"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
This is a hard column to write, because it feels a lot like admitting defeat. But last weekend someone I know attempted suicide, which has only punctuated my present state. There’s a big difference between attempting suicide and being suicidal. Most people who attempt it are really just using it as a drastic means of crying for help. They don’t really want to die; they’re just at the end of their rope. I know because I’ve been there before and I’m almost there now.
The Headcase When I was nine my grandfather died, followed soon after by a move to a new town that never really accepted me. I didn’t think so at the time, but my mother felt I was depressed and forced me to see a shrink. She tricked me by telling me I had a doctor’s appointment. When I got there and realized what was going on I clammed up, sat in the chair, and cried at what I felt was a betrayal. They talked about me for the hour, every so often asking me for input, which I never offered.
When the session was over I was pissed for a few weeks. But then something in me thought it might be a good idea to go back. I’m not really sure why I wanted to go, because, looking back, I don’t remember being all that miserable. Maybe I just thought it would make things better. It didn’t. We spent two or three sessions trying to hook up the guy’s new computer before the ten-year old cynic in me started to think something crooked was going on. I wasn’t feeling any better and he was getting free tech support. So I stopped going.
The second time I ended up in therapy was almost ten years later. I’d taken a year off between high school and college, spending it in suburban mall hell, really fucking up my brain. All my friends had gone off to school and things were going bad with my first serious girlfriend. We were playing the breakup/makeup game and I’d just ended things rather abruptly. Long story short, events took place, I realized my mistake, and ended up on her doorstep at one in the morning, pleading with her father to let me in. He told me I could come back in the morning. So I went home, tried to sleep, went back around six, and waited for people to wake up. At some point I fell asleep.
I woke up to her banging on my window. Everyone in the house thought I’d slept in my car all night. She was pissed and the conversation didn’t go well. It got to the point where she was about to leave, when I started breathing heavy. Soon I was hyperventilating and my hands started to curl up and go numb. Her mother was a nurse and thought I was having an allergic reaction, so she called for an ambulance. By the time it arrived my mother showed up and hopped in with me. At some point I passed out. Or so they all thought.
The whole damn thing was an act. I was nineteen and the only girl who ever loved me up to that point was leaving me. I didn’t know what to do. So I faked an anxiety attack. Once the ambulance showed up I realized I had to find some way out of the whole thing. I faked passing out to buy me some time. I was awake the whole time my mother and the doctor stood over me discussing what my problem was. But once I woke up I had to pay the piper.
They had called in the hospital psych counselor to evaluate me. Somewhere along the way I mentioned how I’d thought about driving my car into a telephone pole just so someone would notice I was having problems. But I said I ultimately didn’t do it because I couldn’t afford to have the car fixed and I needed it to get to work. Even when suicidal I’m thinking practical. Of course, they ignored my logic and focused on the fact that the idea of suicide passed through my head. In their obtuse little minds they couldn’t make any other conclusion than I was a danger to myself. I almost ended up in a shelter because of their stupidity. Instead I ended up on suicide watch and confined to my house for a few days.
I was put into mandatory counseling with a guy I ended up calling Genghis (because his last name was Kahn). For a few weeks that summer I’d meet with Genghis and he would sit across from me, giving me a creepy, child molester, smile. I wasn’t feeling any better and I didn’t think he was really doing anything. Once the bills started piling up I decided to end my mandatory counseling and the unpaid doctor agreed. That was the last time I was in therapy and it convinced me how much of a crock of shit the whole thing is. I don’t like the idea that there’s something in me, something wrong with me, that I can’t fix myself. It might just take a lot of effort. Sometimes more effort than I’m willing to give.
Eight months later the girlfriend broke up with me for the last time. Within a couple of weeks I was sitting on my bed running an Exacto knife across my forearm. I couldn’t bring myself to apply enough pressure to actually make a decent cut. All I could manage was to scratch myself badly enough to leave a scar. But I still couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted people to realize how bad things were going.
