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Gracie Walks Down The Hall

technologiesGracie was standing in the kitchen, just staring at the coffee machine.

It was just finishing up her drink, while the rain dripped off the gutters over the kitchen windows. Gracie glanced out, picking at her nail polish, and felt like her head was swimming in a fog, like she was having trouble remembering even the most basic things. But, that aside, it was a comfortable day. A cozy day inside while it poured outside. It seemed like it was always raining these days, and then Gracie realized she couldn’t remember the last time she left the house. Not that that was particularly a problem, as she loved the house and would rather be here than anywhere else in the whole world.

The coffee machine stopped and she picked up her mug, taking a nice, long sip. As she finished, she didn’t feel any different…any warmer. She still just felt empty, like always. She’d read somewhere that this was just another symptom of depression, that not only do your interests go away but your appetite becomes less and less, and you stop feeling anything at all. Gracie certainly had been treated for depression in the past, but she wasn’t even feeling bad these days. Actually, she wasn’t feeling much of anything at all. Still, she had her house. When her husband had died, the house had become hers, and she had been fighting tooth and nail to keep it, taking any odd job just to make ends meet, along with her 9 to 5 job of graphic design, which she’d grown to hate over time, probably thanks to said depression.

Gracie walked down the hallway, looking at the photos on the walls; trips she and Jake had taken, or family get togethers for the holidays, or the shots they’d each put up of their college graduation, and finally the one of their wedding. Gracie held her mug in one hand as she reached out and touched the photo, smiling warmly. It had been a stunning service, and they’d both been so enthralled with one another despite having been together 4 years prior to the wedding day. She’d been feeling little pangs of pain in her heart since his death, but the last few days she, much like drinking her coffee, didn’t feel a damn thing this time. This house was all she had now from him. It meant the world to her, and seeing as her family moved around so often she never felt like she’d had a home to call her own, until now. This was her home, and she adored it. She would never leave it.

As Gracie entered her bedroom, she stopped in her tracks in the doorway, dropped her coffee mug to the floor, letting it shatter into a million pieces. Right. That’s right. She had to go through this every single day, that’s why she hadn’t been feeling anything for the last week. Gracie sat on the end of the bed and sighed, looking at the floor before looking over her shoulder at her body resting against the headboard, blood splattered on the wall behind the bed, gun in her right hand. Every single day it was something she had to remember. Gracie wiped the tears from her eyes, though they weren’t coming as strong as they had been the first few days.

She’d lost her husband, and then she’d lost herself. But she hadn’t lost her house.

She’d never lose her house.

Hey, I’m Maggie. If you liked this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my webcomic, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or my writing over at Medium. If you feel so inclined to help keep me and my girlfriend from being homeless, you can also donate to our PayPal and literally help us pay rent and buy groceries. Anything is greatly appreciated, and thanks for reading!

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Once More Around The Sun

Today is my birthday.

When I was a little girl, I never dreamed I’d live past being 10. Then it got pushed up to 20. Then 30. Granted, while I’m only turning 28, I’ve learned a few things. The first is to stop counting upwards using only increments of 10’s, and secondly that for as long as I can put off ending my life, I might just make it further in life. I’m not happy, don’t mistake what I’m saying for growth, cause it’s not, but what I am saying is that for some people, existence isn’t a struggle. They enjoy being alive, at least on a base human level, enjoy seeing friends, having their families, getting jobs, having relationships, etc. But for others, it’s a struggle, and for me it’s an absolute slog. So, other people go through life, sometimes having a midlife crisis or so along the way, until they finally reach their 80s and die. Meanwhile, I’m actively bored of existing, yet because there’s such a stigma surrounding suicide, shaming people who simply don’t want to hurt anymore, and also because I’m always constantly in the middle of something (a movie, laundry, writing this blog post you’re reading), I keep having to put off killing myself.

Now, people may take that and go “Well, that indecision means you really don’t want to do it then!” and while I respect everyones right to their opinion, no, they’re wrong and they should shut up. Did they make this diagnosis from the comfort of their bedroom doctors desk chair? You don’t know me, or what I’ve been through or how I feel. I WANT to die. I do. I just keep having shit come up that has to be taken care of, and I’m not one to flake on responsibilities and abandon projects. In essence, my perfectionism is extending my life sentence, and yes I say life sentence and not life span, because much like prison, I didn’t ask to be here and I certainly want it to be over with. Now, I’ve written a blog post in the past about how if you can come up with things to do like “I can’t kill myself until this tv show is over” or “I can’t end my life until I feed my dog” then you can keep yourself from dying, but this isn’t that.

