In which we ponder beginnings and endings (in no particular order)

An "uplifting" post for once.

I had a random thought last night as I was falling asleep that I found comforting. The thought popped into my head that I’m going to write this book, such as it is, and when it’s done I’m leaving. Really leaving. As in, the Earth. 

I don’t mean to sound operatic about it. I’m quite aware that my exit won’t cause a ripple in this world, and this actually how I prefer it. I’ve never been one for long goodbyes. Let’s avoid the fuss, shall we. I’ll appreciate some brief, performative tears at the news by whomever is left in my life at that point, but then my name need not be mentioned again, beyond the occasional wistful invocation at weddings and important holidays: “Uncle Tony would have loved this…”  

It’s enough for me. I hadn’t expected to feel this casual about my own mortality, especially now that everything is going so swimmingly, but there it is: The thought of choosing my own departure point does not disturb me. In fact, it has been sitting here quietly for some time, and I have been sitting here quietly with it. 

Suicidal ideation isn’t a commitment, of course, and a wayward thought is just that. Relax. I feel no urgent compulsion to off myself. Honestly, there’s no need to call 911 for a wellness check just yet. But when the thought popped into my head, it felt light, almost casual, like choosing what we’ll do today: Piano lessons. Tai Chi. Step off. 

It appeals: Write this book no one will read, then bow out. Offer up my benediction, followed by a brief and tidy exit. Thanks for everything, you’ve all been a great.  

And srsly, with my history, how long do I realistically have left anyway? I’m just being practical. 

* * *

It's a long story...

I’ve been pondering my origins again, something I would advise against when glibly contemplating suicide. Origin stories perplex me, because where does a story begin, really? Where’s the entry point? And, once in, whose narrative is it, exactly? Can I tell my story without telling my mother’s? Can I tell her story, without telling her mother’s? No. 

And my father(s)? Well now, that's another story entirely.

Our stories always begin elsewhere, and they never end with us. If it was drummed into me by my grandmother that I was only in this world by some egregious mistake, is that my story? Or hers? Did “my story” start with me, or did it start decades ago, with her? 

You see my dilemma: I could unspool this story all the way back to Eve. 

Do I need to write more endless words on my mother’s rudimentary parenting skills? Whatever her faults, she ushered me through childhood and delivered me to “adulthood” more or less intact. Along the ways, she made some very real sacrifices to ensure I had a better start in this life than she’d had. 

My mother’s abuses were not dire, nor were they were born of malice. And anyway, I’ve never raised a child; I’m in no position to judge. 

Let the evidence show these things be true: no one was trying to cause me harm; it’s possible I was even loved. Nevertheless, it's not overstating things to admit that I feared for my life.  

Which of these is the right narrative? Is it a story of tragedy, or triumph? I’ve learned, fairly recently, how much of my own origin story was a lie, and I’m wondering now: Can a story be true, even if it isn’t factual? I would argue, yes. 

In the end, all of the stories are true. 

Just not today.