Nearly Killed

I stepped off the curb today and was almost killed by a garbage truck. (A fitting end in my opinion- I never look at crossing signs or for oncoming cars) Thank God or someone for Westinghouse air brakes, because I was really almost toast. And the sad fact is that I can’t say that I would have minded.  Perhaps my bad pedestrian habits reflect some inner desire for a violent, sudden death. ( Hmm, something to muse on.)The painting says it all, me daydreaming, a massive truck hurtling toward my unsuspecting carcass. My divorce hearing went as expected and I came away from it with a true feeling of emptiness; it’s broken something inside of me and I don’t know if I’m ever going be whole again.  I think I need something more than the medications are giving me lately, I need some sort of connectivity, something to help to validate and understand some of the things that I’m feeling.  I began a book, (or rather resumed it) called Touched with Fire which posits that a life touched by madness is actually a positive, if not a desirable thing for all of it’s wonderful creative benefits.  Yeah-tell me that when I’m curled up into a whimpering ball of depression and despair and am unable to speak for whole days at a time because it just hurts too damned much to try.  I suppose the author means well, trying to put the best possible face upon what is actually a handicap (the author is bipolar as well) and hoping to turn the stigma of mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder and it’s cousins, around into something positive.   I can relate to that, but I feel the romance of it always, always, takes a Gothic turn. There’s a romance of a kind, but it is always tinged with the flavor of death close behind.  Mortality and self destruction, as in Victorian literature, is somehow sexy, I suppose.  After walking away from my near-death collision, I felt an exhilaration that bordered on the sexual as I navigated the crosswalk and walking further, felt that even my steps were lighter.