This is about literally being so busy to never have time to die. People complain all the time about being ‘so busy’. Every single college student will tell you that, that they’re ‘so busy’, like getting up at 11 is so hard when they forget that they used to get up at 7 to go to high school. People stay busy with jobs, with social lives, with hobbies. Everywhere you look, at any given point, somebody is doin’ something. They’re reading a book, or riding a bike or watching a movie or having dinner with friends or going on dates or working until closing, or, yes, being in school. Everyone has a constricted schedule in which what they want to do often takes a backseat to what they have to do. In my case, the thing that keeps getting pushed back is killing myself, and it doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it. Just like those other people, it doesn’t mean they don’t want to take the weekend off for themselves and try and learn a new language or see the new action flick, they just don’t have the time or the energy, and let’s face it, killing yourself takes a lot of effort. My preference has always been to hang myself, but then I gotta get a rope so I gotta probably go to the hardware store and buy a rope and then learn to tie a knot good enough that it won’t come undone, and then find somewhere to hang myself, find a surface high enough that it’ll kill me when I’m not standing on it anymore. I mean, by the time I got to the actual act of hanging myself, I’m wasted half my fuckin’ day just prepping, and that’s without a note! Honestly, who’s got the fuckin’ time?

So, this is just what’s working for me. I hope those who are struggling also continue, as I don’t want anyone else to die. I just personally don’t wanna be alive, but I am, and I’m working with the hand I’ve been dealt. So let’s go for one more round universe, take me around the sun another time.

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Let Myself Be Eaten By Coyotes

Maybe if I just lay here long enough, stay quiet enough, I could just let myself be eaten by coyotes,” Nina thought, laying on the dirt in the middle of the field. She’d driven out here with no real reason in mind, and now didn’t know if she wanted to even go back. She wasn’t even sure she could find her way back in this darkness, given the lack of signage way out here. Nina dug her fingers deep into the dirt, feeling the cool night breeze wafting over her, gently blowing her bangs across her eyes.

Maybe they’ll eat me, and they’ll be starving, and the meal they get from me could save them, finally rendering me useful in some grand fashion,” she thought, “And then some day someone will come out here and find my bones, or I’ll just be buried under the dirt forever and nobody will ever know what happened to me.

Nina felt a bug crawling on her unsleeved arm, and looked over to see a large beetle stopped on her arm, looking around. She sat up and held her arm in front of her, staring at this beetle intensely. After a few minutes, she picked it up with her other hand and put him back down on the dirt and watched him quickly scurry off into the darkness. She felt herself shiver and she grabbed her jacket off the hood of her car, pulling it over her tanktop. She stood up and walked to her car door, pulling it open and getting inside, searching for a radio station but getting nothing; just static. She exhaled loudly and brushed her bangs out of the way, then reached into her backpack and pulled out a tape recorder. She got back out of the car, sighed, cleared her throat and clicked ‘record’, pacing back and forth.

“My name is Nina Turan,” she said clearly, “I’m 35, and I’m a Pisces. I’m recording this on the unlikelihood that someone finds it and cares enough, or knows how, to press ‘play’ on something this fucking antiquated. I’m…going out of my mind with frustration, of every kind. General frustration, employment frustration, physical frustration, sexual frustration. You name it, and I’m frustrated by it. But that’s not why I’m doing this. Frustration can easily be overcome with the right mixture of techniques. I’m going to blow myself up in my car, and not because of frustration but because of sheer boredom.”

She pressed ‘stop’ and took a long, deep breath, wiped her forehead on her jacket sleeve and then resumed recording.

“Not boredom like ‘I just have nothing to do tonight’ sort of boredom but more like…I’ve experienced everything I’d care to at this point in life and now it’s like 50 years of this same shit day in and day out and that’s just not for me. And I’m not gonna become a cliche, like some YA novel, and just take off on a road trip, as if a few thousand miles in a jacked up Volvo with an 80s mixtape could easily solve all of my angst. See, up to a point in life, everything is a brand new experience, everything is exciting and a first. Your first car, first kiss, first sexual experience, first apartment, first job, all of that shit. Then, you hit this peak where it’s nothing but repeats. It’s like your life was canceled and sent into late night syndication on a channel that barely comes in anyway.”

She pressed ‘stop’ again and sat on the hood of her car, surveying the empty field before continuing on.

