The Suicide Chronicles

I’ve started work on a series of non-fiction pieces on depression, extremely tentatively called “The Suicide Chronicles.” Eventually they will be collated into a book of advice/anecdotes for people like myself who tend to not connect with anecdotes or advice. So, yeah… I guess I’m going to post one every now and again. Here’s the first one I have somewhat finished…. readable, at least… I think.

Your complete lack of understanding just made me feel worse.
            Or: No, ‘fucking someone’ won’t make me feel better

I get this often. They  will say things like “just pick up some nameless girl at a bar and fuck her. You get off, and you never need to see her again.” This is the moment where I feel the most alien, the most hopeless. I don’t think that way. I don’t want to think that way. It makes me even lonelier to know that these are the thoughts of the few people that are close to me. It’s gross and makes me think that those male stereotypes are right, and that’s what I’m doing wrong. I doubt myself in the most fundamental way.

     If that level of debased action is what wins over the fairer sex, then isn’t it proper, correct, to “fuck bitches” and spray semen on every wall I encounter? Is it not my Dharma to forget names and give fake numbers? Am I displeasing the unifying force behind the universe by continuing respect based asceticism?

     I guess I am.

     You’re right.

     Fat girls do need love too. I forgot that we only judge people on looks. I let slip from my memory that genital fusion is the highest, most purified, form of love. Well, now that I have that all straightened out I’ll “pick up some fatty” and “savage her” thereby curing me of all melancholia in one fell ejaculate. Or, I’ll hate myself so much for what I’ve done. I’ll gnaw and thrash against my soft-will  in the weeks and years to follow. I’ll keep thinking that my treatment of woman is proof that we are simply apes, soulless automaton orgasming through history. Frankly, there’s no point in continuing to live if that’s the case. I mean that for myself, and myself only. Atheist deserve love too, you know?

     If we are just upright apes and death is simply a cold finality, then I’d rather not play. If the cessation of brain function signals the end of our individual uniqueness, then no thanks.  If everything we are is wiped from the universe, joining the uncounted billions of others who are forever gone, with no hope of reprise…. No, I don’t think I can do that. I don’t think I can live in that kind of clockwork universe where the whims of the hormonal system dictate the motions of history. I’d rather carry on with a vague sort of hope for something better than orgasming into availability until the empty void of forever swallows us whole.

     It’s this line of thinking which makes me feel even more alone and alien when a well meaning friend gives me terrible advice. It’s the fact that I jump concepts from casual sex to an uncaring and cold universe is why I dread your party invitations. In the end we’re both right, I’d wager. But you don’t see me telling you to learn to meditate in perfect, quiet, celibacy, do you? So shut up about your random orgasms and hope for satiety, and I’ll keep quiet about my growing monasticism in a cold basement with little hope for salvation.

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