Please, Jesus, take away my suffering.

What you want to do is you want to put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Die. Die in the bathtub, or maybe a field of gravel. Surrounded by blood: trickling, splattering, dripping. Sticky hair, messy. But not too messy, the point is to die with as little mess as possible, hence the bathtub. And a field doesn’t require a heartache of cleanup. Death is nature. It’s a method of problem solving. It’s a process of a set of rules. It’s Wikipedia. They trick you. They teach you your times tables, and that X=0 but they never call it a language or reveal that zero actually means nothing—just a number reflecting the money than you have in your pocket. 

Meanwhile, at night, when you lie in bed, concentrate on the areas that bother you (your sinuses) let your mind sort of float through your sinuses. Then feel that the spirit of the lord is flowing there, soothing & healing – drying up your sinuses (you can even try it at work when you are troubled). You can ask Him to remove the pain. Just say, “Please, Jesus, take away my suffering.” Just try it.
Love, Kathy

It’s like when I would wait to take calls, like from the guy in Santa Clara who got raped when he was thirteen. While riding home from school, he got pulled off his bike. That man paid me $1.99 a minute to listen to the story and I was never given an algorithm for that. He raped himself every day, having unprotected sex with strangers, and then paid me to hear the stories. I could not fix him. I’m tough. Everybody has always said so. I didn’t complain, because I was tough. I would stand up to anyone. I would try most things, if they were dangerous. I mean, the times I was molested, it was done by trusted friends, family, and a gymnastic teacher on the floor, during practice. I was never abused riding a bus or walking around at night or walking around the Czech Republic in the dark. In the snow. I did get surrounded by a bunch of boyish men, on a train, on my way through Slovakia. They cornered me, around my seat. One sat next to me and touched me. I said, “Go fuck yourself.” It was the only time I’ve ever uttered that phrase and still been scared. So I got tougher. And so did the world. I was never tough enough. Unless I was drunk. Now, I’m in an apartment complex. Dallas, technically. Could be anywhere, I don’t care. I have no key and nowhere to be. I just want to see trees and my son’s smile. If it’s not broken, break it. 

It’s the idea of people doing things before they die. I don’t feel that way. It’s been a while since I haven’t tried to die. On my own terms. I hope God still lets me in. 

And I don’t, really, care if there were things I didn’t see or experience. I wish I could relive my life. I wish I could not be sick. I wish I could relive Flynn’s first Christmas, with all the dogs who are now dead. I wish I could cook in that kitchen. I wish I had my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remembered all of his birthdays.

I remember the delivery room and how big his head was as he pushed his way out of my body. I wish I had my hammock in my tree. I wish I was smelling the flowers from my honeysuckle bush. I wish I was riding a snowboard down a hill for the first time. I wish I had a broken leg because I had the balls to play roller derby. I wish I still had friends. I wish my world dogs who are now dead. I wish I could cook in that kitchen. I wish I had my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remember included something beyond this 8th story box with bed. I wish I had lived more than a fraction of my life correctly. I wish my idea of perfection would stay constant.