“Then there’s everyone around you who acts like they want what’s best for you, but only because they want it for themselves. Parents are a great example, saying things like ‘you don’t want to die, what about have children? a family?’ but not because they think you’ll actually enjoy it, but more because they want grandchildren. They want to be a part of society, the grandparent portion of life, and they couldn’t give less than two shits how having children affected your life. I can’t take care of children. I can barely take care of myself. Sorry mom, too bad. Life, society, has far more expectations for me than I have ever had for myself. That’s fucked up.”

She pressed ‘stop’ again and looked around, running her hands through her dark curly brown hair, unsure of how to finish this note to…no one in particular, really. She had also just seen a flaw in her plan, which was where the fuck was she going to leave this? Just in the dirt, next to a burning pile of metal and human remains? Jesus. She could never do anything right it seemed, not even kill herself. There was always something to fuck up. She pressed ‘record’ once more.

“Anyway, I guess that about sums it up. If anyone actually ever finds and listens to this, let it be known that once again my name is, was, Nina Turan. I was 35, with brown curly hair, I liked alternative music and I fucking hated Russel Crowe with a burning passion that could only be likened to that which Americans hate religious tolerance of any religion that isn’t their own. Thanks for listening. Goodbye.”

She pressed ‘stop’ once again and slid off the hood of her car. She took her jacket off, wrapped the tape record in it and put it on the dirt, gently patting it before getting back up and walking to the tailpipe of her car. She pulled out a bottle of alcohol, a rag and a lighter, lit the rag and stuffed it into the bottle of alcohol a certain length so it’d eventually explode when the two finally touched. Nina then shoved the bottle into her tailpipe, then got into her car and put her forehead on the steering wheel. She knew it’d only take a few minutes, and she raced through everything in her life that had ever happened. Every memory she had, good or bad, and knew she was making the right choice.

She heard a howl and looked up, seeing a coyote standing outside in front of the car. Their eyes appeared to lock with hers, and she slowly got out of the car and waved her arms at it, trying to shoo it away, but it wasn’t moving. She finally picked up a rock and tossed it at it.

“Get out of here you stupid fucking mutant dog!” she shouted, and after a moment the coyote finally turned tail and ran. She sighed, rubbed her forehead and then heard the explosion of the car behind her. She turned to see the car engulfed in flames, and completely destroyed.

“God dammit,” she mumbled, before picking up her jacket and the tape recorder and starting to walk down the road, “Now I’m gonna be late for work tomorrow.”

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Now Is Not The Best Time

Sandy Price was laying in the bed, hands folded on her chest, breathing slowly, eyes glued to the stucco ceiling overhead. She could remember it clearly. She could remember everything clearly. She rolled over and looked at Derek, asleep, and grimaced. She got out of bed and walked softly to the kitchen, where she took a glass out from the cupboard, walked to the sink, looked at it for a moment and then instead reached under the sink for the gin. She poured herself a glass and walked to the large window at the end of the living room of their studio apartment, glancing out at the city. Sandy had always liked the city at night. She’d always liked night, in general, but especially the city. How it lit up, looked so vibrant and welcoming and warm. She now knew it wasn’t, but as a little girl, it comforted her to think that there was this place that was so safe and cozy.

She sipped her gin and heard a groan behind her. She turned to see Derek standing in the door frame between the living room and the bedroom. She sighed as he rubbed his eyes and approached her.

“Are you ok? Why’re you up?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Why not,” she replied, “What’s the point of sleeping. Doesn’t make me feel any better. All my dreams are terrible. Might as well be awake at a time when I actually enjoy looking at the shithole we live in,” she said, motioning her hand with the drink in it towards the cityscape.

“Is this about Rufus?” Derek asked, hushed, like he was afraid of what would come next. As if saying this name would spawn forth from the depths of hell a million demons hellbent on the destruction of the earth, and often when regarding Sandy’s anger, that wasn’t a far off analogy. Sandy slowly turned back to the window and swirled the gin in her glass.

“Rufus has nothing to do with any of this,” she said coldly, “Besides, how could he be involved in anything when he’s a thousand miles away…when did I get so cold? When did we get so cold, and not just you and but the proverbial ‘we’. Nobody asks how another persons day was anymore, and nobody seems to provide simple acts of human kindness like holding doors open for old people. This isn’t a rant about the death of humanity, god knows that’s been overdone to death by bleeding heart liberals writing for websites with cutesy names like ‘Boodles’ or something. I’m a liberal too, but I’m not the kind who thinks simple technological advances like smart phones are going to cause the death of conversation.”

