People have given me their reasons for not committing suicide (I mean, for me not killing myself (which is kind of a topic of conversation I tend to bring up if you get close to me)), a lot of which—these reasons... they just haven't struck any resonant kind of anything in me that has made the little voice that goes, "Use the paring knife on the magnet board in the kitchen, it'll be easier to get into the vital pieces," any quieter. Nobody's reasons have dimmed that homicidal voice's articulate phrasing or shaken his calm demeanor or dulled his ability to reason with the greatest of crystal fucking clarity. I mean, it's my voice, it's just gotten to the point where it sounds more like me than I do (if you have depression, you understand how one "You" can feel more you than the other)... depression is tricky that way...
Someone who I am very close to who has attempted suicide said, "It doesn't change anything, it doesn't make any of this better. It doesn't fix anything," which, I think is very good for some people to hear but I think our motives might be different.
See, in my "sessions" my doctor always asks whenever we're doing the little CUDOS (not kidding, I mean, I don't think I have actually been given this one, but there is an actual depression scaletestthing called the CUDOS scale (and I know I JUST went on and on about this in my last post, but I just CAN'T get over the fact that they acronymized a test for people who want to murder themselves MURDER THEMSELVES—that makes it sound different from just lobbing around the word "suicide," huh?—but that they would think that someone who has invested that much TIME and ENERGY—and believe me, it is enough of both of those two things to power—
I was bored with that. Anyway, my doctor always asks, she just kinda throws it in towards the end of the session when she is divvying out my 48 Rxs and I am checking them for inaccuracies with a jeweler's loupe to make sure she didn't fuck up either the dosage or the amount for the 80th fucking time (actually my current doctor has been much better than the previous one, who was some Dot-Indian-third-generation-in-the-U.S.-spoiled-brat-speaks-like-Paris-Hilton who is OBVIOUSLY just a doctor so she can fuck white frat boys and still be part of the 24-tiered caste system in at #19, Bejeweled Hobags and the Brahmans Who Love Them, and she was the one who ALWAYS fucked up my Rxs and would challenge me on asking for my ACTUAL prescriptions like I was trying to scam Benzos out of her... ) forcing me back to my dealer to procure meds which I have to then procure illegally because doctors are fucking morons, and not only do I have to go to my dealer to get the meds that I need just to be, like, functioning, able to leave the house, that sort of thing, ya know, non-euphoria inducing run of the mill average dudeguy on the street me, but guess what drug dealers also have? Cocaine. Yepyeahuhhuh I like that one, yuuup. What else? Oh, how about, mmmmm, well, how about some heroin? Yes uh huh uh huh, yup, I like it, yes, yes I do.
So I have to sit there with these braindead asshole doctors with "$1,000,000 Education" pricetags stapled to their heads with their fucking brand-whore loyalty to their school colors and look over their shoulders, "Yeah, that place where you accidentally wrote Disp. #30 instead of Disp. #45? Yeah, that place, right... there. You see it? Yeah, that's the difference between me just being able to tolerate work and only thinking about all of the ways I can kill myself when I get home instead of—uh huh, yeah, it's right... there. You see where it says 30? Yeah. That's it. That difference of 15 pills—ah, NOW you see it! Good. That 15 pill difference, while, yes, I do admit that 15 of a lot of things is a negligible number, like, say... grains of sand on the beach. Meh. Not so important. But! That same number in relation to pills that keeps the Voice that tells me about using the paring knife instead of the santuko-style knife which would prove a klutzy and cumbersome tool to hack my wrists open—yeah, the Voice. Those extra 15 pills keep Him from being, you know, audible, and makes it so that when I'm left alone that I don't wake up with knives in the bed because I fall asleep with them pressed againt my right wrist so hard thatl I pass out from exhaustion due to the tension of trying to not cut myself open? Yeah, 15 is a BIG number then."
You think of all professions where, you know, accuracy might be thought of as a good work attribute, that DOCTOR might be high on that list. HA! You crazy, sucka! They don't give a FUCK! As the Replacements say in "Tommy Gets His Tonsils Out," where they have perfectly summarized anyone in the medical profession:
Let's get this over with I tee off in an hour
Didn't wash up, yesterday I took a shower
Get this over with I tee off in an hour
My Cadillac's runnin'!
