Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

When I lay in my top bunk I see rats that run around and carry out their business in an ambivalent world that exists twenty feet above us. In New York the rats live underground but here they dominate the maze of pipes and nastiness above our tanks. I haven’t heard of a rat falling into a tank yet but I’m sure it’s happened or will happen one day when one of the fat critters accidentally slips in the thick dust. When the rats glide silently by above me there’s an occasional sifting of disturbed dust that will usually fall onto some unfortunate person’s bed. That’s one of the reasons the lower bunk is in demand and sometimes fought over, though the main reason is the spiders. All those cobwebs way, way up there came from somewhere and that somewhere is still right above our heads. I’m not fond of spiders but they’ve never particularly bothered me either. I have learned that spiders bother black people a great deal though, much like their fear of dogs, and with good reason. Several people have gone to the infirmary with spider bites that fester and turn into angry welts. The infirmary doesn’t do much except dole out Tylenol or give them cream to rub on the wounds as if they are minor skin irritations.

I have never in my life seen anything like this. New Holland is about what I envisioned a Taiwanese prison might look like, something similar to Midnight Express but all tucked inside this huge warehouse. The ceiling has invisible holes that leak a steady stream of water onto several of the beds for days after a big rainstorm. I managed to luck out with my bed situation because I stayed dry after it rained last week. I’ve only got a couple days left in here pushing the food carts around and then I should be free.

Oh Jenifer I miss you so much, I should be there for you now but I’m not. Soon. When I get out I’ll try and do right, okay? I promise. We go together like forks and knives. I need you. I’m not as smart as I was but I’m a hell of a lotsmarter than I used to be. Yes, I meant to say it that way. I used to be harmless but now I’m mostly harmless. Deviously harmless.

I got out. Finally. I got to see my baby and I found out everyone on Earth is mad at me. Half my friends think I shit on them and I still feel so guilty about everything that sometimes I start believing the rumors myself. I like the idea of being a criminal mastermind and I’m far from innocent, but my unwritten rule has always been to never steal from friends. Kirk’s roommate Bryce thinks I stole some CD’s from him but he’s still letting me temporarily stay at their apartment anyway. I’m not sure why, I wouldn’t. These other friends of ours, Clark and Kathy, think I stole stuff from them even though they don’t have anything to steal and I’ve been in jail while their things went missing. Clark worked at the UNT bookstore for a long time and at one point I helped him dispose of some of his large quantities of textbooks. Even my good friend Timothy thinks I stole from his girlfriend, but honestly her hot roommate only fucked me and then let me crash on their couch over night, so I’m not even sure of the logic behind that situation.

While I was in jail there was no possible way to defend myself against any of the accusations people put on me to cover their own asses. It hurts me to know that’s how they all see me, or want to see me, but I always assumed my strength of character would help them remember who I really am. Guess I was wrong again. Truthfully, I’m so jaded now that I don’t even feel like it’s worth trying to vindicate myself or pursue any of their friendships. It would be too hard to live in their world again and pretend they never had these nagging doubts about me all along.

I’ll probably go and find Timothy and apologize to him, not because he thinks I stole his cheating girlfriend’s shit, but because I feel like I let him down by falling off my game and getting arrested. Go figure. I don’t feel mentally strong enough yet to hunt down everyone and get into a name calling match, even if I decide to try and reconnect.

The worst of everything is that I can see in Jenifer’s eyes now that she doesn’t even believe my denials. She’s all out of the hospital now and still paralyzed, but heavy in the dope scene. It makes me sad but how can I say anything? I warped and discarded reality with dope, so it’s strange that I keep asking myself that same hypocritical question over and over.

My world has turned into a crazy man dancing on the edge of a cliff but the heights of despair make me dizzy. We’re being blown about like witless dust. Maybe I can do something proactive, step up to the plate and reverse this downward spiral. Soon right? I hope so.

“April 8, 1994—Kurt Cobain was found dead of a self inflicted gunshot wound.”

What a cold-hearted sentence that reads like a pathetic by-line in a conservative newspaper. In police slang, he ate his gun, which is a shame because I really liked his voice and music. I suspect that his evil wife killed him or had him killed for secret celebrity reasons but I don’t even know if I really believe that. I’ve been observing everyone’s reaction to the news about his death, which typically ranges from anger to disappointment to martyr-like deity emulation. Most people are just calling him a coward. I don’t think it’s cowardly to take your own life if it’s desperate faith or an honest and pure cry of hope for release.

At first, I was pretty despondent when I heard about the suicide, but then I got to thinking about all the words to his songs and everything he ever spoke about in public and I realized he really was depressed. He was pained that the record companies took his anonymity and then the media branded him as a whiner for complaining about being famous. I’ve got to respect when somebody is obviously bummed about their exploited life and acts rashly. Are you really a complainer if you follow through with what your actions have pointed towards throughout your career? His suicide proved he wasn’t a fucking whiny poser cashing in on the image of being morose. He was the real deal, used and cast aside, given drugs to make it through the next show, pushed beyond his limits without consideration. His song, “All Apologies,” just keeps ringing through my mind. I actually respect ol’ Kurt a little more for standing up for his beliefs and his own philosophy by having the balls to pull the trigger and plunge into the final unknown. Rest in peace, ok?

I did something else that was pretty stupid the other day, even by my book. I took (borrowed? stole?) Bryce’s car and drove it down to Dallas to score even though his brake fluid line was busted and there was absolutely no way to stop the car. Even the emergency parking brake was shot, but since his car has a stick shift I thought I could manage. I talked myself into believing I could manage anyway. I made it all the way to Dallas just fine, even though it was rush hour and I had to grind the gears a few times to force some pretty scary stops. I even kept going after I got a flat tire and paid a side-of-the-road shop $15 to fix it for me. Then after making it all the way to where I needed to be, I still ended up totaling his car because some mini-van driver just happened to slam on her soccer mom panic brakes right in front of me while we were going through a green light.

The fucked-up part is that I still managed to find a payphone and score from the dopeman while I was dealing with the cops about the accident. I told the cops I was Bryce and that I was in my thirties and even though I didn’t know his birthday when they asked, somehow everything turned out okay. I just told the cops that the brakes went out on me and luckily no one was hurt, although his insurance is going to get a few claims from the whiny bitch in the mini-van who caused me to wreck.