The folks in the suicide business call it "ideation," and Wikipedia describes it this way:

The range of suicidal ideation varies greatly from fleeting thoughts, to extensive thoughts, to detailed planning, role playing (e.g., standing on a chair with a noose), and incomplete attempts, which may be deliberately constructed to not complete or to be discovered, or may be fully intended to result in death, but the individual survives (e.g., in the case of a hanging in which the cord breaks).

The planned failures, one might assume, are bids for attention: senpai up to now has inexplicably refused to notice.

I haven't quite figured out where, if anywhere, I fit on this scale. I'm at least reasonably certain that I have no compelling desire to die; on the other hand, living, at my current level, has little or nothing to recommend it. I still can't walk without an appliance, my trick knee has decided to flare up again, and bladder issues present themselves in the rudest manner possible. What's more, insomnia has returned with a vengeance.

The best thing I can say about it, perhaps, is that I expect to fail at this business of Getting Better, and while some people almost certainly will miss me when I'm gone, I doubt that it makes a whole lot of difference in the long run. This is consistent with my 1980s contention that what happened to me didn't really matter. I was registering pretty high on the ideation scale toward the latter half of that decade, including a month and a half of actual confinement.

During that period of confinement, they threw all manner of therapies at us, perhaps hoping something would stick. I remember a session with the Art Department, in which I laboriously constructed from clay a small replica of a toilet, complete with working lid. (No, it did not flush.) Symbolic value, I suppose. And if you take this as an indication of self-image, well, I won't complain.

The really damaging aspect, though, is simple shame: there are thousands, maybe millions, far worse off than I, and yet here I am complaining about my lot. This is as wrong as the wrongness scale permits, but it makes no difference. Were I as hard-nosed as I imagine, I'd suggest that this fact alone was sufficient to justify my extinction; surely these folks are far more deserving of life than I could possibly be.

So this is where I find myself. I have to wonder if it was worth looking for me.

The Vent

  17 August 2016

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