Three Ways To Stop A Heart
I have an interesting life so far. There is a lot about my life I am proud of and a fair amount that leaves a bit to be desired.
I wouldnt change anything, because each mis-step and each success has lead me to today.
The stories that I tell folks about things I have done or experienced almost always leads to the suggestion that I write a book.
“I dont have a The End,” I would always reply. Which is 1/2 true. The other half is that I have been unsure if I was ready to tell my story. Partly because I am unsure if its valuable, and partly because I dont know if I want to revisit it. But, the other night I began to write. Its just a few pages, but its a start, and given my choice to live an open life, I decided to post it here.
I probably wont post anymore; I think this is enough for now, but I am going to try and write it and see where it goes. Who knows? Perhaps its will be the start of something interesting; or perhaps it will be nothing. I enjoy the unknown of it all.
So, enjoy…let me know what you think. Positive or negative.
Three Ways To Stop A Heart (working title)
I wondered when I would die.
This wasnt a new thought. It was something that I thought every day for 4 years.
Maybe it was going to be today. The speed at which my heart beat certainly was promising. As I looked down, I could almost see my heart twitching against my chest.
“Stop already,” I implored my heart. “I’m done.”
I caught a glimpse of the burn scar on my wrist.
I guess it wasnt just the past four years that I have been thinking of death, but about as long as I could remember.
At the age of about ten, I would turn the electric burners on the stove on until they blazed a beautiful red, only to turn them off until they were a dead black.
Off and on. On and off. Sometimes, it was hours until my mom would come into the kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
As soon as she left, I turned the burner back on. “It wont hurt,” I told myself.
Red hot. Dead black.
You could smell the heat the burners gave off. It was inviting, almost drawing me in. “Even if it does hurt, at least it will be something else to think about.” I reasoned.
Red hot. Dead black.
I ran my hand over the burner while it was red hot. I could feel the heat warm my hand. I held my hand in place until tears came to my eyes. As I drew my hand back, I turned off the burner watching it darken. As soon as it had gone completed black, I quickly slammed my hand down. The searing sound hit my ears like a ton of bricks. The smell shot into my nose replacing every smell I had known with the putrid smell of burning skin. I kept my scream muffled; I didnt want my parents to know what I did. But, know they did.
And as they rushed into the kitchen, I smiled.
I took my shirt off to make sure that I could see the moment my heart stopped. It was taking to long. “Make it go faster,” I wished.
I leaned over to the plate and inhaled another monster line of cocaine. The size of my lines had grown over the past four years to the point I even began to scare my drug dealer. Friends stared in awe as I took down gram after gram in a single inhale.
My nostrils barely worked. My brain was cloudy with the Xanax and Valium. My eyes were barely open after three straight days. My intent was the only thing that was clear.
“Just stop, goddammit.”
Another memory fought its way through the clouds. The memory of the first time I tried to end my my life.
I was barely two.
My mom tells the story, her voice filled with wonderment and sarcasm.
“He was such a smart child,” is usually how she began. “He used to find my bobby pins, crawl over to a light outlet, and stick the metal pin into the plug. After a sizable shock for a two year old, he would pull the pin out of the wall, cry, and do it all over again.”
“I wish I was successful then,” I often muttered wistfully under my breath during her telling of the story. “It would have made things so much easier.”
I had about three-quarters of an ounce of cocaine left. A couple packs of cigarettes, and two bottles of vodka chilling in my freezer.
“That should last me through the day. I hope I can finish it before I die.”
For each line I took down, I punished myself by doing two more. I stood up from the couch, still wobbly from the paralysis in my right leg, I stumbled to the kitchen. I rummaged through the cabinets, grabbing every antihistamine and nasal decongestant I could find. “These are organic. Thats good.”
I took a couple drags on my cigarette, and stuck the nasal spray up my nose, inhaling as strongly as I could. I could barely breathe.
I decided against smoking the cocaine, knowing it would have a limited affect on my current state. I turned towards the refrigerator, welcomed by the word “Retard” I had written across the freezer with magnets.
“You are a retard,” I thought to myself.
Ripping open the freezer, I pulled out the ever present bottle of Grey Goose. Taking a couple swigs to calm myself; I replaced the bottle in its resting place.
I shook my head back and forth several times in an attempt to shake the millions of concurrent thoughts going through my head.
“Shut the fuck up, already,” I said to nobody.
I took a breath through my nose. It was about as good as it would be. My left nostril was completely closed. Being my favorite nostril to use, it was painful to the touch. I still dug my finger deep in my nostrils in an attempt to create as clear a path as I could.
“Sorry, Lefty. Looks like I am going to cheat on you with the right.” I giggled. Even then, I knew my laugh was a tortured attempt at levity. There was nothing funny about what I had set out to do.
As the thoughts ran through my head, I cursed myself. “You are a fucking failure. You cant even kill yourself right.”
“You have tried and tried and tried. But, each time, you go to sleep, you wake up.”
“Just like everything in your life. You suck. Bet you will fail at this now.”