Derek sat down on the arm of a chair and rubbed his shoulder, sighing.

“What is this about then? Just how distant you feel about everything?” he asked, and she rolled her eyes and snorted.

“Yeah, distant, let’s go with that. Everyone wants personal space in a city that thrives on community. There’s nothing wrong with privacy, everyone is entitled to it, it’s their right to want to have their own time and their own space, but engagement, even on a level as simple as saying ‘nice day, isn’t it?’ is so crucial to simply keeping the lines of communication between our own fucking species going. We cannot allow ourselves to become this cut off from another. Those girls I teach…”

Sandy sat down on the window sill and looked at her nails, exhaling loudly.

“…they don’t judge one another,” she continued, “They help one another figure out their moves if they’re having trouble, and they rally around one another as a team to support eachother and the team as a whole. People say evil is taught. That’s debatable. But what I can tell you is actually taught is cynicism. Bitterness. Coldness. It happens when you’ve been hurt one too many times, when you want to withdraw because you feel you can no longer trust anyone; including yourself, because you keep making the poor decision to open up to just one more person, always knowing the end result is the same.”

“Sandy,” Derek said, “…did I hurt you? I know we’ve had our problems, but we’ve always worked it out one way or another. I know Rufus hurt you. I’m sorry. But how can you stand there and honestly claim that the end result is the same when you live with someone who cares about you tremendously and only has your best interests at heart?”

“…you’ll leave too,” Sandy said softly, letting her hair cover her face so she could hide, “You will. Someone can only put up with negativity for so long before ‘love’ turns to ‘tolerate’. I try so hard to be who you think I am, who you would love for me to be, but it’s not me. I’m an angry, upset young lady. Is that really who you love? Or do you just love the idea you have of me?”

Derek stood up and walked over to the window sill, sitting in it with her, looking out the window at the city lights.

“Remember a few years ago when we went with my folks to that ski resort? We spent a lot of the time inside, just sitting by that giant fire pit, sipping cocoa and reading and just…enjoying something for once without worrying about the financial ramifications? You looked really pretty with that fire light flickering on your eyes, curled up in that chair, just sucked into your literature.”

“What’s with the nostalgia kick?” Sandy asked, swirling her index fingertip inside her empty glass, “You think this is how we fix our problems?”

“I’m just trying to get you to remember something nice, that’s all. If we could go on vacations like that as often as our parents could at our age, I would love it. You want to dance, you want to teach girls to dance, but then you go to work and you seem so miserable and you only seem happy when you’re alone. When you have no responsibilities.”

“So you’re saying my argument is hypocritical?” Sandy asked, sniffling.

“Well, who isn’t hypocritical?” Derek asked, grinning, “But no, what I’m saying is that a lot of people can’t do both. You can. You do. A lot of people are so…dead inside or something that they just shut off their humanity and do what they must to survive, even if it means only caring about themselves or their family and nobody else. But you can do both, and, hell that’s admirable. You’re mad because you don’t know why everyone else can’t do what you do. That’s what I’m saying. You want to grab them and shake them and scream ‘Why is this so goddamn difficult for you?!’ but that’s the thing, it just is goddamn difficult for them. I agree with you, it’s sad, but…it’s for them to deal with. You keep doing the good that you’re doing, and you’ll feel better I think.”

Sandy pushed her hair out of her face and smiled slightly at Derek, her eyes remarkably pale blue, her skin so pale in the moonlight. She looked out the window again and shook her head.

“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I want to just climb out this window and throw myself to the sidewalk. Just let it all end,” Sandy said, “But then I realize that suicide, at least for me, only seems like a viable option because I am surviving. The others who generally seem to kill themselves really do feel like it’s their only option, or it is their only option, as they’re perpetually unemployed or sick or homeless or something. But I have a place, here, and I have you and I have a job and I…I’m surviving. That’s why it’s an option, and not a necessity.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, because-“

“I miss my mom,” Sandy said, choking up, tears starting to roll down her cheeks, “I called her to talk about my first recital with the girls you saw and…and she wasn’t even in the least bit interested. She called it a ‘hobby’ the entire time. I want to please her so bad and yet I hate her so much. You have your family. Do you know what it’s like to not have family? To be that alone? I have your parents, and you, and the girls at the dance hall but…to not have family. A place you came from, a home…it’s exhausting trying to figure out where you’re supposed to be or even if you’re supposed to be. To not have a place of origin, a backstory, a prologue…is your story even worth reading?”