Riprip! We're gonna rip 'em out now
Riprip! We're gonna rip 'em out now
Riprip! We're gonna rip 'em out now
Riprip! We're gonna rip 'em out now
They have other, more important things on their minds.
See, here's what I think of doctors (and let's just throw in lawyers and accountants and business majors and investment bankers to cover all these bases). They are all probably, hmmm middle to fairly intelligent people (they at least know how to write papers and remember names of things, which, sure, that is as much as they're gonna need for their professions) BUT they ALL got into it because those are still some of the most surefire (even though NOTHING is surefire anymore in our great time post-BFA-Deluge, which has despoiled the Land of Opportunity of its square acreage and left the more familiar and much overpopulated Peninsula of Internton und Ünderpaidstein where we now reside) but even in these shitty times, these jobs are as "surefire" as you're gonna get. Bearing this in mind, and with EVERYONE bearing this in mind, this forces the scum of the world who have zero creativity/guts/balls/chutzpah/integrity and/or greater aspirations in life than a BMW, a summerhome and paid vacations to seek these jobs because THEY CAN'T DO ANYTHING ELSE! Not that those aren't wonderful things (except the vacation part, but I'll leave "travel" and all of its stupidity alone for yet another time, I know, you're all SO sad... ) So, in a way, it's kind of where the dregs of society go to pretend that they're not the dregs of society, you see?
Because of the surefireness of these occupations, they force uncreative, stupid, inept, greedy losers onto the payrolls of these afore-adjectived companies because this is where losers go to have all the things that losers crave to make them not feel like losers: BMWs, summer homes, paid vacations—and I'll add a couple more for fun—trophy-wives, mistresses, KIDS, brand names, elitism, country club memberships, STATUS, tax-writeoff-able philanthropy (God this is fun!) Hell! Add some of your own ________________________________________________________________ !
These people go for the safe bets—for the surefire—not because of any kind of altruistic bullshit motive a person could give for going into one of these things, or because they believe in the future and security and blahblahblah, they choose these because they aren't smart enough to think of the possibilities that lie beyond what they KNOW can make them all they have in them to become, which is top of the average, tip of the shit, chunk in the vomit-special. They know that they aren't creative enough to be good at anything other than a life that comes in a box with detailed instructions of how to get from birth to death while living most of that time in a nigger-free neighborhood and perpetuate all the values that can be defined by the word "swine" in a reading of some Hunter S. and the paragraphs directly preceding and directly after this word.
By calling themselves "practical" or "pragmatic" and by having a yearly income in the six to seven figures they think they have outgrown their threadbare, sleeve-worn loserdom that will always be their greatest insecurity.
And doctors are THE WORST because they can always fall back on, "I just want to help people..." which is THE trump card for any argument concerning any form of, "Excuse me? Why do you get paid SO much?"
Art is where the smartest people go. Why? Because you are dealing with the unquantifiable. Art is the only place where the true "trailblazers" are. Why do you think when someone is REALLY good at one of those loser jobs people say things like, "He's, like, an accounting artist!"? Because ARTIST is the HIGHEST point of attainment because IT'S THE BEST!
I could go on with that a lot more and if any of you feel that I need to elaborate further to explain my point of why these and similar professions are filled with the STUPIDEST people on the planet I'd be happy to run down a long list of GIGANTOR fuckups that have been made just to people I know personally while under the care of medical, legal and accounting business and banking "professionals" and not even bother with the more famous cases that are reported weekly. Besides, if you did want to protect or argue how some of these people might be "creative" or "not in it for the money" then I just have a big SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP. with my head moving back and forth on each syllable for yas, okay? Don't defend them, they'll be fine. Oh, and your priorities are all fucked up and you'd be worth more dead and frozen where someday you could be thawed when we need to test the efficacy of brain-implants on the lethiferously stupid.
So here I am in my "session" with one of the above people (I use the word "people" loosely), my doctor is perfectly nice and fine and all that shit and the question she gives me at the end of each session is, "Thoughts of killing yourself or feeling that life is not worth living?" And... well, YEAH, I mean, I'm in free therapy at the expense of being a psycho-guinea pig where I have the ability to write suicide notes in my Charlotte's Web amount of red tape I have to crawl through just to make sure that I stay just crazy enough that they keep me on the program and on my meds, ya know, so I don't make a Ooopsie and slit my own throat from ear to ear because I got forced off my meds instead of tapered off because I'm just not insane enough anymore to qualify for free poking and prodding and chemically-altering, sorry!
