Q: “Will you ever kill yourself?”
B: “What? Will I ever kill myself?”
Q: “Yes”
B: “I mean… have you read my work?” [laughter]
Q: “Only a bit. Will you ever kill yourself?”
B: “Okay, so you haven’t read my work and your asking if I will ever kill myself: no. No. Moving on. Steve, can we get a different question, since this was a short one?”
S: [inaudible]
B: “Quite the question.”
Q: “Will you ever kill yourself?”
B: “Yes, we know, we heard you, we’ve received the question: No.”
S: [inaudible] “-ck down, we have oth-“
Q: “Wil- ” [inaudible][mic noises, struggling]
Q: [inaudible] “-r kill yourself? Will you ever kill yourself?”
B: “Sir. No. Here, look I’ll talk you through it, okay sir? Can you please let Steve- can we just get the mic to someone else, please. Sir, please, if you’ve never read my work, the answer is no but I’ll talk you through it, okay? Will you, please, give Steven the mic? Thank you, sir. Thank you, that is quite enough. Thank you. Really. Alright. Steve, everything okay? Alright, thank you. Quite the question. You’ve never read me, so no, sir.
No: I’ve said many times before that I don’t think I’ll ever kill myself. I am smart and strong and braver than I give myself credit for. At least, brave in the children’s story sense of ‘bravery isn’t not being afraid, it’s doing something even though you are afraid.’ Because I am constantly afraid. Still, I’ve fallen into so many pitfalls as I’ve grown up, things which I never would have expected myself to have trouble with. Things I assumed I wouldn’t ever fall for- in part because I knew about them well in advance and when I was young avoiding them seemed as easy as just stepping around them- as easy as doing literally anything else other than the one course that leads to it. The expectations of manhood in our toxic patriarchal society, the traps and trappings of masculinity. The strained family dynamics, the placing of responsibility above love and freedom, the walls I built with my own hands around myself. Somewhere along the line I lost the ability to accept my tears. But even that is a lie because I didn’t lose it- with my thoughts and actions I excised it from myself. Cut it away to better do what it felt like I needed to do at the time. I cry still, I cry at the drop of a hat. I cry from movies and songs and stories and tragedy and comedy and disgust and beauty and silly stupid, mundane things. I think that if I stopped moving forward at any given moment I might collapse into tears from nothing at all. But always, I am removed from myself mere moments after my tears spill over the edges of my eyes. A step removed from myself, I chastise the crying man. Why are you being so petulant. So performative. Why are you trying to get other people to care about you. Questions without a question mark because they aren’t asked to be answered, they’re asked to teach me a lesson. To remind me of my place. My place in the world. And so I am robbed of my tears by my thoughts, left unable to sit in my sorrow- guilt, instead, is what I get for company. Guilt, and disappointment, and anger in spades.
I always say that I won’t really kill myself. But sometimes I wonder if I’m lying.
I think about it so much. About dying and death and the end of it all. Specifically about myself, dead. That said, I don’t always think about suicide when I’m thinking about myself, dead. Most often, my death is not the goal, it is just the premise. It is simply something that has come to pass, and I see the world sans Brian, and I see the same love the same hate the same sadness. And I think about the sorrow that I might bring to those close to me, but know that it is temporary. And I think about how much of myself is simply hiding within me, in my mind, how much of me is unknown by even my closest friends and family, but that whether that part of me is public or not makes little difference. My life is still just as temporary and small. No, most often, my death is not the goal, it is simply the premise. A thing that is meant to be taken for granted.
I called myself brave. Am I? I wonder if I might not be. I wonder if the only thing keeping me alive sometimes is my cowardice, in some way. That if I were a braver man I might just pull the trigger, figuratively or literally, and be done with it. But whose to say I need to do anything that dramatic?
I always say that I won’t really kill myself, but what if I already am? Like a vision board… depressive as I can be, even I wouldn’t call it positive visualization, but how about ‘mortal visualization’? What if by the mere act of thinking about it so often, I am empowering my mortality? Bring it closer to examine it, and it is that much easier for Death to examine me in turn. All it has to do now is reach out to me and I might be enveloped by it. And all the while, as I examine it, I engage in all manner of habits and actions that kill me slowly every day. I drink to excess, I eat trash, I am slothful, I subject myself to pulse-pounding stress. I am fortunate that I don’t imbibe in more destructive habits, but I am sure that if my life took a turn for the worse that I would quickly take those habits up. My relationship with alcohol is a good indicator of this… It scares me, in part because of this…
…I’m sorry I’ve rambled. I kind of forgot the question. Will I kill myself, was that it? Right, well, take that as your answer, I guess. Not the best question- if you care that much, read my stuff I guess? Steve, do we have time for one more? That was a bad question. One more? Okay good, lets do that then, thank you sir, thank you for the question- you can sit down now. Who’s next, we have time for one more, one last good question, please.
I did not like that question.”