“In nineteen minutes, you can mow the lawn, color your hair, watch a third of a hockey game.
In nineteen minutes, you can bake scones or get a tooth filled by a dentist; you can fold laundry for a family of five.
Nineteen minutes is how long it took the Tennessee Titans to sell out of tickets to the play-offs. It’s the length of a sitcom, minus the commercials. It’s the driving distance from the Vermont border to the town of Sterling, New Hampshire.
In nineteen minutes, you can order a pizza and get it delivered. You can read a story to a child of have your oil changed. You can walk a mile. You can sew a hem.
In nineteen minutes, you can stop the world, or you can just jump off it.
In nineteen minutes, you can get revenge.”
“Nineteen Minutes”, Jodi Picoult
I have been reading Jodi Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes – in fact, that’s where I got the excerpt from. I couldn’t get into it for a while… but now I can’t seem to put it down. I’ve gotten so engrossed that it’s even crossed my mind to buy an actual copy of the book – something that I have avoided in my attempt to avoid unnecessary expenses. It makes me wonder then – is reading a book about a school shooting, where a lonely, misunderstood boy ends the life of 10 people and injures 19 others a necessary expense?
Put that image on top of that tale – the most common lie we tell is “I’m fine” – and it hits a little closer to home.
I am known for crying over movies (regardless of the genre), songs, significant human experiences… and stories. Stories that I feel an unbelievable connection to. Stories that ring true. Stories of love… of loss… of hope… of death… of grief… of sorrow. But of all tales ever told, the ones that speak most to me are those about loneliness.
Of all things, I once considered Grief and Sorrow to be my oldest friends. So much that I once wrote about it when I was beginning Destiny (my attempt at a novel – but that is another story and will be told at another time). It wasn’t until I was spiraling down the darkness of depression that I found I stood to be corrected.
Do you know how it feels like to swim in a sea of sorrow, every exhausting second seemingly endless, with the shore nowhere in sight? I do.
I don’t understand whether it hurt more to find myself in that dark little hole, or to find that no amount of reassurance from those who love me was enough to pull me out. Those are the moments when every single demon comes out of every single memory, and every single second is filled with every fear you ever knew. Those are the moments when the darkness takes over your heart and all your eyes can see is despair. Those are the moments when every breath you take burns a million little holes in your lungs and you feel every iota of pain.
They say that suicide is a coward’s way out. They’re right, and I agree with them completely. I’m not proud of it, but it would be a lie to say that it’s never crossed my mind. I love my life, but sometimes I hate it. And I always, always wished I understood why.
Despite the dark and dreary entry, I must admit that I have been fortunate so far. I have had my dark days but I have always managed to pull out of it. Yet every success leaves me tired… So extremely and inexplicably tired.
When years trickle down to months… When months trickle down to days… When days trickle down to minutes… And minutes trickle down to seconds… How long will it take before you finally let go?
How long do you think will it take before I do?