What the Prozac Told Me

     Dearest Readers, thanks to you for all your support while I have been living on the edge these past few days. I like the edge. My favorite edge is the edge you see in the pic to your left, where I am standing at the tourist attraction and my future grave, the famous Cliffs of Maher.

     I got close to the edge at the cliffs. I wanted a pic of what it looked like when you viewed straight down the walls into the inky ocean. I slipped under a chicken-wire fence and, on my belly, hung over the edge to get my blurry shot.

     A few weeks after that, a young woman with two children in a pram took a run for the edge, pram and all. Needless to say, all three perished but it IS a cruel world, boys and girls, and certainly not a world for the weak.

     When a body plunges from these cliffs, it hits the water and eventually floats. With all the waves crashing, it is hard to guess if a body would float north or south but in the case of mine, I hope it takes the North current, into Galway Bay. Just five miles north, on the coast, of course, is the town of Doolin, international mecca for traditional Irish musicians, and host to three bars with live music every night, a church and a hotel. Doolin is the town where JRR Tolkien looked at the hills and rocks and got the inspiration to write The Hobbit and the resulting trilogy. It is a truly beautiful spot, perhaps one of the nicest on Earth, at the West of County Clare.

     I never thought about suicide much until a shrink tried to convince me I was depressed. He was on me about it all the time and so I allowed him to prescribe about a half of a child’s dose of Prozac. Well, I may not have felt like suicide but the old Prozac sure filled my head and gave me the way to do it, should I ever have to. I am dead against suicide, except in extreme cases of impending death. It is a play for cowards for the most part.

     Somehow the Prozac, in its infinite pharmalogic, felt that I should know how to kill myself, just in case. That is really not a bad idea, since cancer was supposed to kill me eight years ago but I escaped. I still wonder what I would do if given the choice of death or chemo again, though. Chemo is rough stuff…way worse than death. It is good if you have something to live for…but with no family and at 53, how long would I last after a second round of chemo, anyway? That is a question that plagued me until the Prozac spoke.

     “What you do,’ the Prozac said, “is to sell everything, your house car, everything. Then burn all your personal possessions which cannot be sold and buy a one way ticket to Paris. Start spending the money in Paris, work your way through Spain and Italy, down a few pints in England, go look at the North Sea from the tip of Scotland and then make your way to Ireland.”

     “In Ireland, stay at the best hotels and eat the best foods you can find. Drink. Drink. Drink. Save 200 Euros, though. Continue to enjoy yourself until either the pain becomes unbearable of you are down to that last 200 Euros. At that point, buy the finest bottle of liquor available at that price, preferrably a tequila. If there is any change from the purchase, give it to a child. Then start drinking directly from the bottle.”

     “Drink. Drink. Drink. You should be drunk by halfway down the bottle. At this time, it will be a sunny, autumn afternoon and you will be sitting on the vast lawn where sheep graze along the cliffs. Stand up…can you? If you can, amble your way to a spot near the edge. There will be no Garda to watch or stop you. Once you get within ten feet, hold the bottle to your chest and take a run at the edge. Don’t mind the chickenwire fence, it can’t even stop a pram. Go through it or over it.”

     “As you fall, bring the bottle to your lips and suck on it until everything goes black.”

     The newspaper accounts will be romantic…’was found washed up on the Galway Coast’…nobody will know why and you will die mysteriously, a hoodoovoodoo image. The shrink did not much care for it and gave up on the depression angle, preferring to suggest me as bi-polar, as is now the more popular diagnosis. He told me Dickens was bi-polar, too, and that is why he wrote so much.

     I guess it is better to be crazy than dead but if you have to die, try to have some fun at it!!!!


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