Suicidelessness

I’m just reacting to part of a novel I’m reading, so nobody schedule an intervention, but I’m thinking about suicide.

I think that a large part of identifying who I am is the fact that as miserable as I have been, full days spent sobbing and finding corners to crawl into, ending spent, passed out, crashed, or in the rage that burns red and long into the evening of guilty despair and repairs, suicide has never been an option.

It has been considered. There has been yearning for eternal escape. There has been indignation at the lack of caring sure to be felt in the wake of my tragic death. But, I’ve never really fooled myself. Implicit in my nature is righteous suffering, too proactively guilty to choose death.

And I wish that were noble, instead of seeming indicative of an essential lack of passion. Of a sort.

I mean, I would kill, even in revenge (as opposed to self-defense). I’m not really afraid of dying for a good reason, though I’m terrified and almost sure I’ll die for a foolish one. It is simply the case that suicide is the bluff I can't call. In the pits of despair, even I don’t believe my own suicide threats.

Am I crazy to believe that is a problem? Well, no, not problem, but a troubling sign for someone that so wants to wear that mantle of “artist” (as long as nobody knows I want it).

Here’s the analogy that I think explains it. There is absolutely no possibility of my wife cheating on me. Just won’t happen. Such a thing is not in her nature. Of which I should be glad. And yet, it would be sexier if there were a chance, some danger. Ya dig?

I’m no danger to myself. And, somehow, that makes me feel just a little detached from life.