One Hundred and Ninety

I read an article today that said sadism is the most common perversion.  This is absurd.  Ever since Reik wrote Masochism In Modern Man it's been common knowledge that masochism is the most common perversion.  How could it be otherwise when those who suffer vastly outnumber those who make them suffer?

Perhaps the author doesn't consider masochism a perversion.  Ever since Buddha in the East, and Christ in the West, it's been common knowledge that in this world suffering is natural and inevitable, and any attempt to alleviate it is futile.  Most of us therefore persuade ourselves, as masochists do, that our suffering has meaning.  But nothing has meaning.   

I'm not convinced that women suffer more than men do, as feminists claim.  Their suffering seems to me merely different in kind.  But the suffering men inflict on women is more perverse than what they inflict on other men, because they pretend they do it out of love.

Freud said women are naturally masochistic, and men naturally sadistic.  But he was honest enough to admit he didn't understand women.  He also said what we call love is a euphemism for the predator’s desire to capture and possess his prey.  To fully possess his beloved, he must kill her.

Poe said the death of a beautiful woman is the most poetical of subjects.  She was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen off of a movie screen, and she didn't need a key light.  Everyone who knew her fell a little in love with her.

"Living is hard", she said.  "It's dying that's easy".  But it's easy only when you have someone who loves you, or pretends to love you, to help you die.

Perverts express their love in perverse ways.  But who, in this world, is not perverse?

Even in her coffin, she was beautiful.

The funeral director kept saying he’d done the best he could.  I told him he needn’t apologize.  Her face looked beautiful.

“But her body”, he said.  “What happened to her body?” So I told him about her doctor.

Freud said medical students become surgeons because it's a way they can express, and control, their sadism.  Her doctor expressed his, but he couldn't control it.

“I’m glad I’m dying,” she said. “I don’t want to see what’s coming.”

I didn’t want to see what was coming any more than she did, but my doctor kept me alive while hers tortured her until she begged me to help her die.  I didn’t, because I wanted her to live.

Some people who survive a loved one supposedly feel guilty.  I suspect it’s because they're relieved they survived while their beloved died.  I loved her more than I loved myself, and would have died in her place if I could.  But I’m not Christ.  Not even Christ was Christ.

I didn’t feel guilty for surviving while she died, even though when I was diagnosed we agreed we'd die together.  I blamed myself for not removing her from his care before it was too late, but not for entrusting her to his care in the first place.

I was skeptical of him, as I am of all authorities.  But I had to trust a doctor, and I didn’t blame myself for choosing the wrong one.  I blamed him.

I tried to kill myself after she died, but it’s not easy for an amateur to do it well.  I should have asked for help from an expert, someone like her doctor.

But that was long ago.  Now I no longer dream about her.  I no longer dream.

And I no longer think about suicide as often as I used to.  Not because my life is better now, because it’s worse.  But I no longer care.

I used to console myself that, bad as my own life is, I was helping to make the lives of others better.  At least they told me I was.  Now it’s clear that I, and they, were fooling ourselves.  Everyone’s life is bad, and getting worse, because we're all masochists who've entrusted ourselves to the care of sadists.

Could we have done differently, done better?  Could I?  Of course.  But every choice we make limits which choices remain, until freedom becomes fate.