My Exquisite Corpse

Being depressed and suicidal can become a habit

Whenever I feel the need to engage in death-worship, there’s always a church.

With relentless, indifferent cruelty, the commercial dynamics of the Internet has fostered the development of countless niche sites for venting dark feelings. I can visit TheMighty.com, or MyDepression.com or even come here and lay it all out. There’s not just an app for that; there are dozens, each with their own community.

Boy, I would have loved all of this when I was a freaked-out teenager. Me and my few friends would talk about the depths of our emotions non-stop and dwell solemnly on the emotional dangers we faced. It felt right. Somehow, telling each other that we were at death’s door was a way of taking ourselves seriously.

When my teenage crush Alec ended up in a psych ward with deeply slashed wrists, I was still a novice in the world of crushing moods. So I was shocked. But the waves of sadness, fear and nausea, even then, were mixed with an odd exhilaration. Even a bit of awe. Somehow, Alec had managed to convince the world that we were serious about our suffering, and the palpable risk he took seemed almost noble. (I recently learned that he died several years ago after a stay in hospice which, though hardly a pleasant ending probably offered more dignity than ending your own life due to sadness, self-loathing or frustration.)

Now that I’m an adult with kids of my own, and I’d like to think that they don’t marinate in melancholy or scream…