Broken Down, Break Down, Will Break Down

Yesterday I had what used to be called a nervous breakdown. I'm disinclined to tell the story, but I felt myself walk to the edge, and consider it. Apparently, I walked back. Tennessee Williams once wrote, in Night of the Iguana, that, "acceptance of life is the first requisite for living it." It's certainly necessary for living it well. I'm undecided about the inherent value of my life, so when the blue demon comes calling (also from that play) I run to the boundary between life and death and consider crossing it. It's so easy to do, life is fragile. One has tall buildings, guns (hard to come by in my circle of friends), poisons, gases, and what not. It reminds me of a great little poem by Dorothy Parker, which I'm sure most of you will recognize:

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

The name of that poem is Enough Rope, and was published, I think, in The New Yorker back in the 1920's. I'm not going to look it up online, as that goes against some kind of misguided romantic notion I have about writing from the mind, or something.

Were I alone, my little wild-eyed rants and distant excursions from myself, or maybe to myself, would fall harmlessly. Like that tree in the forest, nobody would hear it, or care. Unfortunately (for them), some people do care about me. Some are friends, some are family, one is my lover and partner. One of the things that contribute greatly to the discord in my life is my desire on one hand to be loved, and my desire to be dead and away from the emotional disaster that is my mind on the other. And perhaps the chemical cocktail in my brain. Although I don't want to blame that. The fault has to lie with me, no excuses.

Yesterday, when I moved to the line and didn't cross it I was as deeply insane as when I was hospitalized almost 7 years ago. Not depressed, like when I decided to undergo ECT, but sort of making a spectacle as I left the room, as it were. If I'm going to off myself, I wish I would do it. Along the same line, if I'm going to accept life and live it, I wish I'd do that, too. I'm a fence-sitter on the issue of the value of living. That makes me a pain in the ass, a jerk, a milquetoast, and a weak and pathetic human being.

Why do I lash out and hurt those around me? I've given that question a lot of thought over the years. Ironically, I'm only hurting those who love me because they nearby. And they are nearby because they love me. So they feel the Wrath of the Poor Idiot while complete strangers do not. Nor do my enemies. It's a sad state of affairs. The wall suffered, too, when I punched a hole in it. I mention that out of a bizarre and unfortunate feeling of pride over having been strong enough to punch a hole in a wall.

I hope the young lady who writes Fia Fatal (among other things) overcomes her writers' block. I'll never be an author because the pressure of a deadline, or even just the need to write to make a living, is too much. It leads to a spiral downward that leads to wall-punching and loved-one upsetting, like any attempt to become a person of consequence.