The psychologist Edwin S. Shneidman, Ph.D., a pioneer in suicide research, once said that it’s a bad idea to kill yourself when you’re feeling suicidal. I bet his parents are really glad they paid for that education. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not really happy with myself, my situation and for that matter anything surrounding me, it reflects in my writing. I’m not too happy with you either.
I stand at the Washington Metro station and imagine that I’m gonna jump in front of the next inbound train, Blue Line direction Largo. I inspect the front coupling on the lead car, imagining my head hitting it as I fall, big & metal, thinking that’s gotta hurt and some part of me that I likely previously valued snapping into chicken parts under the wheels as I tumble about. It frightens me, I actually find myself backing away from the edge of the platform, least I do something impulsive. I’m hoping to go in one piece, open casket style.
My colleague and I had a morbid discussion about what was indeed the best way to kill yourself. We got embroiled in how high a building you needed to jump from to ensure your goal. He swears you need at least 15 stories to ensure no mistakes. For my 86 kg mass, this results in a ground impact speed of ~ 35 meters per second (about 100 feet per sec), that should fuck you up pretty good!
I imagine this blog, spinning away in it’s California data center, the account paid up for a year. Suddenly, there will be no more posts, readership falls off, a scant few will wonder what happened to dear ole Chris. Or maybe like a good mystery novel, I, in some post dated blog entry that appears on a programmed schedule early one morning to greet you, reveals who I am. Pictures of me , family and all the characters finally completing this long told story. It might even make the Sunday New York Times, an op-ed piece, tragic and poetic as it is.
In fact, suicide sounds quite promising, as long as it doesn’t hurt (I’m squeamish after all) and a grand exit would be in my style. The ultimate fuck you. And at long last, I would be on my way to my next adventure, freed from the chains that bind.
If this is it, not only am I bored with it but equally disgusted with the characters. There doesn’t seem to be much depth to people. Facebook, email, chatting, texting, we talk but we don’t listen. We wander with our insecurities in our front pocket, hoping no one notices. But life is indeed a “write your own adventure” novel and I do know that if I don’t like the words on the page, it’s up to me to change them. Unfortunately, patience isn’t my strong suit and I like all Americans long for that multi-symptom cold relief pill in handy caplet form that rids all demons.