But after about the fifth time I was asked the old, "Suicide? Life not living?" in the listless and unconcerned manner a weary telemarketer might call you with at the end of their shift (that description was way writery... All Apologies), when I realized that while, yes, I do very much have thoughts of suicide, down to what outfit goes better with an overdose as opposed to say blowing my brains out against the tiled wall while sitting on the bathroom floor, how I am going to punctuate the note, what card stock the note will be on, who gets my AMAZING record collection, and where all of my earnings from writing will be allocated postmortem, a place the voice tells me that I'll be a HUGE literary success! Thanks Voice for believing in meeeeeeee!
I do not feel that life is not worth living. Never. And the reason my friend's response that "Killing yourself won't fix anything," struck me as... as so misplaced (for me), was that I don't want any fixing.
Her comment and the two-fold auf wiedersehen-question from the doctor made me think about all the different kinds of suicides there are out there. My friend's comment made me realize that her particular brand of depression (without the fact that depression IS A FUCKING DEADLY DISEASE THAT KILLS PEOPLE, which is something that EVERYONE needs to factor in FIRST FOREMOST AND NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLET when dealing with anyone close to them who has depression. This is a DISEASE like CANCER or AIDS. And even though I am telling you this with vehemence I still find it hard to believe that and I get A+++s on most Depression Evaluation tests and I still can't get myself to believe that this thing is a disease and not just me being a "pussy" or "having a poor attitude") but her depression also has feelings of worthlessness, shame and regret tied in there, while mine is more... just feeling, done, I guess?
But that whole "life not worth living" thing... see... see that I don't get. I do think life is worth living, and I guess I am just turning this into a game of semantics now, but this is how the mind of a suicidal depressive operates, your whole life is a game of semantics with yourself. Like people who hoard or eat their own hair or rip their skin apart grooming obsessively, most of depression is the internal equivalent of all of those things (and I'd put big money on a bet that said that at least 50% of people with those afflictions have some form of depression).
Depression is hoarding, but you hoard destructive emotions/behaviors. It's auto-sarcophagy but instead of actually eating yourself you are living off of the cycilical thoughts, the obsessions, the jealousies and the complex system your body has evolved to use hate as fuel. And you rip yourself apart emotionally also to groom yourself, but so you don't fuck up anymore, so you don't embarrass yourself or stand out when you don't want to. Instead of tweezers and jagged, freshly chewed fingernails you use obsession, eating disorders, drug abuse of every kind, and if other people think that what you do to them is emotional abuse than what you do to yourself is emotional nuclear warfare, all to make yourself more attractive, to look better in the mirror (if only by making the present reflection in the mirror feel like shit for looking the way it does), to take away your anxieties about sex and how your body looks naked and to dig up, spotlight and lynch all of the terrible things you know about yourself before anyone else can point them out to you.
Even with all of that, I still think I'm pretty rad.
Like Principal Skinner pondered after visiting the Springfield Natural History Museum AND the 4-H Club looking for a truant Bart Simpson thinking he had checked all of the places a young nogoodnik might spend his ill-gotten free time, "Am I so out of touch? No... it's the children who are wrong."
