At a particularly dark point in my life, one I'm not desperately interested in revisiting too often, I wrote this rather than actually carrying out what I described within it. I originally wrote it on paper as a way of getting it out of my mind in an attempt at catharsis. I eventually typed it up because a friend of mine wanted to know what I had written when I described the note to her and as my handwriting was never the easiest to read I did her a favour and typed it up. Please remember that this is not how I feel now, but it is part of my past and as such I share it here.
The real me
Hi,
My name is Joe Inhalsom and I lived at 140 Mountain High Drive. By the
time you read this, there will be no chance that you can save me. The
poison I have taken is slow acting, so I won't be dead for at least 4
hours yet, but you can't reverse it, there is no anti-poison. I have
been very careful, and the only debt I am left with to repay is that
of my cleaning lady Janice. To that end, I have written out a cheque
for $184, which is with this note. There is also an account with the
Jacobson & Jacobson Law firm in which I have already detailed my
funeral arrangements (and paid for them) and I have detailed how my
estate is to be split up. The lease for the building runs out at
midnight tonight, all my furniture will be returned to the
warehouse. My money is headed for various organisations who help out
HIV positive people, who provide support for the scared and persecuted
and, the family and closest friends of my personal saviour
Marco. Without Marco my life would have been without meaning. I loved
that man with all my heart. He died, not two weeks ago, AIDS
complicated by pneumonia was what finally carried him off. I can't
cope anymore. For twenty-nine years I have been hated and
despised. My own fight for recognition will surely not succeed. My
artwork is scorned by all who see it, slated as nothing more than
computer generated logic diagrams, but I know better than that.
The pain in my chest is building up. The man said that it would be an
unbearable burning sensation for that last half hour, but I
already feel very ill.
I can't have much more than an hour and yet there is so much I want to
say. Still, the easiest thing for me to do is run away, I've always
been a runner, I have never faced a problem square on and, now, I am
running the final gauntlet and I'm not going to make it.
As much as you thought you hated me: that was no true hate - true hate
comes only from true love and I doubt that any of you ever loved
me. All I ever felt from you was fear and a total lack of
understanding. My final gift to you is my death, I hope you're happy.
To my dearest and most trusted friends, all I can say is that I'm so
sorry. My life just feels like a piece of wet clothing. I so want to
take it off and relax.
My life now and for the past two weeks, has been no real life. My only
love has for the past two weeks, been only for death. I thought I was
in love with life, but now that Marco is gone, I long for it to end.
It is getting so hard to write now, my legs have all but stopped
working, my arm so tired. I can hardly hold the pen.
There, that's better, the trembling has stopped. I feel that I can
finish.
My main concern is that I leave nothing unfinished or untied. The only
thing I have left of my whole life, which has not been torn to shreds
by others is the true me. Only I KNOW who I am. And that knowledge
dies with me. I am so tired now.
Good bye to my friends, good luck to those like me, and good-riddance
to those narrow-minded bigoted people who dared to say that I am not a
human being. Its not the people on side show, but the people who go to
mock and jeer them, who are the freaks.
J