Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
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127

You wait and wait; you begin to suspect that you might not

be the Isolde you thought you were destined to become,

but the only thing you achieve is a mild case of anemia and

an enviable figure because you’re not hungry and don’t eat.

You start to tire of waiting and you think maybe you should

help the situation a bit. It’s not enough to eat little; on the

contrary, in a time when everything edible is toxic to a

lesser or greater degree, nothing improves health more

than not eating. You need to do more to move things along.

But how? A colleague sends me an e-mail:“What helped me

was to go to Iraq when things were so messed up there.”

Something to consider. I make a mental note in my planner

for killing time: Become a war correspondent.

Then, of course, there’s my daughter. She’s both a deterrent

against my wish to disappear and a force driving me toward

it: I’m haunted by the fear of offering her a sad life. Because,

this I know for sure: better a dead mom than a sad, toxic

mom. (But, maybe you won’t be the sad mother you think

you’ll be?)

The truth is, the greater part of your day is taken up with

graphic, visual, plastic, full-color fantasies of killing

yourself. You are not convinced by the model that comes to

mind, the suicide prototype from your adolescence: the

image of Sylvia Plath with her head in the oven, her two

lovely children in the next room snacking on the bread and