Why Live? | Why Live? by Carol Banks Weber

JUNE 1997
T H E RAVEN C H R O N I C L E S

`contents`

Why Live?

Carol Banks Weber

My first wise-ass response to "Why Live?" would be: "Why not?" Or "Because I can." Or "I'd miss the Spice Girls' new movie."

Letterman-style flippancy aside, the only reason I'm still breathing on this earth--32 years and counting, baby--is because I really truly cannot think of anything better to do.

I'm too lazy, cowardly, clumsy, and stupid to kill myself in the quickest least painful mode possible (in my sleep as I'm drifting off to the waiting arms of Ingo Rademacher, "General Hospital's" Aussie soap hunk of the moment). I can't jump off a tall building much less leap it because I'm too choked up in my acrophobic hypothesizing of how long it would take before my head is crushed like a melon or whether I'd land on my head in the first place. Besides I already did that when I was three years old somewhere in Seoul with my grandma and baby brother in tow, standing atop a dirty 10-foot-high cliff overlooking a construction site, lured to the siren song of flying and what-ifs. I survived after a three-day coma that felt like drowning. Forget the romanticism of walking into a river ala Virginia Woolf (the woman was manic depressive not poetic). It sucks because all the while you're falling into the briny depths, you're aware every step of the way.

I need oblivion. A lobotomy. Not consciousness.

Other methods less messy, like swallowing bottles of Zzzs or playing Russian roulette with a silencer, still involve the awareness beforehand of knowing that the end result is the end. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. And quite possibly, despite proclamations by atheists and anarchists, a meeting with my Maker. Or worse, my un-Doer.

I don't wanna take any chances. So even though I can't see a point to tomorrow, I'm still here.

Sure there's love, there's revenge, there's the cheddar burger at Two Bells. But so what? All of that means very little to me. Especially as I've recently found myself partially, sporadically but chronically incontinent with Number 2 thanks to a botched anal fistulectomy from Kaiser Permanente last March. The Depends Adult diapers help with the physical remnants. But do nothing for my jackrabbit chased heart, the cold sweats, the hyperventilating as I'm standing in the middle of a crowded city street trying to find a public restroom as the warm liquid runny shit flows down my trembling thighs, hoping and praying vaguely that nobody else but me can smell the rotting rat and cheese enchilada stench.

Doctors, naturopathics and Chinese acupuncturists I've gone begging and weeping to can do nothing for me but shrug, pat me on the shoulder, prescribe remedies, and suggest avoiding wheat and lactose. On my own, through sheer desperation, I've read up on-line and in the library about anal diseases and rectal problems. Many many people are worse off than me, born without an anus, suffering from bleeding diarrhea since age seven, having to crap 17-25 times a day, blowing like Mt. Vesuvius without warning at cocktail parties from just a bite of a weinie.... Crohn's Disease, AIDS, urinary tract infection, colitis, anal fissures, colostomy.... In my hunt for a cure (I even prayed I'd be diagnosed with Cancer just to relieve my limbo of questions), I think I've stumbled across a self-diagnosis that makes sense and seems to fit my symptoms. I have IBS (irritable bowel syndrom) that was exacerbated when the surgeon sliced into part of my sphincter to remove a T-shaped boil that is the essence of an anal fistula, as well as a slight wheat intolerance. I have only partial use of my nether regions now. I must still deal with incomplete bowel movements and the occasional runs. I avoid eating out most times. I can't have sex comfortably without feeling like I gotta go. I am wary about laughing or coughing without sticking a finger up my ass just to make sure nothing slips out inadvertently. And I can't work until I figure out how to be in public without feeling incapacitated--and incontinent.

So death would be a blessing. If only I can pull the trigger without worrying about the mess I'll leave behind, or whether it'll hurt before impact, or if I'll have to pay for it in hell.

Maybe my first response was right. Why not.

© The Raven Chronicles 1997

JUNE 1997		T H E RAVEN C H R O N I C L E S

`contents`		Why Live? Carol Banks Weber My first wise-ass response to "Why Live?" would be: "Why not?" Or "Because I can." Or "I'd miss the Spice Girls' new movie." Letterman-style flippancy aside, the only reason I'm still breathing on this earth--32 years and counting, baby--is because I really truly cannot think of anything better to do. I'm too lazy, cowardly, clumsy, and stupid to kill myself in the quickest least painful mode possible (in my sleep as I'm drifting off to the waiting arms of Ingo Rademacher, "General Hospital's" Aussie soap hunk of the moment). I can't jump off a tall building much less leap it because I'm too choked up in my acrophobic hypothesizing of how long it would take before my head is crushed like a melon or whether I'd land on my head in the first place. Besides I already did that when I was three years old somewhere in Seoul with my grandma and baby brother in tow, standing atop a dirty 10-foot-high cliff overlooking a construction site, lured to the siren song of flying and what-ifs. I survived after a three-day coma that felt like drowning. Forget the romanticism of walking into a river ala Virginia Woolf (the woman was manic depressive not poetic). It sucks because all the while you're falling into the briny depths, you're aware every step of the way. I need oblivion. A lobotomy. Not consciousness. Other methods less messy, like swallowing bottles of Zzzs or playing Russian roulette with a silencer, still involve the awareness beforehand of knowing that the end result is the end. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. And quite possibly, despite proclamations by atheists and anarchists, a meeting with my Maker. Or worse, my un-Doer. I don't wanna take any chances. So even though I can't see a point to tomorrow, I'm still here. Sure there's love, there's revenge, there's the cheddar burger at Two Bells. But so what? All of that means very little to me. Especially as I've recently found myself partially, sporadically but chronically incontinent with Number 2 thanks to a botched anal fistulectomy from Kaiser Permanente last March. The Depends Adult diapers help with the physical remnants. But do nothing for my jackrabbit chased heart, the cold sweats, the hyperventilating as I'm standing in the middle of a crowded city street trying to find a public restroom as the warm liquid runny shit flows down my trembling thighs, hoping and praying vaguely that nobody else but me can smell the rotting rat and cheese enchilada stench. Doctors, naturopathics and Chinese acupuncturists I've gone begging and weeping to can do nothing for me but shrug, pat me on the shoulder, prescribe remedies, and suggest avoiding wheat and lactose. On my own, through sheer desperation, I've read up on-line and in the library about anal diseases and rectal problems. Many many people are worse off than me, born without an anus, suffering from bleeding diarrhea since age seven, having to crap 17-25 times a day, blowing like Mt. Vesuvius without warning at cocktail parties from just a bite of a weinie.... Crohn's Disease, AIDS, urinary tract infection, colitis, anal fissures, colostomy.... In my hunt for a cure (I even prayed I'd be diagnosed with Cancer just to relieve my limbo of questions), I think I've stumbled across a self-diagnosis that makes sense and seems to fit my symptoms. I have IBS (irritable bowel syndrom) that was exacerbated when the surgeon sliced into part of my sphincter to remove a T-shaped boil that is the essence of an anal fistula, as well as a slight wheat intolerance. I have only partial use of my nether regions now. I must still deal with incomplete bowel movements and the occasional runs. I avoid eating out most times. I can't have sex comfortably without feeling like I gotta go. I am wary about laughing or coughing without sticking a finger up my ass just to make sure nothing slips out inadvertently. And I can't work until I figure out how to be in public without feeling incapacitated--and incontinent. So death would be a blessing. If only I can pull the trigger without worrying about the mess I'll leave behind, or whether it'll hurt before impact, or if I'll have to pay for it in hell. Maybe my first response was right. Why not.
		© The Raven Chronicles 1997