As backwards as I MIGHT BE, it's the rest of the world I can't fucking stand and don't understand. It's everyone else who is wrong. I don't get sad—I NEVER get sad. I don't feel "guilty a lot or most of the time" as a lot of the questions on the depression questionairres put it (though God knows I should feel guilty about some shit... but I don't (that's my sociopathic side)). And now I guess I can throw in some of my hatred at travel and travellers, but just given the purely physical limitations of our bodies and of the short list of possible sober/non-sexual experiences available in the realm of Earthly experiences, I'm BORED! Anywhere you go on Earth, you have the same options as you do RIGHT HERE. Of course here come the fucking, "but other cultures are necessary to" blahfuckingblah—if I go to Spain can I float in the air? Can I jump 25 feet in the air and float around and zoom back and forth? In Australia can I make lasers shoot out of my eyeballs? How about Chile or Aruba? No? Didn't think so. The physical laws of this world still apply everywhere, and it's this that I'm fucking sick of. Hell, throw in sexual experiences, too—BORING! God, I WISH I could obsess about sex. I wish sex offered some kind of escape for me, but ever since I got all the novelties out of the way, back when I was, what, 16?, sex has just been a steady equation where, if x = pleasure and y = anxiety, then y = 1000x2 and when y ≥ 5 then everything means z
If anything my depression has nothing to do with sadness or guilt or "I hate myself and I want to die," and more to do with the greatest cancer (yet) in my life which is an as of yet uncategorized metastasis of terminal boredom on top of a profound anhedonia.
You would marvel at the things I have taken zero pleasure in. AND, were I to go down a list of events/experiences where I felt nothing more than a clock-watching "when the Hell can we go?", foot-tapping, nail-biting displeasure you would
1) think I were lying, and
2) be jealous and think of me as one of the world's biggest fucking ingrates, which, I probably am.
Leading me to... the one thing that receives my full attention, adoration, curiosity and any bit of nostalgia I can assure you I've ever had: drugs.
Drugs drugs drugs
I wish I could think of sex as a drug. I wish it provided for me. I wish sex was the sort of cure-all, mind-bending experience our culture has placed it on the crumbling pedestal of
But no, drugs are the only thing that do it for me. Maybe if I were the stereotypical male, put it in, cum, pass out, I could revel in the Awe of Fuck, but alas, fucking is a conversation, a dialogue, something I am sick of. Sort of how after therapy you start to resent friends because they opine right back at you. They try to one-up you or engage you or just wait for their turn to talk, therapists are nothing more than emotion prostitutes... and once you get used to the response-free, judgment-free ease of not having to make them cum them just nodding at every dumb thing you say, you find it harder and harder to engage with a world that asks questions, a world that might argue, a world that could put you in your place. "Just shut the fuck up and act like you like it. Speak when spoken to and don't forget that I'm paying for this so do as your told and I won't hurt you that bad and if you don't fuck up maybe I'll come back next week... "
Everyone pretends that "My therapist isn't like that, I mean, she challenges me," but, let's be honest, we go to therapy to be agreed with for 50 minutes. To be nodded at. That's what gives us the courage to go back into the real world at all after admitting that we can't get it on our own, that nod. Telling us that whatever decision we made was the right decision because that's what we did and if we didn't want to do it why would we have done it if it wasn't the right thing to do... right? It's all a petting game to remove us even further from everyone else, developing our insular worlds, our little beehives built with the rightness of every choice we make... or don't. Just like whores, except with therapists instead of paying by the hour to cum, you by the hour to feel just.
Ummmmm... yeah. I mean, sex is fine and all, and not to brag or anything (but I will), I'm REALLY fucking good at it. Ask ANYONE I've fucked... well... except that—hmmmmm, nevermind—ask MOST people I've fucked! I'm REALLY good at it! But I NEVER (and when I say NEVER I mean NEVVVVVVVER) think about sex. Why? I'm too busy thinking about killing myself, silly! It takes a lot of time to be this good at depression, which might be the ONLY thing I'm better at than fucking. But (and sorry to keep throwing so much math in here) here's another equation type word problem thingie: If you think life is not worth living and want to kill yourself, and in all probability will kill yourself at some point, why would you need to further your genes? Do you want to pass on these genes?
"Here ya go ya Lil' Bastard! Take these!"
"Hey Ma! What's Dad givin' me here?!?"
"Oh, that one's obesity with glandular disorders... oooh! And that one's skin problems, um, lemme seeeeeee... that's alcoholism with violent tendencies—OH! That one's sociopathy with emotional abusiveness AHA! There it is! Suicidal, psychotic depression! Well... now what's the matter? Doesn't it fit?"
(All of the actors portraying the above unnnamed characters, which you might recognize as "Dad," "Lil' Bastard," and "Mom," are all union. No animals were harmed in the making of the above scene (but I did kick a pigeon before the scene started on the way to the studio) All actors were transported from the year 1941 for this performance but were returned safely with only minor abrasions/fly parts)
So why would I have a libido if I regard MY VERY OWN life with little more respect than an empty gum-wrapper at the bottom of my pocket? Well, I don't. That's why I never think about sex, cause sex makes babies and after babies turn 18 they get infected with life and I HATE LIFE.
