I've always obsessed. For as long as I can remember. I can actually pinpoint events in my life based on what I was obsessing over at the time. If I was obsessing about my first girlfriend Amanda's new car then it must have been right after I graduated from high school. If I was obsessing about my friend Nathan's girlfriend Katie then I must have been 15. If I was obsessing about if Leah liked my friend Sam and not me then it was almost summer between 5th and 6th grades... and on and on and on.
I think most people that kill themselves aren't depressed, I think they're obsessed. And depression at its absolute worst is really just being really obsessed about how much everything sucks. And depression can't kill you, it's actually not even possible. If you are so depressed that it has become physical then you can barely physically move yourself, let alone make enough motion to destroy a human body, which, if you've ever watched Forensic Files then you know that this is much more difficult than it looks in any other TV show. And if you are trying to kill yourself you are also at the disadvantage of (statistically) trying to make it not hurt, which is not something you need consider if you want to kill somebody else, in fact, if you are out to kill anyone besides yourself then most likely you are trying to inflict pain and not prevent it. But when it's you on the other side of the knife, you're going, "Oh shit, why did I pick a knife? I'm gonna go hang myself... oh. Shit. I'm gonna go take a bunch of pills..." Because you don't want more goddam suffering right there at the end, this is what you are trying to prevent. Now of course we all know that "boys" like violent suicides, but this actually just means "bloody." We may want carnage but we certainly don't want any ouchies. That's why men are more likely to use guns than women are, lots of blood and brains, but still gone in a flash. Unless you Arseface yourself, which... ya know, do some research so you don't do that.
But it's really the obsessions that will kill you. And to everyone who gave me all the extremely practical, sagacious wisdom that was, "Just don't think about it," well... I really hope you are obsessing about the person you love the most in the world fucking an Irish fratboy right now, and then you can tell me how easy it is to just not think about it. Actually, you know what, even though you are a complete and total asshole, I really don't wish that on you. I don't wish obsession on anybody. Not even Hitler or even Sting, that's how terrible obsession is.
Me and Brooke were sitting in her house. She lived in some weird complex of duplexes in sorta South Austin (or it was South Austin at the time), and we were sitting in building #4 out of however many, and there in South Austin this night one month into our relationship was when we realized that we were so powerful that we could change the weather. No, I am not suddenly shifting gears into Magical Realism, we really could control the weather. And I wouldn't be saying this if it had just happened this one time, even though this time and the timing of it were enough to convince me of this forever, we would end up proving this true over and over and over again throughout the course of our very short time living in the same city together. And I don't care what you think about that because that's as true as it gets. Some people are like that, but only when they're together. And when we were together and having big emotions, so did everything around us. And the first night we both said "I love you" to each other the sky immediately split open and a giant Texas thunderstorm ripped the neighborhood to pieces. Lightning caught a few houses on fire, and in the morning the street was littered with giant trees that had been torn up from their roots from the gales. And just after these first pledges of love came out and as the shotgun blast thunder was beginning to rock every side of the house, what was the first thing I asked? "So... how many people have you slept with?"
At the time I guess admitting to being in love was then permission—no, not just permission, more like I made it like it was somehow mandatory that she give me this information. I could give a million fake reasons for why she "had" to tell me, like a fake concern for my safety, because this was a real and valid concern of mine when I'd only ever used a condom like five times in my entire life, and I drove home blacked out drunk with a pocket full of cocaine at least three nights a week—yeah, this knowledge was about my safety—sure, let's go with that. But really I just needed a reason to despise her. I needed to despise her because I couldn't ever just let myself be in love. That would have been a good thing and I was not ready to take part in anything that could be good. All those previous years of obsessing had turned me into an assembly line of hate, with no button to make the conveyor belts stop even if someone was getting shredded in between the gears.
But she understood this too. I didn't force the answer out of her, we were both so masochistic that she just told me because she could make it about "having to be honest" or something now that our love was out in the open... unleashed and ripping apart homes the second it came into the world.
But when you realize that you're that powerful you're never going to back down. We both knew then and there that this was "not going to end well," but how many times does someone give up a super-power in the movies? Yeah, never. Or else there wouldn't be a fucking movie...