How Writing Turns Suicidal Feelings into Medicine

Disclaimer: I am not suicidal, nor did I have a plan for suicide when I wrote this piece. And Gosh I wish disclaimers like this didn’t feel so necessary. Gosh I wish the psychiatric pharmaceutical industrial complex police state could not monitor my written medicine even one iota.

I’m so alone in this world-yet I am a writer-I have that, and that is often all I have; it’s me when no one else can be a balm or salve or comfort.

It’s me in the wee hours of the morning devouring my own essence from myself, terrified of all things except this, because at least I can be honest.

I get so enraged that so many are not honest with themselves, not telling the truth. I cry so hard at how alone this makes me, and in a way it improves my self worth to know that when I write it’s for everyone; the lift out of despair is so heavy and suddenly my muscle seems strong.

I just know when I do this for myself I’m doing it for you too and I can’t live without doing it-I mean that seriously.

The images that go through my mind would terrify those who love me, yet in those moments, no one really loves or cares about me-they only would if I were to no longer exist and the images themselves, which are so dangerous to speak of, remind me that I won’t be entirely alone once I’m gone.

In fact, once I’m gone I won’t be so alone at all, yet right then I am hot and there-there-not gone-not merged with anyone or anything and I think of Michael Bloom, wondering if any thoughts like this crossed his mind.

And I remember something simple, like I could take my vitamins, and I think of people who drink alone in hours like these-so grateful I have a small stock of pens and paper but no whiskey or rum in my bedroom.

And, for what it’s worth I have some different vitamins, teas, and I know how to stretch my body, but none of those things will save me and I won’t be able to swallow any of those pills or move those body parts until I’ve found a way through what could be called my madness.

In fact I haven’t put out many red flags at all; in fact I’ve seemed quite well and normal these days, to some degree, and I’m living in San Francisco where everyone is too busy to care or concern themselves with others to that level. And no one comes into my room, so no one is bound to read my journal or these words, unless I share them.

I will share them mostly because they have brought me back to some semblance of “sanity” and because the world right now, even in the best of places, at the best picnics and dinners, doesn’t feel right to me, and as a writer maybe never will, but I do find my suffering can create a medicine of sorts for myself and others, when I write things down to describe it, since we are all suffering so bad and sometimes even the prettiest of scenes looks unfortunate and even the ugliest of things looks alive.