Madness of Two- MorMor + Severich

don't feel bad for the suicidal cats

Jim is a wonderful big brother, always knowing what's on my mind and what I need, when I need space and when I need a hug (yes, sometimes I enjoy a hug. Only from Jim, and, more recently, Sev. Someone I trust implicitly. Someone I know will back off without judgement the second I need them too). Sometimes a hug from him makes me feel smothered and trapped, like I can't breathe. Other times it helps me to feel present, like I'm alive and I exist and I matter. Something easy to forget when I was living alone. It's not so bad with Jabba around, but all our conversations are one-sided. As wonderful as Jim is, he's also completely unstable, something I know he tries to hide from me, futile, because it's glaringly obvious. He tries to play off like our childhood didn't affect him as badly as it affected me, but it absolutely did. It just manifests itself in different ways for the both of us: he wants to kill other people, I want to kill myself.

I'm not bothered by the whole criminal mastermind thing, actually. I know someone's gotta do it, and I'd much rather it was Jim calling the shots, making sure to keep me out of it, than my dad. He introduced Jim and I to the criminal underworld, really digging his own grave in hindsight. Jim's calculating brain conducted a lengthy plan, stretching out years in advance, a scheme that would save the both of us. He began his ascension up the ranks from age 12, making connections, sorting out "problems" for people, until, at age 17, he sorted out our problem. Bye bye, daddy. Officially ruled as an accident - fell into a river whilst intoxicated - neglecting to mention that Jim and I had done some chemistry experiment (god, I hate science, but at that point I was still on the road to becoming a doctor, thinking that the longest university course possible would keep me away from my dad as long as possible, and make me enough money that I could move far away and never look back). Anyway, back to the experiment. We upped the alcohol content of his beer, were very encouraging that he carried on drinking (your football team won! Time to celebrate!), and when he was flat out, we carried him outside under the cover of nightfall. Jesus Christ, that was a struggle. He was so heavy, Jim and I both short, weak, and malnourished, but we managed, Jim heaving his arms and I his legs. It wasn't a long walk to the river thankfully, then we rolled him in with a splash. Some bubbles. Then nothing. It was over. We were free. I cried so much that night and many nights afterwards, out of relief or guilt I'm not sure. Maybe both. Probably both.

By then, Jim was in too deep to back out, so he kept on rising, building an empire around him until he was the undisputed top dog, no one daring to ever speak up to him. I'm not certain 'pride' is the word, but I certainly was impressed with Jim's knack for business. And grateful. So bloody grateful. He'd saved both of us, giving us better lives. I don't think I can ever repay him for that. In fact, most of the time I do the opposite of that and just make things more stressful for him. I know it hurts him when I cut myself, and I really try to hold off for him, but I just... can't. It's like I need it. Growing up, pain was all I knew, and it's ingrained in me that I deserve it. So it's there as a justified punishment for all the bad things I've done, murdering dad being one of them. I do it because when my anxious thoughts can't be stopped, it helps me focus. I do it because I don't feel like I'm real and the sharpness of the pain, the sight of my blood, reminds me that I exist.

He really goes off the rails after I end up in hospital after a suicide attempt. My excuse always seems to be that I didn't mean to, which is halfway true. I feel so numb and nonexistent that when I dig the blade in deep enough to be lethal, it doesn't register to me that I'm doing it to a real person. I resonate quite profoundly with the Sylvia Plath poem 'Lady Lazarus':

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it -

Every decade another attempt. Ten years of living in hell and then I can't handle it anymore.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

Except, dear Sylvia, I'm not of the opinion that either of us are doing great at the whole dying thing, as both of us had failed quite spectacularly, twice at my age. We are, as she put it 'like the cat', we 'have nine times to die'. Well, in the end, it only took her three, so maybe this next one will do the trick. Third time's a charm and all that.