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writing/3/terrifying/engagement.md
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## Engagement
And what of it? What of all of this? Waving my hand at the previous however many hundreds of words, I might ask, "Why the fuck does it matter?"
There are many things that I might ask. There are many things that I *have* asked, even in these last however many thousands of words. Questions and questions
> > So, do you want to know the answer?
>
> I don’t know.
>
> > It is strange that you sound unsure.
>
> Why?
>
> > There are twenty-two questions on the previous page. Twenty-five if you count mine — and I suppose that whether or not we are to include those is the crux of the issue. If that is not bemoaning the lack of answers, I do not know what is. It is strange that you would be unsure whether or not you want to know the answer.\footnote{\cite{ally}}
But there is that one that sticks in the craw: 'why?' Why do I worry so much, and what, pray, might I do about it?
Clearly, one answer — one I decided to explore a late March night in 2012 — was simply to escape. Just leave it all behind. Take the easy way out. Choose the escape hatch.
One way, perhaps, to stop worrying about how much space one takes up is to stop worrying at all.
But what does this mean for the foundation of those worries? I would still take up space, yes? Arguably, I would take up more! *Much* more, yes? I would take up an inordinate amount of space in the hearts and minds of my loved ones. They would be left not only with their knowledge of me, but also of their lack of knowledge.
They would not know why I chose to quit this life, not wholly.
They would not know who I was in those last days-hours-minutes, not wholly.
They would not know what I was feeling, not wholly, and they would not be able to ask.
I would take up an inordinate amount of space in their hearts and their minds, occupying the whole of them as they grieved, pushing out any ability to do much else. That's what happened to me, after all. Falcon died and I was useless for days, for months. What was I to do with this sudden, overwhelming trauma? Simply...let it go? Hah!
Falcon died, she slumped against me and left me with her still warm but unalive body, and no amount of weeping, no amount of JD crying, "Come back to me, come back" could change that.
I hold in tension within myself the idea that the only way out is through — through to the void, through that narrow gate, through to darkness — and just how unfair it would be of me to choose that.
((Struggling against the instinct to escape, suicidality))