Tears of a Clown Now here’s a fun little Catch-22. Who the hell am I to think I’ve got it so bad? So a girl dumped me, big fucking deal. I’m not the first person to get dumped and I won’t be the last. What right do I have to react so extremely to such a trivial little thing? Talk about stupid. I really need to get over myself.
And it’s thoughts like that that make me feel even worse. Whenever I get really low, consumed in my own foolish self-pity, I always think of how bad some other people have it and I ended up feeling like an A-plus jerk. Which only sends me further into my depression.
Since I was nineteen I’ve had a few more anxiety attacks, most of them real. I had a few around that time with the Exacto blade. There was one when I first realized my family was going to shit and there was no saving it. And I had a couple during those first few months in New York when I couldn’t find steady work and the bills were mounting. Two years later and I’m back to square one in that department.
Overall I’m not a very happy guy. I don’t exactly have a bubbly personality. My optimism and confidence about my book deal situation has a short shelf life. The longer it drags on the less I’m led to believe my book will be published. Which, of course, is one of the many ways amateur authors never end up pros, deadened ambition. And so, with every passing day I watch my dreams drift further away from me, not sure how to regroup and make another go at it. Under different circumstances maybe I could muster up the drive. But more and more I’m accepting the fact that I’m fucked right in the ass.
On the weekends I go out with Watts or Moby and have a good time. I’m all wacky and funny and joking around. But once Sunday afternoon rolls around I descend back into the mood that consumes the majority of my week. From Sunday to Thursday I spend my days brooding in my apartment. I watch television all day long, stopping only to eat. No writing gets done. No bills get paid. Some days I don’t even shower or dress because what’s the point? It’s amazing how crippling the depression can get.
Money has become beyond tight. Last night I managed to get off my ass for the first time all week and go to the Rite-Aid. When I went to charge something (the only means I have of paying for things) the manager had to call the company to get approval for the amount because I’m a month behind on all my cards (so if there's no new Monkey House next week it's because Discover stopped paying my Earthlink bill). I’m two months late on my rent. Three months and I can be evicted. The sporadic freelance proofreading work I get amounts to about three hundred dollars a month. With my rent alone almost twelve hundred dollars it’s going to take a miracle to come up with how much I owe. Pretty soon I won’t even have any money or credit to buy food. By February Ramen Noodles are going to seem like an extravagance.
A few days ago I looked into being a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? only to learn that they had already done their latest round of auditions back in September. Where else could the money come from? Kahloz is unemployed. Moby barely makes enough to get by most months. Watts lives comfortably, but has nursing school to think about. And turning to my family is not an option. I’d rather die first.
So what does that leave? I could get a job, right? It’s not the most radical idea out there. Millions of people do it every day. Of course, the job market is shit right now. I looked into returning to publishing but there aren’t any openings. I used to temp, but temping was bad when the economy was still good, so it has to be horrendous now. There’s waiting tables, but my personality never really endeared me to any restaurants. Looking over the classifieds and job boards I face the realization that I’m twenty-six and basically have no skills. Writing a webcolumn and being able to doodle with mediocrity doesn’t help a resume. So, once again I’m staring down the fact that I’m fucked.
As things get worse every day I find it hard to breathe every so often. That’s usually a sign that an anxiety attack is coming on. So far I’ve managed to control it. And I haven’t sunk into full-blown alcoholism just yet. But things are going to keep getting worse before they get better, if they ever do. I wouldn’t say I’m suicidal, though the thought has run through my head. Of course, that damn practicality reminds me that I don’t have the insurance to cover the resulting hospital trip from downing a bottle of pills as a cry for help. And I hate bothering my friends with my problems anyway. I dug my own grave on this one and if someone is going to get me out of it it has to be me. I just don’t have the first fucking clue how to do that.
From The Monkey House a/k/a Simon Why does this shit always happen at Christmas?
The Random: Bill Cosby says that the Osbournes are a sad family. This coming from a guy who decided the dynamic of his show by reading a psychology book outlining general familial relations. Sorry, Bill. My dad may not have been Ozzy, but Jack and Kelly fighting with each other while Sharon runs the house and dogs shit on the floor is much more like how I grew up than Cliff turning the house into an apartment building to teach Theo the value of money.
