Freak: The True Story of an Insecurity...

Suicidal is a strange state of mind. People who haven’t experienced it seem to hold those of us who have in the lowest contempt. “How weak and selfish can you get? Stop being such a whiner. Can’t you think about other people’s feelings? How do you think killing yourself would affect them? What about your kids? God, you’re a selfish bitch.”

They’re right, of course. Being suicidal is very selfish, but it’s the kind of self absorption one has when they’re in huge distress. It’s akin to having a rat gnawing on your face. You want to consider other people’s feelings, but it’s hard to concentrate on somebody else when a large rodent is burrowing through your cheek. Teeth, blood and pain are all you can manage to think about. The trick is to kill the rat. Take it from me, that chewy little vermin is hard to get rid of. But not impossible.

I was seriously suicidal only once in my life, in my mid-twenties. It’s not like something one decides on a whim; there’s a long, greasy trail of horror and grayness that leads up to it. Mine was a sort of listless desperation; a need to just give up. To die, to sleep, perchance to dream. Shakespeare got it right. That’s exactly what it feels like.

Have you ever gotten to a point where you looked at your own life, thought “Fuck this,” and reached for the economy-sized Valium? Ah, suicide. So dark and seductive.