The Occasionally Unbearable Heaviness of Being

Three years ago, I wrote:

"There were razor blades stuck in between the shelves above her desk, and her blue veins had never shown so brightly against the white of her wrist."

Because there were razor blades in the shelves above my desk. Because there are razor blades in the shelves above my desk. They're all over the lab--stuck into crevices and sitting on ledges. A whole box of them in a drawer--individually wrapped in paper, shiny and sharp.

I use them, almost every day. I use them to cut packaging, to open up my sterilized filter pipette tips, to trim off clean lines of cortex from the kidneys of rats. Every day, I make a choice to pull one off the shelf, to use it, to put it back or throw it away into a sharps container. Every day, I have choice.

***

Every time I go to see him, the Android asks me if I have suicidal thoughts.

You'd think I would get used to it, people asking me if I want to kill myself. It's par for the course when you're in treatment for a mood disorder.

If asked if I ever thought about killing myself, I have to answer yes. But yes gets no relief--you have to elaborate. My first two years of medical treatment have taught me what they're looking for.

Plan. "What ways would you kill yourself?" Hanging, I might reply. Bridge jumping. Cutting.

Means. "Could you get the things that would allow you to kill yourself?" Ropes aren't that hard to find. I say. You can buy them anyway--the hardware store, Wal-Mart. Fuck, I could probably find one somewhere. And there are endless numbers of bridges here. And razors. There are razors stuck in the shelves of our lab.

***

I'm missing the third part. I'm missing the intent, the real desire.

But I haven't been to the Android lately. And when I do, I wonder what I'll say when he asks.

I wonder, every day--will I mention that one moment, when I was crossing the street on that bad bad week. I wonder if I'll tell him that a car almost came into the crosswalk, and for two seconds, I couldn't stop.

That instead of the normal "You better cut it out, asshole," that flashes in my head when someone goes too fast, I thought, please hit me.

I don't wish for death. I don't now, and I never really have. But I have wished for physical pain, for physical harm--I don't know why. I don't know if I expect it to give an outlet for the mental pain I sometimes have. Or if I expect it to make me slow down. Or if I expect it would be easier for people to relate, because people understand physical pain.

Or if it's just the memory of what a relief it can be, when you hurt inside and you accidentally slip a knife, and you are bleeding and sobbing, choking--but then, eventually it's over and you feel so much better.

***

I've never been a cutter. I've never physically harmed myself. But the idea is seductive, sometimes. You get the feeling, sometimes, that it's not as far from you as you think it is. That all it would take is a bad day, a bad week. Someone saying the wrong thing. And it's scary, because it would be so goddamned easy, to be inconsolable and to take the plunge, to sink that shiny blade into my upper arm or thigh, the fleshy skin of my hip.

***

I don't tell people these things. I don't talk about it. I don't want for people to think I'm some fleshy bag of emotions, liable to crack at the slightest affront. Even the people who are there to help, even the Android or the people who care for and love me. Even those who would want to be there, who would want to help.

So I delve into books, savor and search them. I pull out fragments of them, embed the words into my head. To pull out when I need them.

Some days, Donald Barthelme whispers in my ear:

"And they said, is death that which gives meaning to life?

And I said no, life is that which gives meaning to life."

And yes, yes--I know. The Android is my psychiatrist, not Donald Barthelme. And maybe one shouldn't always take existential advice on the meaning of things from writers.

But if it makes me stop in my tracks for three minutes. If it pushes me past razor blades, safely through a crosswalk and into the evening, then it can't be that bad.

And writers and literature may always be my solace. But it's something. Even on the worst days, it's something.