A Writer's Lament

                           A Writer’s Lament

“Speak now or forever hold your peace.” Am I dreaming or am I getting married to Bev again? I have this choking feeling and seem to be in a semiconscious state. Wait a minute! I am dreaming. I am trying to commit suicide.

Yup, that’s me hanging from the ceiling fan with a sheet around my neck. I can’t seem to do anything original. Even the note pinned to my tee-shirt is not original. “The words don’t come anymore”. Didn’t some folk singer use the same line for a suicide note? I’m just another frustrated failed writer. After years of prolific writing and several finished books, I still can’t find an agent, or publisher. I have self-published several books with moderate success, but I need someone to believe in me aside from family and friends. I’ve received enough praise and encouragement to keep me writing but I want or need critical acceptance. The New York Times bestseller list or a Nobel Prize would be nice but just an agent or publisher’s support would be enough. By hanging myself, I am making a statement but not an original one. My books will probably become best sellers after my death. There! At least something good will come of it. My wife and two kids will receive all the profits. My daughter will finally be able to afford tuition to go to Harvard medical school and my son will be able to afford health insurance. It will also be revenge for all those rejections. Think of all the money and publicity those bastard agents and publishers will be missing. They’ll be kicking themselves.

Wait a minute! I’m not dead! My neck is sore, and my throat is raw but I’m looking up at Stevie, my twenty something year old son. Shit! He’s not supposed to be here. I timed my hanging to correspond with Bev’s girl’s weekend in Reno. I didn’t count on my son visiting. Why does he have to be such a good boy? Despite my poor parenting, emotional unavailability, he’s always been the model son. That Bev! She was always good at everything, including parenting. Now, I’m going to have to explain myself. Maybe I can try again tomorrow. If I haven’t successfully screwed up my son in the past. This should do it. My friend Stan was never the same after he cut down his father after his suicide. Mind you, his father was successful.

It all started fifty years ago. My dad died in a car accident on the way to the hospital. He was rushing from work to be there for my birth. He didn’t make it. The obstetrician told my mother and grandparents about the accident as I was being pulled out of the birth canal. Imagine the trauma, I experienced as I was greeted into life with tears and wailing. I believe my grandmother was banging her head on the wall. My grandfather had to restrained from hitting the doctor for breaking the news during my delivery. No wonder I’m so screwed up. Life just got weirder after that. My grandparents considered me to be my father reincarnate. No, they weren’t Buddhists, just neurotic Jews from the old country. During my childhood, when no one was looking they’d talk to me in tongues. It was probably Yiddish, but what did I know? My mom never could figure out why I would hide when my dad’s parents would visit. My Dad’s three sisters weren’t much better. They’d cry when they saw me and smother me with kisses. Yechh! Since my dad was a doctor, a consummate musician, and a world class chess player, I was expected to excel at everything. I was a good student, a fair athlete and a competent chess player but never could reach my father’s heights. Never good in the sciences, I was not going to be a doctor, but I could write. In fact, I won scholarships in college based on my writing. Of course, after my family got over the fact, I wasn’t going to be a doctor, they expected me to be a wildly successful writer. Believe me, I’ve tried. If volume counts, I’m the greatest. I think I’m funny, my wife and kids think I’m funny. My humor just doe does not translate into my writing. I need to find a new style or better story. In the meantime, how do I explain myself to Stevie?

“I was just doing research on a story about suicide. I wasn’t going to go through with it.”

“Don’t lie to me Dad, it looked pretty real to me.”

“Ah, you know me kiddo, always the jokester.”

Stevie helped me up from the floor. I smiled as he looked at my soiled boxer shorts. I guess I had wet myself. Thank God, my bowels held. I know Stevie thought it was the cancer that prompted this rash act, but I could live without a prostate. I admit that my impotence weighed on me, but Bev didn’t seem to mind. Even when I developed the lymphoma, I didn’t mind the infusions. At least it wasn’t the scorched earth chemotherapy. I just couldn’t stand being a failure and I was depressed about the new “America”. I actually enjoyed sitting in the infusion center and jawing with the other patients. They had the same gloomy picture of the world as I have. I would probably die soon. What would be my legacy? I was another failed writer. Boo-hoo. No one would care. I needed to make a mark on the world. If I couldn’t do it with my writing, there had to be another way. My kids could be my legacy, but they are great despite me not because of me.