BUT, I don't think it's not worth living... if that makes any sense?
I think the problem with a lot of people my age, and especially just younger than me, is that we ripped right through all of our novelty so fast that by the time we turned 25 we had nothing left that was new. Hell, I've already been through alcoholism, being fat and then skinny a million fucking times (which makes my skin look FUCKING AWESOME lemme tell you), cocaine, pill and heroin addiction, being vegetarian, contemplating homosexuality because gays are more forthcoming with compliments than women (who seem to have not been brought up with manners and/or class) and I'm already onto my weirdo, New-Age, spiritual bullshit phase... and I'm not even 30! Sexual things that might have been enticing when I was 16 just seem like too much effort now, and being heterosexual puts me in the unfortunate position of having to deal with girls to have sex, which, "No thank you!" (this joke (and some previous ones) were brought to you by Misogyny™😄)
The reason I started this whole thing (which your guess is as good as mine as to what the Hell it is) was that I FINALLY found something that is the ULTIMATE reason not to kill yourself. I just finished the worst book I've ever read, Heavier Than Heaven, a biography of Kurt Cobain, who, is, like, the reason everyone my age is suicidal. Think about it. Our parents' generation had the Beatles, which were like the Celebrity version of the modern nuclear family. Dad (played by Paul McCartney) sometimes okay but mostly just embarrassing and a jerk, Mom (played by John Lennon) no matter what you love them, Older Overachiever Brother (played by George Harrison) is good at EVERYTHING and cute and into all the far-out stuff that cool older brothers are supposed to show you like Eastern religions, psychedelics and weird records, and Little Embarrassment Brother (played by Ringo) "Just... stop. Stop it right now."
And what happened to the Beatles? Mom and Dad started fighting, they couldn't just keep it together for the kids because instead of just being grownups and getting along for the greater good of everyone involved, they got a divorce... and fucked EVERYBODY up. And that was our parents' biggest model of how to deal with problems, "Oh, you have your OWN ideas do you? Well fuck you! It's over!" slam the door and everything is eternally awkward. But if the Beatles (I mean, the fucking Beatles, man!) if the Beatles couldn't "all you need is love" their way out of their problems, what hope was there for our parents who are a bunch of fucking nobodies?
SO, fast forward 20 years from 1970 and here we have the product of that divorce, of the "Me" generation's great way of dealing with things, Kurt Cobain. Kurt was as much a child of the Beatles as he was his own parents, as we all are children of everyone who is famous because our parents are pathetic in their non-celebrity failureness and we need people to look up to. So here comes the next Beatlemania, Nevermind, 1991. And what happens three years later? Duh, Kurt blows his head off because being the by-product of two "legendary divorce"s is too much. He does heroin to try deal with it, but people get upset with you when you do heroin so you can't do heroin. So you kill yourself.
And then, 10 years after that, comes Charles R. Cross, some nerdy dipshit "rock journalist" writes a book about you that is SO FUCKING AWFUL—awww Kurt, I miss you. I really, genuinely do. And then I read this and it just makes me sad that you're not here to defend yourself... Hell, not even to defend yourself, just so this piece of shit wouldn't have the chance to write this piece of shit ABOUT you. I was going to transcribe some of the terrible quotes from the book but I don't even want to touch it again because I feel like I tarnished all the nice stuff you ever did for me by reading that fucking book by that piece of shit.
But Kurt... you left us. That same friend who tried to kill herself, after some rehab and stuff she shared a lot of what she learned with me, and she told me that suicide has a lateral effect on the lives it touches, in that people left in the wake of a suicide have something like a 200% increased chance of being victims of suicide themselves. You would think that just knowing this little piece of information would be enough to keep anyone from being a "victim" of suicide. It's something that sounds wrong. You can be a victim of cancer, of a murderer, even a pickpocket, but how can you be a "victim" of yourself? It didn't make sense at first until I thought of you... my first real interaction with suicide. I mean, I was in 6th grade—I was a kid—and maybe were I older you wouldn't have been my whole life, but at the time, you were. God, all these years later, I still LOVE you. I love you. You are one of the top 10 most important people in the world to me, and the only person on that list who I've never met. When I see a picture of you my eyebrows crease and I get that wetness in my eyes that means I could cry but I won't, and I can only make a little tiny sound from the back of my throat that is equal parts sad and helpful, like I'm reaching out to give you a hug before I remember you're not there... it's the same thing I do when I think of Theo, someone I did know...
