I was 60 years old, divorced for a year, had two boys 12 and 9, and was very depressed. Having recently left a relationship of 13 years where I was constantly reminded of what I’m not takes a toll on a man, especially when that man’s subconscious has been sharing similar messages his entire life.
Was I done? Will I work again, or is this it for me? How can I support my beautiful boys? I vividly remember one morning approaching the familiar intersection of Topanga Canyon and the Pacific Coast Highway. I had been there hundreds of times waiting for the light to change while politely smiling at the man who’d become a fixture at the intersection. I did appreciate the sign he held proudly… NEED WEED. But that morning was different. Gone was the man and his reverence for cannabis. In his place, a woman about thirty-five wearing a soft smile proclaiming hope wasn’t lost, yet. As I handed her a five-dollar bill for which she was very appreciative I looked up at her to say you’re welcome. But as my eyes met hers, tears welled up, the air escaped my lungs. It was not her that I saw, but myself. In that terrifying moment I knew that if something didn’t change and soon, I would be a man, standing on a corner, asking for the kindness of others to help feed my kids. The light changed, I pulled forward and began to cry. The engine of my life that fueled avoiding the inevitable no longer functioned. Gone was the façade I worked so hard to create. Gone was my ability to hide behind monetary abundance. Gone was every method of distraction I so cleverly created. Gone was the adulation of co-workers, the laughter of women momentarily making everything okay, the haze of drugs and alcohol, the beautiful distraction of creating, all of it… Gone.
Fear took their place. The subconscious messages that had been waiting patiently for the last thirty years struck with a vengeance and the message was resounding. You’re a fraud and your charming personality won’t save you from this one.
I began planning where I would ask for money, because I sure wasn’t going to hit the corner of Topanga and the PCH. The very people I used to direct that looked at me with respect a few years earlier lived in this tony part of LA. Did I just write the word tony? My apologies. If the tinted window on their Mercedes lowered to hand me a few dollars… The humiliation would crush what was left of my fractured soul. No. My intersection would be far from here. Further than humiliation and self-loathing are willing to travel.
What was I going to do? I need to support my family, but my life has no value… and then it hit me. My life has no value… Living. While trying to symbolically hang on to a previous life of wealth I maintained a formidable life insurance policy for my boys. I believed in that moment my amazing boys, with their entire lives ahead of them would benefit more from ten million in their bank accounts, than me in their lives. I checked to make sure that my payments were up to date and the policy was still active. It was. Using my car as the device to transport me to the next world, I began to meticulously plan my “accidental” death. And if that wasn’t enough, six-five was just a few years away. I would be officially old and lonely, covered in sunspots, waiting for it all to end.
The universe gives you what you need… Yeah, right.
Next week on The Morning Pages I will share my surprising journey back from the edge of despair… Apparently the Universe does give you what you need.
See you next week…
Low tide is the worst, isn't it. In 24 hours this is the second anxiety driven end it all confessional I've read. Yours and another from a friends book. Making me feel so much more normal for the days when my head is in my hands and I just want off this ride. Now I know it's the human condition of this town and my generation. Thanks for sharing Gil.