Well, I’ve been trying depression for a while, but that doesn’t seem to be shaking off the suicidal ideation. Seems rather obvious to you, I guess. I tried everything else, so I thought maybe depression would be just the thing. People always say, “Stop being so depressed. Stop thinking about suicide.” The two come together so often that we begin to think one requires the other.* So, harkening back to those nail-biting Sherlock Holmes mysteries read in the halcyon days of youth** (not my youth, of course, but one whose youth was spent reading Sherlock Holmes in days that must have been peaceful or enjoyable or in some other way worth harkening back), I couldn’t help but remember the advice of the sage sleuth: “We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” As I have already tried everything else, I thought, “what the hell, no one has tried depression yet; let’s give it a whirl.” Well, I am just barely here today to report that indeed depression is not a good antidote to suicidality.
With that in mind, I thought I’d give mirth another go. If not entirely therapeutic, it should at least be more enjoyable than spending all day in bed staring at the wall and might even win back a few friends in the process. So, consider yourself warned, the rest of this entry will be mirthful, impishly giddy, and down right silly. It may even be funny here and there—but don’t hold your breath.
To kick things off, I thought I’d dust off a limerick I wrote a while back. I don’t think it got the ovation it merited, so I am republishing it here for all to read (and applaud):
There once was a boy full of bile,
though he’d greet you with laughs and a smile.
He decided one day
he should jump in the bay,
but his meds kept him dry for a while.
And now, a few one liners à la être suicidaire:
A man walks into a bar. He says, “OW!”
A suicidal man walks into a bar. He says, “OW! See! Even the bar hates me … what’s the use?!”
Normal guy: Take my wife … please!!!
Suicidal guy: Take my wife … she has suffered enough; she deserves better than me.
Normal guy: I took a train once, but they made me put it back.
Suicidal guy: I jumped in front of a train once, but someone pulled me back.
Jack and Jill went up the hill, each with a buck and a quarter. Jill came down with $2.50; she needed the money!
Jack and Suicidal Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill—knowing she could never live without Jack—came tumbling after.
Normal guy: My wife hates me. The other day, I fell asleep with a cigarette in my mouth. She lit it.
Suicidal guy: My wife hates me.
Okay, enough of that. I feel better already. Of course, it’s 5:30 in the morning, so it could be that I’m just delirious. Hey, I’ll take what I can get. Good night everybody. I hope to be as happy tomorrow, but I make no promises.
NOTES:
* - Didn’t want to interrupt the line of levity, but didn’t want to let the thought go either. Just as often as people assume a suicidal person must also be depressed, I have assumed that a depressed person (me) must also be suicidal. Talk about a dysfunctional automatic thought! “Well, I’ve been depressed all weekend, I guess it’s about time I start thinking about suicide…” Sounds stupid when you say it like that, but the thought process (sorry folks, I just can’t resist) has a mind of its own.
** - Harkening back? Halcyon days? Yeah, I know. Just thinking about Sherlock Holmes makes me conjure up words I could have only heard in my youth, moments before the speaker was severely beaten up for using such uppity words. “You think you smart, huh? Well, how smart are you now with my foot stuck in yo’ ass?! Punk ass bitch think he all smarter than me and shit…” Snap out of it, Ashley! Click those heels and get back to Kansas (with yo’ white ass)!
