(I wrote this 12/5/17. I’ve been holding on to it for a few weeks. Might as well post it now.)
My mind ran with terrible thoughts as I tried to sleep last night. I lie awake with dark, empty thoughts of death. Death seemed sweet to me. I felt myself slipping away.
The emptiness was replaced with a cycle of thoughts stating and reinforcing the case for suicide. I felt myself slipping away. I told myself I was slipping away. I felt like I was already out of everybody’s life as it was. My death was a mere formality.
Last week I read a story about a war criminal in Bosnia-Herzegovina who drank poison to protest the verdict of guilt against him. I was impressed with the drama of it, his showmanship.
I sometimes have this fantasy of doing something similar but at an award show on live television. If I were somehow fortunate enough to be nominated and win a Grammy, I could go onstage make a statement and then swallow a cyanide tablet or two and that would be the end for me.
I wrote a song about it, “Drunk On TV“. It’s on the last TVH album. Part of the song is about being a guest on a late-night talk show and, as you can guess, sitting there drunk and/or strung out.
Jane’s Addiction was right. Nothing’s shocking. It would take a televised suicide to jolt the masses. . . and even that would be a moment that would pass. Anyone willing to commit an act like that would become a footnote to history like R. Budd Dwyer or Christine Chubbuck.
And yet the world kept going after they died. Even though the urge kept calling me, I knew the world would keep going. It is even as I speak. . . going on all around me.
I find that relieving.