You've emailed, left me messages on Xbox Live, phoned, come in by bus, and one guy even drove all the way out here from another state just to find out what in the hell has been going on.

I tried to kill myself last Friday.

As far as opening hooks go, I'm going to have a hard time topping that in future posts. "I just got an interesting operation in Sweden" might engage readers about as strongly, but then I'd have to get an interesting operation in Sweden. I've been suicidal on an off for about half my life, but I've never wanted to get an interesting operation in Sweden. Let's hope for another fifteen years of suicidal ideation without wanting to make me a her.

Now, if you react the way my family and friends have, your initial feeling is going to be one of concern for my well being, but it's unnecessary. I obviously didn't do a good job of bumping myself off. I did manage to knock myself out, but I woke up a few hours later at the bloody hospital. There were wires attached to my body which I suspect had something to do with the beeping. There was a lot of beeping.

I was groggy, but I yanked all the leads off, decided not to mess with the catheter in my arm (it was a tangle of tape and tubes), got up, found my clothes, got dressed, and went to get the answers to a few questions.

I won't tell the whole story here, as I've had to repeat it about ten times this week. Although that doesn't sound like much, I've figured out that it takes thirty-five minutes to recount the events of the day (that I can remember). I'm tired of that part. I didn't plan on having to explain myself, so that's been a pain in the ass.

This all might come as news to some of you. I don't know. While I don't talk about it too openly, I've been thinking about suicide on a daily basis for years. I didn't even realize it was abnormal to have such thoughts until I talked to a few friends and learned that they didn't think about killing themselves while brushing their teeth, driving to work, eating lunch, or whatever. I spent so much time thinking about it that it eventually became a non-event. Part of being alive, at least for me, is thinking about how it might be nicer not to be.

The events that led to the mess I'm in now were actually quite mundane. I didn't announce that I was going to do it. I didn't write a note. I wanted to call my parents and explain to them that this wasn't an anger thing or whatever, and that they shouldn't feel guilty or bad or responsible. I just don't think being alive is all that great. Whatever instinct most people have for self-preservation seems to be conspicuously absent in me. I was willing to stay alive as long as I thought life would improve.

I had spent a few weeks trying very hard to come up with a compelling reason to stick around. I don't have any faith at all, so the whole god thing doesn't appeal to me. I don't have any kids (as far as I know). I don't really care about my stuff. Some people get by on their interest in gadgets, cars, and things, but I just don't care. I like having stuff, but stuff isn't a reason to live.

By the end of Rory's Quest for Meaning, I had two (2) things on my list of reasons to live:

1. Getting to watch season four of BSG.

2. Nachos (not really - but I thought I should have at least two things, so I added something most people seem to enjoy).

The list of reasons not to live was a little longer.

And so my thought process went. The rest of the details aren't important. It was just a bunch of rationalization that ended with "I guess today's the day."

I still believe that suicide is a perfectly legitimate option for people who aren't interested in living, but I don't feel the same way this week as I did last about the amount of thought that ought to go into the decision. I was too comfortable with the idea of not being here, and that made it too easy for me to decide. I also hadn't exhausted all my options as far as life improvements go. I was just tired, and I felt like a failure. My viewpoint was tainted by an obvious bias.

The one thing I hadn't done, and which I should have, was to listen to a diagnosis I've been given year after year by different shrinks and doctors.

I've been told five times now in the past four years that I'm bipolar.

I rejected the idea outright at first because my understanding of bipolar conditions was very narrow. I thought that being bipolar meant extreme ups and extreme downs on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis. Turns out there are many, many different types of bipolar conditions.

The second time I was told, I ignored the diagnosis because, hey, it was only the second time I'd ever been told that, so how accurate could it be?

The third time, I was starting to think that these doctor people might be on to something. But, consensus of opinion aside, I couldn't accept the diagnosis because it would likely mean that, were I to ever have kids, I'd pass it on to them. For all the things I can't stand about living, I've wanted kids for a long time. I probably won't admit it if you ask me - even if you quote this post - but I think it would be a wonderful experience. I'm a self-centered, arrogant, egotistical jack-ass, but it doesn't mean I don't care about other people, or that I wouldn't put the well being of family or friends ahead of my own. I want to be a full time asshole, but the truth is that, like most people who effect an air of apathy and fuck-off-ness, I'm extremely sensitive, sympathetic, compassionate, and, when possible, empathetic. This is the source of a large collection of double-standards I have that confuse and piss off my friends. For example, while it's all right for me to try to kill myself, none of my friends are allowed to even consider the option for themselves. Yeah, I know that contradicts much of what I've said here, but that's what double-standards are all about. I make one choice for myself, and try to restrict others in their options for the same decision.

See the problem?

How could I even pretend to be a responsible parent if I go ahead and have kids with the full knowledge that the likelihood of one or both of them winding up with serious emotional problems was extremely high regardless of how supportive I am?

It's a tough problem. I'm wrapped up in what I do - writing, video stuff, music - but I still think that having kids is the only, if there is any, reason for living. I don't see inherent meaning in anything, but I am constantly astonished by how utterly cool it is that we're basically the universe looking at itself and trying to figure itself out. Even if I think I'm a defective bit of the machinery, I derive some comfort from the belief that others are doing a good job of it.

Ultimately, I accepted that I probably have some kind of bipolar condition, and the ethical dilemma that was previously academic became very real.

It's not the only reason I decided on suicide, but it was a significant factor.

A bigger problem than all of this is the bias I mentioned earlier. I was trying to rationalize my way out of having to get up everyday and expend the energy required to live. In so doing, I found the negative side of every possible treatment for bipolar conditions. If there were two studies on a given medication, I chose to believe the one that portrayed the drug as bleach for the mind (or whatever). Shrinks and doctors suggested so many different treatments, and I decided that these many different treatments were all crap, and that there was no way anybody in my condition could be made to enjoy life.

There was relief in that, as it's tiring - exhausting - to wake up every morning - and to think every morning - about whether or not I want to do it again the next day, and the next day, and the next day... the argument had been going on inside my head for years. It felt good to finally arrive at my choice.

That was a week ago.

As I said, I feel differently now. Tee thinks I've had quite the reality check, and I think she's right. I'm shocked that I did what I did.

A lot has happened in the past seven days. The observant will note I've only talked about three of the five doctors who've told me I'm nuts.

I'll be back to tell the rest of the story, as I did get some good writing material out of this clusterfuck nightmare of a mess.

In the meantime, there's nothing to worry about. As my friend Ariel said in a recent email, "only people with bad hair kill themselves," and my hair is fabulous. That gives me at least one good reason to live.

Another is that Jolene Blalock is fucking hot.

If this universe can produce a Jolene Blalock, then things can't be all that bad.

Tah.