Window out winds down

Wronged. That would be the perfect solitary descriptor for my youth. My tiny mind was over used with various points of view, each one crafted specifically to save the whole from complete and total self destruction.
Suicide, I learned when I was seven, is a sin. My cousin heard me praying to god, apologizing for the sins I knew I would commit and she corrected me. “you can’t really be sorry if you haven’t done the thing yet.”
I was taken aback…how many sins had I committed that had only been mentioned to the almighty BEFORE they took place. I might be going straight to hell. “That is why Suicide is the unforgivable sin.” She lectured. …unforgivable? What about the blood of Jesus, can’t that cover it? Wait,
“What’s Suicide?”
She didn’t say; Suicide is a lurking specter that will haunt you for the rest of your life. Even when you are a grown woman and have a happy life, and no one can hurt you, Suicide will be there. At that point you will politely thank Suicide for its concern and point out various coping mechanisms that put Suicide into perspective, and pinpoint it as the drastic overkill it has become. But before then it will be worse, you’ll miss the bus and Suicide will present itself. You will get mugged and Suicide will comfort you. Sometimes in the middle of your dreary junior high school day Suicide will ask you to meet in the bathroom for eternal relief.
She said “It’s when someone kills themself , like on Dead Poets Society.” I don’t think that she perceived my intense reaction to this idea. The excitement I felt at the only plausible end of pain that had ever stumbled into my conscious realities. But the excitement was quelled instantly as she continued
“It’s very selfish. Those people don’t even THINK about the family and friends that they are hurting. Don’t you think their family is sad? But they don’t even care."
Crestfallen I realized my family already was heartbroken. And I had caused such turmoil before now. Like when I was bad and had to be punished, mama always cried. I tried to comfort her but that just made the sadness and the punishments worse.
No. Suicide, no matter how alluring, could not be the answer for me. I know they would all suffer more for my dying than they already did by my living. So I tried to forget about it.
Forgetting things isn’t as simple as it seems. With enough concentration pain can be reduced to a simmering droplet of consciousness and stored in a compartment to be studied later, or in some instances never to be seen or heard from again. The fear that disappears from the map is the one you have to look out for. Be alert. Search your consciousness for any and all signs of its existence. Even a modicum of recognition can be the end of the precise balance needed for each delicate sidestep around what has been forgotten.
So I forgot about Suicide. I forgot about it so completely that I ceased to be vigilant against its infiltration of my fractal mind.
That is how it happened that a few years later at age 11 Suicide sneaked up on me.
I was minding my own business exploring the out buildings of the old farm we lived at. It was a dilapidated rental, plumbed for running water that we couldn’t afford.
It was the ugliest house around, but there were ten acres of weeds and asparagus. This afforded the alone-time a girl needs when her only sibling is a brooding and scornful older brother. So I hung around in the field or the out buildings. There were some interesting things in the old sheds. And I spent a considerable portion of my days perusing the sundry items left behind by whatever old farmer used to work in there. There was a couple of bottles of Indian ink in one of them, the moment I learned what it was, how I longed for a tattoo.
Out of the blue one day I found an old coil of rope that I hadn’t noticed before, lying in a corner. And Suicide spoke up. Not really knowing why, but having no inclination to the contrary I climbed up on a small but elevated worktable.
I didn’t know anything about noose tying, being an 11 year old child that absolutely did NOT think about Suicide. But I understood the basic idea of a slip knot. I also considered how I always double knotted my shoelaces to avoiding them coming untied if the bow should come under duress. So I worked out a mix of the two and slipped the rope over my head, subconsciously pulling my braid through the loop like I did every time I got dressed.
Just then with the rope around my neck, looking at my shoes (which on the rough surface of the worktable seemed somehow unreal, or at least very very far away) I had a flicker of a question enter my stream of consciousness.

Isn’t this a bad idea?

No, Suicide crooned, there are no more bad ideas just quiet after this. No more mistakes. No more hurts. No more forgetting. And no more remembering. Just quiet.
I rocked from side to side disrupting the balance of my precarious perch. Two strong pushes to each side and the table was on two legs. One more hard shift of balance and it fell. and I fell. I remember not having considered the falling before it happened. Then abruptly I stopped. My head stopped, but my body seemed to keep falling. My body seemed to stretch. But it did not go too far. It had worked my knot held and my world went black.
When vision returned I was lying on the dirt floor.
A rope round my neck.
I sat up, loosened the knot, and glanced at the frayed end of the rope in my hands. Then I righted the work table and untied the rope from the rafters. I hid the rope again in the corner where I found it and left the shed.
I was dazed. I was not disappointed or relieved. Just alive, so I decided not to mention it. I figured I’d probably better just forget it. So it’s been a little secret, just between me and Suicide.