father and an awful man!” But I can’t say that. No no, I can’t say that about my father. He loved me and he wanted me to know something about him or about life or about the matters. Maybe it was life, perhaps he wanted me to kill myself. But why? He lived a full life, he would know whether it was worth it or not. Maybe he wanted to spare me the heartache that is the product of living.
On the other hand he might’ve been telling me to never give up on life regardless of the trials I face because they are only really trivialities.
You’d have to know a little bit more about my father to understand that he loved me, and this couldn’t be a bad thing. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” was his half hearted motto tattooed on his soul. He always saw life as a game to be played--a game he wasn’t good at. He started from the bottom trying to claw his way tooth and nail up the ladder, too much of an optimist to see he was a corporate slave in a dead end job. He once told me, “I could never live a life of mediocrity doing what will never really matter.” Although, I think on some level he knew. If you asked him what he liked to do, he’d tell you sleep. He was always either working or sleeping. And I think for him sleep was dying, he’d die once a night then be reborn in the morning living hundreds of day long lives, I don’t see how he could deal with it any other way.
An eternal death may be just what he needed to cure him of his life.
The therapists and psychologists all told me I have OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder. I have no idea what they were talking about though.
It doesn’t matter what they thought. No one could understand, why should I expect them to? If my own wife and kids couldn’t understand why I HAVE to figure out this meaning, no one else would.
It was a few months ago that I was abandoned by them, and you know what? Screw ‘em. Unless that’s what he wanted?
I have a few tattoos here and there. One on my forehead. One on each breast. Three more down each side of my ribs. Finally fifteen on each arm and twenty on each leg. They all say, “Dying isn’t half as hard as living.” in big bold letters.
But of course to be safe I had to carve it into my walls. I had to make sure these words would echo my home because it might come to me suddenly. The meaning that is. I could never be away from those words. If I were I don’t know what I would do, I might go mad!
I asked everyone I could, posted on the internet, asked people on the street back when I still went outside. One time I even put it on a billboard with my contact information. Yet still, no one could give me anything that even slightly resembled a satisfactory answer. In fact most people would tell me I’m insane, why couldn’t they understand?
“Dying isn’t half as hard as living.” What if he didn’t want me to figure it out. Did he want me to ruin my life for him? No, that couldn’t be it, he isn’t that selfish. Unless he just couldn’t die knowing I get to live on. He gave me this cryptic message to kill me. Isn’t that why old man? Isn’t it? ANSWER ME GODDAMMIT! Okay there’s only one thing to do then. I have to give him what he wants. I have to get my gun and blow my brains out. I bought this gun several months ago on a whim and I of course promptly had inscribed, “Dying isn’t half as hard as living.” on it. The barrel is icy cold against my temple. I let out a few final tears and ask, “Why?”.