Another suicide jag

This is getting so tedious and exhausting. Three now in, what, ten weeks? It’s like recurrent bouts of malaria only instead of getting weaker they’re getting stronger.

The shrink says double the shrinkage. I say sure, whatever. I’m ceasing to care very much. When this whole palaver began its current phase, more than four years ago, I remember saying to the doctor I didn’t mind what they told me to do, I would hang upside down naked from the branches of the tree outside the window or walk barefoot across broken glass – anything to take the pain away.

Nearly five years later and doctors and pills and trick cyclists and shrinks and different pills and more pills and different doctors and guess what – hurts more than ever. Not all the time, like it used to, but in such massive, apocalyptic convulsions that the effort of getting through them is almost beyond me.

Am I a coward? am I selfish? maybe. Even probably. Do I love my children? of course, passionately. Do I love my friends? yes, greatly. I am so lucky – two beautiful children, many wonderful friends, a roof over my head and so on and so on. Don’t think I don’t know. But it doesn’t make the pain go away.

We have a bowl among our crockery that has an almost invisible crack. The only reason you know to look for it is that is sounds wrong when you put it down on the table. Looks quite normal on cursory inspection. But one day it’s going to shatter because somewhere along the line it was subjected to a force which nearly broke it, but not quite. We still use it, of course. It’s a bowl, after all. But the exigencies of daily life are such that one day it will fall apart irrevocably. It’s only a matter of time.