depression comix #46
Thoughts on Suicide
(Warning: This bag of peanuts contains peanuts)
See, nothing really pisses me off more than the tales of “oh something bad happened to me once, and I thought of killing myself, then didn’t.” It’s a popular misconception, but that’s not how it works. Susanna Kaysen put it better than I could in Girl, Interrupted (The book, I don’t think the details of her suicide attempt made it into the movie).
Suicide is a form of murder — premeditated murder. It isn’t something you do the first time you think of doing it. It takes getting used to. And you need the means, the opportunity, the motive. A successful suicide demands good organization and a cool head, both of which are usually incompatible with the suicidal state of mind.
It’s important to cultivate detachment. One way to do this is to practice imagining yourself dead, or in the process of dying. If there’s a window, you must imagine your body falling out the window. If there’s a knife, you must imagine the knife piercing your skin. If there’s a train coming, you must imagine your torso flattened under it’s wheels. These exercises are necessary to achieving the proper distance.
The motive is paramount without a strong motive you’re sunk.
My motives were weak: an American-History paper I didn’t want to write and the question I’d asked months earlier, Why not kill myself? Dead, I wouldn’t have to write the paper, Now would I have to keep debating the question.
The debate was wearing me out. Once you’ve posed that question, it won’t go away. I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won’t.
Anything I thought or did was immediately drawn into the debate. Made a stupid remark — why not kill myself? Missed the bus — Better put an end to it all. Even the good got in there. I liked that movie — maybe I shouldn’t kill myself.
That’s what it’s like to be suicidal, it’s not a flunked paper, or a bad grade, your life is your impending demise. Of course, unless you’re on that side, or have been there, you don’t know that. So, most of the time when a suicide is portrayed as a sudden careless thing, people who think they know what is going on talk about that one time when they thought they might.
There isn’t a one time, it’s all the time. Sometimes, there’s planning, careful hoarding of pills (I spent 6 month collecting pills once, hundreds of them, snuck one or two at a time from the bottles in the house. I took them all with Sprite, then freaked out and puked, and puked, until I was throwing up dry powder. I still can’t stand Sprite). And maybe there’s a handful of rash suicides, where someone has access to a gun, or rope, something they can’t back out of, can’t call for help, can’t throw up. But, normally, it’s every day, every waking moment, contemplating making love to the idea, letting it comfort you, welcoming it like an old lover.
Trying to remember how to draw…it’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a pencil and actually tried to draw anything. My hand feels clumsy, like it’s forgotten how to move. I used to be good at this, not great, but good.
It’s frustrating, but I can’t let the depression steal something else from me.
Mental Health Stuff
I’m generally keeping this stuff over in a sub blog that no one reads…but I’m going to be a bit public with my crazy. It’s more doctor related than crazy related.
I spent Saturday hanging out at a mental hospital, I was feeling like I might need to be there, but they said I didn’t meet admission requirements, which is actually a good thing. I was declared safe to go home, after getting an assessment, and I went home. But, I don’t think I could be more happy that I went, because they are acting like a sort of bridge between me and the local mental health care providers (for free, none the less, they do the assessments for free, and they’re helping with the phone calls and gave a referral to a local doctor).
I just got a phone call with an update from them, and they talked to a big group of local doctors, gave me a referral, and told me I’ll be getting a packet of stuff in the mail, that I’ll need to fill out and get back to the local doctors. And the people from the hospital will be calling to check up on me, and see if I got the packet and what not.
I’m pretty much gonna always reblog this when it comes up on my dash. Which means, depending on how long my queue is, it’s gonna show up every 3-5 weeks. FYI.
Depression, Sex, and Random Attack Cry Bombs
I think the worst part of being depressed is the random cry bombs, like in the middle of sex. There was nothing wrong with the sex, I wasn’t uncomfortable or being coerced, actually I was having a pretty good time.
Right up until I started bawling, and then I feel like an asshole because I started crying, for interrupting the sex (or killing it completely as the case may be). And it turns into a crazy cry spiral of doom.
