… and taxes

Seven years ago this week I fell down. It wasn't the first time; I've been tripping over my feet my whole life. What made this time different was that I couldn't move my right leg. I was walking along the Darling Harbour foreshore when I went over, ass over tit. More confused than anything, I got up and shambled back to the convention centre, where I was working at a trade show, dragging my right leg behind me like a wounded dog. I'd been moving a lot of heavy machinery for the show, so I thought I must have injured my back, but x-rays showed no damage. My doctor referred me to a neurologist who hit me with a hammer and stabbed me with a thumb tack, and told me I had multiple sclerosis as if he were remarking on the weather.

I knew he was full of shit, but I was shaken enough to ring my mother. She reassured me that I would be fine, but I went for an MRI anyway. I've had plenty of MRIs for karate-related injuries, but I couldn't help being nervous when they sucked me into the torpedo tube. My fears were realised when they pulled me back out after a few minutes and injected me with gadolinium. One doesn't normally get an injection for an MRI. The results came back after a few days, by which time my leg had fully recovered. I didn't know the details, but I knew the news would be bad. The films showed numerous faint lesions in my cervical spine, plus a couple spots glowing brightly in my brain.

The R.E.M. track “Bad Day” is a political song, lamenting the circus of American party politics. After I was diagnosed, I felt as if everyone who looked in my direction saw a dying man. For the first time in my life I felt completely adrift, looking into day stacked upon week stacked upon month stacked upon year of hopelessness. Michael Stipe's refrain, “it's been a bad day, please don't take a picture” reflected my wish that I could disappear from the face of the earth. MS is rarely fatal, but the documented suicide rate is double the general population. I wasted the next year, at least, plotting my own death. I didn't want what lay ahead. I thought it would be easier for everyone if those closest to me would just leave. 

It's surprisingly easy to act positive for others' sake. But there's always the alone time. When I was a child, I used to dream of flying. I wondered how it would feel to fall from the cliffs at The Gap. Would it feel like flying? Or bungee jumping, with a hammer blow at the end? I weighed the pros and cons of veering into oncoming traffic from the aptly named “suicide lane” on the Harbour Bridge. Suicidal ideation does not make for pleasant conversation, and when all you can think about is being dead, it's hard to maintain interest in anyone or anything else. Many friends dropped away. Fair enough: I sucked to be around. I didn't even want to be around myself. I split up with my partner of the time, and lived alone. My closest friends drew closer, and without them, I think I would have drawn the curtain. To my astonishment, I met a girl, and fell in love, almost against my will. 

I don't know about you, but I can't live for another. Not my mum, not my mates, or my darling Emma. Suicide is an act of violence against those nearest you, and I cannot reconcile inflicting that on others. I felt I owed it to my loved ones to keep going, when every day, I was wishing myself away. The pressure was suffocating. So I had a nervous breakdown, which was something of a relief, since I pretty much stopped caring about anything for a while. Meanwhile, I still had MS, which was progressing. I began to lose the feeling in my hands and feet. Think about that for a moment. Did you pick up that mobile phone? Can you turn the page in your book? Write a check? Now forget that. Think about shaking hands; are you squeezing too hard? Not enough? If you can, reach out and stroke your lover's back. How does that feel? Can you feel it? Are you even touching her, or are you caressing her pillow by mistake? 

Peter Gabriel wrote "Mercy Street" for Anne Sexton, who suffered from depression. Sexton's doctors prescribed writing, and "Mercy Street" is a paraphrase of some of the themes in her poetry. After four unsuccessful attempts, Anne Sexton killed herself by carbon monoxide poisoning. Don't screw up, or you'll wake up in hospital with a blinder of a headache. Get it right, and you're off to sleep. Of course I've thought about that, and pills, weapons, drink, whatever. Be creative — but not too creative, because simple plans work best. The problem is, suicide seems so contrary to the human condition. Don't think I'm blind to the self-pity. I know there's a fucking world full of people worse off than me. But that was true before I got sick, so it's hardly a comfort. I'm surrounded by people who don't have my problems. Should I feel happy for them? This kind of circular thinking makes me question the original premise that I'm better off dead. It's very confusing, and if you think you know the answer, keep it to yourself, because you don't. What I do know is that I made a promise. I'm not going to make plans to kill myself, and I'll take reasonable care to stay out of harm's way. And I'm going to do what I can to feel good. Which is why I wrote this. Thanks for reading, and listening. 

TRACK 01 "Bad Day," R.E.M. INDEX: 00:00:00
TRACK 02 "Armies Against Me," Epicure INDEX: 04:04:70
TRACK 03 "The Drowning Dream," Augie March INDEX: 09:13:16
TRACK 04 "Iris," Goo Goo Dolls INDEX: 13:48:17
TRACK 05 "Mercy Street," Peter Gabriel INDEX: 18:35:11
TRACK 06 "Rhymes of an Hour," Mazzy Star INDEX: 24:51:53
TRACK 07 "Dead Alive," Kurt Vile INDEX: 29:00:19
TRACK 08 "The Truth About Cats and Dogs (is that They Die)," Pony Up! INDEX: 32:46:68
TRACK 09 "Lamb44," Tiny Little Blackouts INDEX: 36:55:05
TRACK 10 "Out of Range," Decoder Ring INDEX: 42:13:44
TRACK 11 "Can't Find My Way Home," Blind Faith INDEX: 45:36:28
TRACK 12 "Wish You were Here," Pink Floyd INDEX: 48:51:17