“Come on Dad, take off your clothes and let’s get you in the shower. Then we’ll discuss how to proceed.”

I started laughing while I took off my soiled clothes.  Stevie looked at me strangely.

“What’s so funny?”

“Didn’t you make a film on the many writers who committed suicide? I’m helping you make the sequel. Writers who tried but failed.”

“That’s not funny.” Stevie followed me to the rest room. He stood outside as I showered. He kept the door open. I don’t think he trusted me.

When I finished and dried off, Stevie watched me dress and insisted he take me to the hospital. I resisted. I’d written a few novels which included characters who attempted suicides. Almost all of them enjoyed a stay on a psych ward. No fucking way! I read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. After an hour, we reached a compromise. He called my therapist and made an appointment for that afternoon. I promised I would abide by his suggestions (maybe). Despite my insistence, Stevie would not go home and accompanied me to my appointment. In fact, he sat beside me on my shrink’s couch.

Dr. Bluffer was a typical L.A. therapist. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. His balding grey hair was tied back in a ponytail and his grey beard was neatly trimmed. I always thought he had an affected English accent, but he did have a diploma from Oxford displayed on his wall. He assumed his most sympathetic posture as we entered the room and sat down. The concern on his face seemed overdone. When he stood up and gave me a hug, I chuckled. I don’t think he noticed. When we were seated, the session started.

“So, Allen talk to me. I know you are going through a lot. Two cancers and chemo can be overwhelming for anyone. Have you given up? I thought you were looking forward to the completion of your next novel. You told me the doctor said you had a good prognosis, and the chemo was mild. What led you to hang yourself. I must say, Stevie’s phone call shocked me. I didn’t think you were the hanging kind. Nor did I get a sense that you were suicidal.”

“Doc, I was just prepping for a scene in my new novel. I really wasn’t going to go through with it!”

Stevie turned to me with his eyes flashing. “Cut the bullshit Dad! We already discussed this. It looked pretty real to me. You were semi-conscious when I found you. For fuck’s sake, you peed your pants. Look in the mirror. That purple mark on your neck is pretty telltale.”

“I had to make it feel as real as I could. That’s how I get into the character’s head.”

The therapist looked back and forth between Stevie and me. Then with a wry smile, he made a comment that surprised even me.

“That would make you a Deadhead.”

Stevie looked aghast but I had to laugh and compliment him. “Good one doc!”

The therapist waved his hand, shook his head and was quick to retract his comment.

“I’m sorry that was inappropriate, but I couldn’t resist.”

I knew there was some reason I liked this guy. He kept the sessions light and easy. He kept me out of the dark places other therapists took me to.

“Okay Allen. Where’s your head, honestly? From Stevie’s description, you made a serious attempt to end your life. Are you that despondent? Our last few sessions were upbeat. Are you having side effects from the chemo?”

I closed my eyes and took a few minutes before answering. Stevie pressed his elbow into my side.

“I stick with my original story but let’s say it was true. It wouldn’t be the cancers or chemo that would drive me to suicide. All these rejections and failures are too much. I am a good maybe great writer. My friends, family and teachers have told me so. I deserve a break. Then there’s the new strain of Covid, the Ukrainian war, the rise of fascism, Ukrainian genocide, nepotism in the White House, my finances….”

Dr. Bluffer pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. “I see. It must be overwhelming.”

“Doc, you have no idea but I’m fine. Can I go now? I promise I will never try that stunt again.”

Dr. Bluffer pursed his lips and shook his head before replying. “I’m afraid I still think you are a suicide risk and need to spend a few days in the hospital for evaluation and treatment. I just have to see if there’s enough beds at UCLA. Otherwise, I’m sure we can find you one in Huntington Beach or Bellflower.”

Allen stood as if to leave but Stevie pulled him back to his seat.

“Come on doc, you know I’m not crazy. Even if I did attempt suicide and I’m not sayin’ that I did, I’ve had an epiphany that will change everything. I have a lot to live for.”