“You’re worth reading,” Derek said, “You’re the one who pays the majority of the rent on this place, that car is yours, you’re the one with meaningful employment. You’re worth reading. Each chapter it gets better and better, and we can make sure there’s a happy ending.”

“I don’t want to be distant.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

Some dogs barked in the distance, and a few cars drove by underneath them.

“Hey,” Sandy said.

“Yeah?” Derek replied.

“Promise me that if I do ever kill myself, you’ll write my sequel.”

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It’s All About Effort

At what age is it socially acceptable to end your life?

It seems to me that it’d be somewhere between the ages of 30 and 40. You’ve made it through your twenties, you tried hard, you’ve reached the point of ‘adulthood’ that everyone else seemed to have reached with ease, and you still spend all your time wallowing in sadness from not having viable employment skills or lasting relationships of any kind. You burned your bridges for friends years ago after they got tired of having to listen to you ‘whine’ about how bad you feel, your parents want nothing to do with you because you’re becoming an embarrassment to them and anything romantically never lasts because you ‘don’t try hard enough’. The job market is a crushing joke, school is out of the question purely from an economic standpoint and you’ve got nothing left on the table except for becoming that friend who ‘will only sleep on your couch for like, two weeks, I swear to god, Brian.”

Life becomes a ‘choose your own adventure’ of suicide. Unsure which path to take, which page turn will eventually lead you down the road of your own demise, and both excited yet afraid, because it’s totally natural to feel both. In fact, it gets to the point where planning the end of your own life is actually a positive thing, because it means you’re doing something every day! You’re working towards an actual achievable goal! All these external factors you have no control over are forcing your hand to this decision. It’s not fair, but it’s the way it is. You get creative with the possible, seemingly endless ways to end yourself. You’re starting to feel more intellectually stimulated than you have in years. It’s so refreshing to feel like what you’re doing matters. You choose your method, get your supplies together and then sit down and look at everything and realize…

“Hey…I did something. I DID something!”

You’re 34, and things aren’t looking great, your prospects are shit and you feel so utterly alone, and society may have given up but you DID something. That took effort. Effort that can be applied to something else with the same passion you had for this. The way I see it, if I can do something like this, something that takes a lot of time and thought and preparation, then maybe I CAN do something else. Maybe I can work towards getting my work made, get people to care, fix my life and make things worth being around for. I could get married, I could get my writing published and maybe I could even help others who have been in a similar position.

And if that doesn’t work, at least I know in the back of my mind that I COULD kill myself. It’s nice to know you have some semblance of control in your life.

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I Write Suicide Notes

I’ve written a lot of suicide notes in my life.

It’s a healthy thing, honestly, as it allows you to write down what you feel bad about, look at it objectively, and realize what exactly your problems are at that time; especially if these things are making you consider the idea of suicide. I mostly did this as a teenager and in my early twenties. It only stopped a few years ago when, at complete and total rock bottom, I actually went to write a real suicide note and, upon realizing I’d only written “I can’t do this anymore” on a post it note that I’d pinned to my shirt while standing on the roof of my apartment building, discovered that even if I ever did intend to end my life I still wouldn’t talk to anyone even from beyond the grave. That was sort of an eye opening experience. Being so walled off that even your actual suicide note is vague. I think maybe part of it was because all the others I knew nobody would ever read, but I feel that there has to be something more to that.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. There will probably never be a time in my life when I don’t want to kill myself. As happy as I can be for certain things, like having my girlfriend and the eventual possibility of raising a family or being a published author, in the end that feeling never really goes away completely. I don’t write suicide notes really anymore. Now I just write in this blog. I suppose that could be viewed as a positive step up. But there’s nothing really positive in life. Life is inherently meaningless, and we created ‘purpose’ as a way to trick ourselves into believing that we exist for a reason, that we aren’t here for no particular reason, because we can’t stand the idea that our entire reason for being doesn’t matter. But…that’s the thing to keep in mind, I guess. If life is inherently pointless and meaningless, and has no reason, then we can create whatever reason we want. Even something as simple as ‘Well, I like the smell of this teabag, and if I were dead, I’d miss it’. It doesn’t even have to be a big reason.