That's when all of that "victim of suicide" stuff started to make sense to me. You were OUR cool older brother, and until you killed yourself, suicide was just some weird, anomalous thing to me. Something that only the Japanese and actresses from the 30s did. Not something that happened to modern, white people.
And then you were dead, and when you left, you left a whole generation blanketed with your ashes.
And suicide was suddenly very, very real, to a lot, lot of people.
At the time I didn't cry. I was in the 6th grade and was already well on my way to knowing the ways of men, and men don't cry. And besides, I didn't KNOW you. It wouldn't have even occurred to me that I could have cried for you. Like it wasn't even legal or something.
And just last year I finally finished Come As You Are by Michael Azzerrad, a book I had started in the sixth grade and never finished because when I was 50 pages in you were dead, and there was suddenly a new edition on the bookshelves that had a red band at the top that read in the same alterna-font as the title, "With A New Final Chapter!" like it were something to look forward to... and I hid the old copy of mine without the red band in a drawer in my closet 'cause I was so mad at you. Mad that I would someday have to buy another copy of that book to read about the most significant moment of my life up to that point like I didn't know how it ended or something. I definitely didn't ever need the newer edition to know that you died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound presumably on April 5, 1994, but your body was found by an electrician named Gary on April 8, 1994. You had enough heroin in your system to OD any "normal" user, but you were rich enough for your last few years to not be a "normal" user anymore.
It was a spotty, overcast day in Dallas, and to this day the most depressing weather to me is not a rainy day, or a gray day, or a bitterly cold day or a regular winter day or even a blizzard. The most depressing weather in the world is a spring day where there are equal amounts of clouds as there are blue skies. I always thought it had something to do with the "inbetweenness" of the moods it created, some sort of gigantic, infuriating indecision.
But really it's a sky I associate with that Friday coming home from school, all of our parents acting so jaded and blasé about breaking the news to us. Kinda, sinisterly happy, even. Remember? They had the Beatles. John Lennon had already died so who did you think you were? We weren't even allowed to be upset about your death because our parents' had a Beatle to cry about previously. Who were you to encroach on martyrdom, huh? And a junkie? Well fuck you. It's your own fault, right? Why would anyone feel sorry for you? You did it to yourself... right?
... didn't you?
God... I hate that fucking sky. Just thinking about it makes me mad in so many ways I can feel them, like each type of anger lights up its own vertebra and I feel it moving up and down my spine as they light up in different patterns until the whole thing is all aglow like coals...
I finally bought Come As You Are again with that fucking red band at the top. I bought it just before this time last year and I read it twice in a row, finishing it for the second time on your birthday—kind of on purpose kind of not. But this time I cried. I cried A LOT.
And then I shot up and watched 30 Rock until the shot faded and I shot up again... and then twice more that day.
And I thought that I was just like you... accept not accomplished or important, just a depressed junkie...
Well, Kurt... you left ALL of us with that. That lateralness of suicide. I know you didn't mean to but you did.
And then I bought that piece of shit book by that other guy, and I thought how much you would hate it to see your life treated like that—fuck, he even took to writing your last seconds of life in the FIRST PERSON! He wrote the last paragraph as you, looking at the world with a mouth full of shotgun and a lot of heroin in his veins. He probably just read the Wikipedia on heroin to see what it did to a person's vision before he took to writing out of your eyes, something about the bluish haze surrounding everything in your vision... audacity is a mild word I think for someone who would do such a thing...
And maybe in this painful, fucking roundabout way that took 20 years to complete you did save me from killing myself... no one will ever get to write me from the first person, especially my last moments.
No one but me.
Posted at 02:32 AM in In the Dirt, The Lighter Side of Soul-Crushing, Suicidal Depression :) | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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