Bluffer smiled and shook his head again. “Hold that thought and work on that epiphany while in the hospital. If you can convince the psychiatric team that you are no longer a suicide risk, they may release you in 24-48 hours. The accommodations at UCLA or Huntington beach are plush. Think of it as a short vacation from the crazy world you were describing. Besides, it could be research for your next novel. You are the third writer, I’ve had to admit this month. You’ll be in good company.”

Stevie had his hand firmly on my shoulder. He knew I was ready to bolt. All my pleading and cajoling were to no avail. Before I knew it, we left the office and were driving a few blocks to UCLA. After we parked Stevie accompanied me to the admitting desk with a hand on my arm. I couldn’t stop pleading or rationalizing but he ignored me. He was on a mission and didn’t leave my side until I was safely wheeled away in a wheelchair by a guy who looked like The Rock dressed in scrubs. When I reached the ward, I expected to be placed in a strait jacket or injected with mind numbing drugs. Maybe they’d take me straight to the electric shock therapy (ECT) suite. I would put up a great fight. Instead, I was rolled into a beautiful brightly painted room with two beds and a large television screen. I was sure the tv was for telecasting subliminal messages. If I wasn’t paranoid before my admission, I was becoming paranoid now. These psych wards have that effect on you.

 Once The Rock left, I settled into one of the two comfortable easy chairs at the far end of the room. I began to contemplate my situation but was interrupted by the entrance of my roommate. He looked vaguely familiar. A tall thin middle-aged man with unkept curly grey hair, he looked vaguely familiar. Without cracking a smile, he greeted me.

“Welcome to the looney bin Allen.”

Oh my god, it was Phil Cohen! We attended UCLA together one hundred years ago. He was a successful mystery writer with several bestsellers a decade ago. What’s he doing here? I rose, shook his hand and greeted him as best as I could considering the circumstances.

“Oh, I’m glad you showed up, Phil. The writers’ conference starts in fifteen minutes. I’m just waiting for the others.”

Phil stepped back and looked at me strangely. I knew what he was thinking and quickly addressed his fears.

“I’m only joking buddy. I was just admitted because of a suicide attempt. What are you in for?”

“Uncontrolled depression. I have had two suicide attempts in the past. They are going to try ECT on me. My family has given up on me and I haven’t written a word in a year.”

I looked closer at Phil as we both took our seats and noticed that he was expressionless and generally unkempt. It was a far cry from the dapper happy go lucky guy I knew years ago. I needed to know what had happened to him”?

“Phil booby, you were always such an up guy and your career has been a major success. What happened? Was it your marriage, your health, your kids?”

Phil looked down at his feet and answered in a monotone. “No none of those things. I just can’t write. The last few books have gone nowhere.”

I was incredulous. “That’s it?”

Phil nodded and then put his head in his hands. I wondered if my rooming with Phil was part of the therapeutic plan. These doctors may be smarter than I thought.  I was beginning to feel foolish and had not even had one therapeutic session yet. So far, there was no strait jacket or mind-numbing drug but my roommate was going for ECT.

Twenty minutes passed and The Rock returned and escorted me to a doctor’s office. As I entered, the doctor rose, greeted me and shook my hand. She would be my first female therapist. Her black glasses and white lab coat made her look very intellectual and professional. Otherwise, she was an attractive young lady with long black hair. I wondered what she had to offer me but was immediately disarmed by her first words.

“Allen Rubenstein, I am a big fan.”

Who says flattery doesn’t work? She had read most of my novels! We spent the first few minutes talking about my work and I almost forgot where I was. Eventually we got around to my suicide attempt and state of mind. It was easy to be honest with her. She had this way. I had to admit that after seeing Phil, I had a different perspective on my life and career. I asked her if I was purposely assigned a room with him. She just smiled. We went over all my concerns and reasons for depression They seemed so trivial. She did agree that the world had taken a right turn but persuaded me that the pendulum would swing back towards center. I chose not to share my plan to save the world. I feared it would mean a few extra days in the hospital. As it was, I spent 72 hours sharing a room with Phil and had two more sessions with my new doctor. She agreed to follow me as an outpatient and I was discharged a new man, well sort of…

I no longer viewed my self as a failure and would continue to write. My next novel would be my greatest and I would save the world.