It was incredibly telling how such an unconscious gesture could pack such an emotional wallop. We were “pretty”, dammit, and that was not something to ever forget or take for granted—even, apparently, in life- or-death circumstances. Knowing that our mothers meant well was beside the point. Feeling lost, misunderstood and self-pitying were still at the top of our to-do lists and being generous to those who had half driven us to suicide (as we romanticized, all the while knowing that they were not ultimately responsible—we were) was not a priority. Since suicide is the most hostile act one can commit against oneself—other than drunk-dialing exes at three in the morning crying of course, it stands to reason that all that self-hatred which had been turned inward for so long culminating in a death wish calling one to action must eventually switch gears and have another outlet---the blame game. There are some theories that proclaim that suicide is the highest form of “screw you-it is”. There is definitely truth in that. However…the corpse is the one screwed the most in the end isn’t it? A corpse can’t dance, smell roses, kiss, or make love, let alone make amends can it? At least, none of the few I’ve seen anyway. So while the survivors of family members or friends are devastated, sometimes beyond repair…there is grief counseling and time to scab over wounds until one can successfully begins to function again. Time does nothing good for a corpse, and grief counseling is a bit late at that point.
Jacqueline and I would spend hours debating these fine points and other absurdities with each other and some of the other endearingly nutty “binmate” misfits we became close with over the next several weeks.
We often talked about our biological clocks and how we felt resentful of our own ovaries time restrictions.
“If I have to sit through one more baby or wedding shower I will shoot someone.”
Jackie and I shared this opinion that I expressed one day on a rant. I could tell from her emphatic eyebrow raise and sister-friend, sad-around-the-eyes smile that she got it. We both knew of course that I’d never really go Columbine but that on some primal level our friends were slowly and systematically murdering us with paper. We also knew that the sea of pink and blue ribbons or white and silver wrapping papers (that were now all too familiar harbingers of the babynuptialhousebuying beast) would soon swallow yet another friend.
