My Life Is Like A Word On The Tip Of My Tongue

My life is like a word on the tip of my tongue: I've...almost...got...it!  It's there. It's there. I've just about...I've almost...Oops. Slipped away. OK. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. OK. Better?

I was fifteen, failing in school, face full of sclurbs, clothes from the "husky" rack, desperate to play freshman baseball, failing to make the cut, no drivers license - life was a mess! Better times had to be out there somewhere. Lordy, did I ever look! Everywhere! Nevertheless, it seemed all my part-time earnings went towards Acnomel, an anti-zitz product, designed to make my pimples disappear. It didn't. I was getting nowhere. One day, my father, who was a very funny guy, said to me, "Son, one of these days you're going to find yourself, and, when you do, you're going to be awfully disappointed." He smiled, cleared his throat, tapped the ash off his cigar. He'd always clear his throat after a joke - our signal to laugh. Years later, backstage after the first performance of my first play, my father, nattily dressed in his light gray Chesterfield overcoat with the black velvet collar, put his arm around me, smiled, and said, "I guess you're not going to be a bum after all." Funny guy. He died two months later.

So, where does that find me now?

What a blessing: to be sure of one self! Happy with the face one sees while shaving. Content with one's credit rating. Certain of one's sexuality. A team jersey for each season. The absolute auto. A wife who still likes you. Life is good. I'm wondering if I know anybody like that? One or the other, yes, maybe two, three, but all six at once? Give that man a sticky bun.That man, of course, is not me, not yet, maybe not never, but I'm working on it. The father of a dear friend once advised, "It's a great life if you don't weaken."

So, here's what I want to know: when does the Will go? Is suicide the end of Will or the ultimate act of Will? I recently read about a 95 year old woman who gladly, with all her reason intact, chose to starve herself to death, simply and happily stopped eating. She also stopped drinking water though moistened her dry lips with wet gauze. It took six days.  She was cheerful and thankful until shortly before her end. Apparently, this is not so unusual. Others have done it. You die by your own agency, your choice, your time, in a way that appears to cause the least amount of trauma to every one. Did she just give up or did she muster an exercise of incredible will? Does one make a decision to give up, or does it happen when gravity finally pries your grip off finger by finger? I'm clinging to the top of a sheer stone face with a drop of a thousand feet. Can't pull up. Have to hang on. Fingers cramp. Arms ache. Have to. Muscles get weak.Will I never let go? Will I give in and accept, what? The Fall. The Fall? And just how does one face that? I stop the dream before I need to make any rash decisions.