As anger began to swell, my mind began to clear. My focus came back. I stood a bit straighter.
“Not this time. I am done failing at everything.”
I pulled one last time on my cigarette, and threw it in the sink. I briefly wondered how long it would be until someone noticed I was gone. Who would feed my animals?
I guess I didnt really care.
Back on the couch, I took measure of the rhythm of my heart. Erratic but beating at a high rate. Each beat was strong against my chest feeling like it would finally rip through and land in the middle of the plate of cocaine in front of me.
“Today is the day. Today I finally become a success.”
I leaned over the largest line left on the plate. The size of my index finger and perfectly bisecting the dinner plate in two.
As I inhaled, I smiled.
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Wow. That's powerful, Micah.
I'm glad you weren't successful at ending your life.
Yes, keep writing. My first thought is that this might be able to help someone. My second thought is that it might help you.
Maybe?
Thanks. These are just old stories for me.
I'd like to have something to say about this as a literary piece or about how powerful it would be as a book, but I'm not educated enough about either to say anything of merit. I do think that writing this will stir up some pretty powerful emotions, which could be medicinal but could also push you back into a troubling state of mind. I'm scared of the latter by the tone of this piece — it has a hint of glorification that I'd expect you to have (the same way anyone who's gone that far into an experience that the rest of us have extremely little idea about would have), but it warrants some concern. You found yourself staring into the abyss and you stepped back from the edge; telling that story is probably good. If you find yourself thinking you might enjoy another glance at it, I hope you'll consider abandoning the project.
You've clearly been to insanity and back, and have had your share of troubles along the way. I'm extremely happy you made it through, because my life is enriched by yours.
Good luck with the writing, I think it's worthwhile to record your thoughts — and if anything comes of it that you ever want to share, I'd love to learn how you became the person I know today.
Intense.
Thank you.
Keep writing, please, keep writing.
Love
K
Wow!
That was a very interesting and moving piece of writing. If had not read some of your other very open blog post here I would have said that is a great piece of fiction.
As Tyler said could could be a great book for others to learn from and see what they still can be if they put their minds to it. And it will probably cause you some pain and troubles getting it on paper.
If you need help any help or just someone to listen, I've been told I'm a great listener if i can keep my mouth shut for a while.
Best of luck and I will keep pulling for you “One day at a time”. each day hopefully will get easier to move on.
So, I think its important for me to say something:
I am fine. This is from 2.5 years ago. They are old stories.
I am not some wreck curled in a ball in the darkness of my closet.
These are things that used to be. I am fine, and continue to be fine.
The worry is wonderful, and the offers for help are fantastic, but I am exactly the person you have met, or who's blog you have read, or voice you have heard. This is just something that helped me become that person.
Crazy. Powerful. Disturbing. Shocking.
That's what I thought when reading this post.
I don't know you that much Micah, just a few conversations online, but it's obvious you've endured great pain. I don't know if there was a “reason” why you wanted your heart to stop, or if you just did, but that's gotta be painful in and of itself.
Also, my opinion carries so little weight in this context. I'm pretty much as straight-laced as they come. I wanted to say _something_, because it's such a moving bit of writing, but didn't know what.
Here goes,
You have posted before, earlier in the year, about your new road that you walk. Even the name of this blog draws significance from your journey. You obviously make a decision every day to begin again.
What I hope is that the voice in you saying “stop heart stop” is gone. Or if it's your voice that you no longer .. voice it. Then, along with this, I hope (and think you probably do) you have some joy or happiness that brings meaning to what we do.
Psalm 1, from where I presume you have gotten your latest tattoo phrase from, introduces the two men. It's the man who doesn't walk in the council of the wicked whose life has meaning. Growth. Fruit. He prospers. I'd rather be like the tree than the chaff.
Thanks dude. Most of that story was from almost 3 years ago, and so,
live is much different now. Doesnt mean that things are perfect, only
that I am dealing with life differently. And so far, so good! Thanks
for the kind words, means a lot!
Happy to hear it :)
Micah,
Awesome! Glad to hear your perspective again, it's good. Dealing with life differently.
Take care, be prosperous in joy, and now I'm off to read your latest post.
Cheers
Yo Micah, I was thinking the other day about my accomplishmets in life, my mistakes an some of the things I want for the future, and I had same tought like you about what we did in the past good or bad lead to this point and placed the basis to the persons we are now. No regrets at all about my past. Good post man.
I might be the only commenter who is totally not shocked.
In fact, the first thing I thought a few paragraphs down the page was, “I knew there's a reason I like you.”
=)
So, yeah. It's your story, and I'm glad you've lived to tell the tale, and I completely and utterly relate. Also, I'm so very proud of you, the Micah I know.
I might be the only commenter who is totally not shocked.
In fact, the first thing I thought a few paragraphs down the page was, “I knew there's a reason I like you.”
=)
So, yeah. It's your story, and I'm glad you've lived to tell the tale, and I completely and utterly relate. Also, I'm so very proud of you, the Micah I know.