September 29, 2019
It’s not really so much that I have the need to write about what happened, even, as that, after something of such import, I feel the need to expose myself through writing, to force ideas out into the open whether or not they actually have anything to do with what’s going on.
It goes beyond a desire. It becomes a necessity.
Creativity, it seems, is one of those things where, the more you put it to use, the more you must use it.
After a certain point, it forces itself upon you. Hits you like a ton of bricks.
Yes.
I toyed with how to write about something like this for a few months after it happened before hammering out a five thousand word essay.
You planned on an additional ten thousand.
In this case, after all, I felt the need to actually write about what really happened. I tried the whole “write about something else” thing and it didn’t work; it didn’t relieve that pressure within myself that needed to be released.
You tried venting little bits of it here and there on twitter, on Facebook.
It didn’t work. It kept the pressure from becoming unbearable, perhaps, but only for a few days. After that, the weight of it — of how easy it was, of how quickly I snapped to, of how badly I could have fucked up — became too intense to ignore once again.
So.
I tried to kill myself on March 21st, 2012. It was, as the epigram said, not a big deal; it was just my big deal.