As a little girl, despite how much I wanted to die, I also really liked reading and my dogs, and so I knew I wanted to continue to like those things and I couldn’t do those if I were dead. Maybe that’s what life is. A series of sort of reasons to not kill yourself.

What’s the meaning to life?

Whatever the fuck you want it to be.

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I Love You, Sylvia Plath

For me, I knew that things were going to be tough when I reached age 14 and started actually debating killing myself. Before that I’d only thought about it once or twice, a sort of “what if I were dead” type of thing, but when I became a teenager, it really hit in full force. Obviously I didn’t kill myself or else I wouldn’t be here writing this right now. Unless I’m a ghost, and this is a ghost blog, which would be pretty cool, actually. But since it’s not, at least not to my knowledge but then again I am always the last one to find out about things, I’m going to go on with my story. From the fountain of youth onward, mankind has had an endless ongoing love affair with mortality. More and more these days, I read headlines that state “Humans may live to be 120!” and constantly see things on the news about anti aging and how we’re lengthening our life spans.

To someone who’s constantly battled suicidal tendencies for the past 12 years, this is hardly encouraging news.

I’m envious of dogs, who don’t know they’re going to die. One day they’re chasing a ball and the next thing they know they’re weaker than they used to be and then that’s it. They shut their eyes one night, blissfully unaware of the end of their lives. I’m jealous. It’s often been said that humans are the only creatures cursed with the knowledge that they will die. As a child, it’s really the worst realization that one can have. Forget the truth about the Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. Death tops all of those. When I was younger, I used to go and take photos of roadkill. Yeah. I did that. That’s not a joke. I would take my camera and I would go hunting down roadkill, and when I was in the car with my parents and we spotted something on the road, I’d beg them to stop so I could get out and take a photo of it, because it fascinated me to no end. As a little girl, I was given a taxidermied squirrel by one of my moms boyfriends. When I was 11, my fish died, and devastated as I was, I buried him in a small box in the backyard as is the tradition. However, that wasn’t enough for this macabre wonderment I had, because mere months later, I dug him up simply to see how he’d decomposed. I didn’t have a lot of friends.

To make matters worse, my family has wonderful genetics. I don’t have to worry about about past family members health problems; heart disease, brain tumors, you name it and I’m likely not to get it, at least not through genetics. This only makes my lifespan even more of an issue. So not only is life depressing and hard to comprehend, and not only have I had thoughts of suicide plague me for a good portion of my life, but now it’s likely that I’ll live to be 120 simply by my own genes and not the help of medical science. How many people would be annoyed by that? I also look about 5 or so years younger than I am and am often mistaken for a teenager. I’m 26. This also sucks. I know I’m a rare breed because not many people would take a problem with this.

“God dammit, why must I be cursed with such good looks, blessed with wonderful health and live to see mankind colonize deep space?! Woe is me!”

But I think all this emphasis on death, all this time spent thinking about such a morbid concept, only makes me all the more aware of how damn alive I am. I look at roadkill, I look at taxidermy, I look at decomposing fish and I think “Jesus, that’s going to be me one day. I’d better make the most of the time that I have.” Embracing mortality, or at the very least the mere thought of mortality, makes one supremely aware that we don’t have long, especially if you’re one who wants to do something with your life, creatively or otherwise. Seeing graveyards, seeing roadkill, it makes you realize that you really need to live. You need to live as much as possible while you have the chance. People often speak of the dead as being at peace, but why can’t you be at peace while being alive as well? With or without the help of medication, one can be at peace. They just have to recognize that this is what they have and that one day they won’t have it.

Others are like me. Others have also been plagued by thoughts of suicide, whether constantly or rarely, and in some of those cases they don’t make it. They do kill themselves. I, on the other hand, have begun to train my mind to make positive from negative. To take my suicidal urges and say “Nah, not just yet. Maybe when I’m done reading this book, or writing his screenplay, or feeding the dog”. I always put it off by one thing, whether small or large, and that’s how I keep going. I take my suicidal urges and force myself to use them in my work, and use them to force myself to work harder. Maybe when I’ve published my 8th novel or won an Academy Award for screenwriting or have accomplished whatever it is that I want to accomplish and feel that I’ve done what I’ve had to do, then I’ll revisit the whole death thing. Then I’ll see how I feel.

Until then, I’m going to continue to let mortality inspire me. I’m going to continue to use my issues to write and create art. I’m going to continue to be alive, because while it might not be better than the alternative, it’s still something to experience.

Hey, you may as well give everything a shot once, right?