Why Writers Want to Die · 4:24am Sep 26th, 2019
Trigger Warning: the following is an in-depth, candid article about emotional trauma and the resulting suicidal ideation, written by someone with severe C-PTSD.
A few years ago, when Robin Williams committed suicide, Cracked.com published a serious article titled "Why Funny People Kill Themselves". (google cache link, because it seems to have been taken down) It talks about how the people who work the site regularly have to make private calls to some of the funniest writers on the internet in order to talk them out of their somewhat regular suicide attempts, and tries to pin down an explanation of why it is that the people who entertain us are often the people who, on some level, want to die.
I’ve wanted to write something like that for a while, and in light of last night's very public suicide attempt of a popular author on the site, who is known for writing stories about depression and suicide, I figured now would be a good time. If you didn't see the trigger warning at the top, I'm going to reiterate: this ramble isn't meant to be funny, nor is it meant to give you some sort of happy take away at the end. This is the explanation for all of my suicidal ideations, the closest thing you will ever see to a “suicide note” from me, though I am not currently suicidal.
This blog post won’t be funny, fanciful, or even really make direct reference to any of my work: this is going to be some real shit.
I'm not writing this to try and justify anything, or to convince you that it's okay, because it's not, only to try and explain to the people who don't understand what's going on in our heads when we say and do things like this. It’s a disconnect that can often be hard to bridge.
Why I Want to Die
Let me start by saying a little bit about myself.
My first suicide attempt was when I was 14. I still haveone of the suicide notes somewhere with my journals. (It's pretty sappy though) This was also around the time when my other self-destructive behaviors which reached their crescendo during this period. About the only “healthy” thing in my life at the time was Punk Rock, and even though I wasn’t good at it back then, it was something I spent a lot of time distracting myself with.
A lot of people misinterpret this sort of thing as being something internal, unprovoked, that some people just self-harm, use drugs, and commit suicide because of hormones or video games or rock music or whatever. I've talked a bit about "the myth of the vacuum" in the past, and I plan to go into detail about it at some point in some future work some day, but basically, you have to realize that most everything people do has a set of causes. To paraphrase one of my early mentors, “People don’t write Punk Rock because they’re happy.” Most people aren’t happy for a reason.
My first suicide attempt happened shortly after my first neart death experience at the hands of my father. He was quick to anger, and tended to respond to that anger with violence before anything else, and had been increasingly violent with me over the years before that, but that was the first night that I had ever fallen unconscious in the middle of it. Before that, I’d simply resolved myself to getting as far away from him as I could the moment I was old enough to leave, but that was the moment that I realized there was a real chance I wouldn’t survive long enough to do that. This is about the point where people sometimes ask why I didn’t do anything to escape earlier, or why no one intervened, and the answer is, reality isn’t that simple: when I was younger, I thought it was normal for fathers to be violent and scary, and as I started to understand that it wasn’t, I attempted to voice my discomfort to others, but was constantly given excuses about how I just didn’t appreciate him and needed to be a better child. I don’t understand why people do this, but it’s the reason why I always tell younger people that those kinds of feelings, hatred for a parent, are ok: having children is a choice, and you have no pre-set obligation to even care about the people who chose to create you.
I want to make something clear right now, my father has a severe mental illness known as Narcissistic Personality Disorder, a type of Antisocial Personality Disorder (a category which includes Sociopathy and Psychopathy) which makes it impossible to see fault in themselves and understand that others have needs an interest which conflict with theirs. I should note that this isn't a professional diagnosis, which, as any psychologist will tell you, is extremely uncommon for clinical narcissists to have, as they refuse to go through the steps that would lead to such a diagnosis, but we know that’s what it was because, if you look up the symptoms, his mindset and behavior fits them to the letter. What he did I was wrong, but it was not a deliberate act of malice, and, while I don't love him, and I will still contend that he holds the blame for everything he did, I have forgiven him enough that we can at least be friends.
...just as long as I keep my emotions out of arms reach from him.
Granted, that doesn't mean I don't hold resentment. I still mourn for the childhood I could have had, I still feel very human anger over the fact that my father was so flawed he couldn't even be close to a good parent, and I still feel some level of shock that a person could inflict such horrors upon their own child. I'd also like to note that I was sexually molested by someone (whose identity I will not make public) between the ages of 10 and 16. For years, it never really occurred to me just how fucked up that was, and it's something I'm only now coming to terms with. It was likely another factor in me doing some of the many things that I now regret: most of them are consequences of the mental illness I've been forced to live with.
There is a limit to the amount of trauma someone can take, and it's different for every person, before things start to snap, and eventually, the line between living and dying just starts to get blurred. From the moment it became clear to me that I had a violent family member, and that his violence towards my mother would eventually be turned on me, at an age so young I could barely talk, I have been filled to the brim with trauma, and it has overflowed for my entire life. It’s that overflow that has caused me to do things I regret. It’s caused me to hurt people, from strangers to loved ones, often without even conscious control of my own actions. It’s caused me to horrify people, to make them break down and cry or beg me to stop talking in the middle of a calm monologue about some terrible thing. It’s caused me to humiliate myself and others and wrack my brain years later wondering why the fuck I did that. To all the people who I’ve hurt over the years, I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done, and I only hope I at least managed to make the rest of the time you spent with me worth it.
In psychology, we have a disorder called C-PTSD: complex post-traumatic stress disorder. The concept of PTSD itself describes what happens when someone hits their limit for trauma, and our brain begins to build defense mechanisms against it. The "complex" part is to describe what happens when that trauma is so frequent that it becomes part of our personality, our very underlying neurology: an incurable mental illness has been hard-wired into my brain from the things I went through throughout its development.
I will never be complete. I will never be whole. I am fully aware of the fact that I am so damaged by things that happened before I was even allowed by our society to make my own decisions that I will never be fully healed.
I will always carry this pain.
This is not fatalism, this is not suicidal ideation, this is not me being a defeatist over my own problems, this is simply a reality that I live with. Some of us cope with the idea that the pain and sadness doesn’t have an end better than others. I’m not entirely sure why: it might be some internal drive, some set of life experiences, or simply the fact that, once you survive enough of the moments when you want to kill yourself (for whatever your value of “enough” is) you start to learn how to get through them.
Writing as an Outlet
Even though my last actual suicide attempt was over a decade ago, sometimes, I still think about the easy fix for this pain. It's the reason why I don't have a gun: the majority of gun deaths are suicides, simply because it’s an easy way to kill yourself, and our society doesn’t really give us healthy ways to deal with negative feelings, let alone mental illness. I feel like other people might be horrified if they realized just how easy it is for me to imagine blowing my own brains out and finally ending it, but then again, I know most of the things that go on in my mind are horrific to other people. I guess that's why horror is such an appealing genre to me: I’m only writing what I know.
That's something I find about writing: those of us who are troubled often use it as an outlet for that constantly overflowing inner-darkness.
When we write about violence, that's us taking the violence which is a norm within our imaginations and inflicting it on fictional characters. I'm always glad that I managed to keep my violence in my artwork, instead of taking it out on the random people who annoy me. When we write comedy, that’s us using the barrier we’ve used for years to keep ourselves and others separated from those dark emotions. As I said at the beginning, the funniest people are often the saddest, and my off-the-wall, take-it-too-far sense of humor has been notorious among my social groups for most of my life. When we write about beauty and heroism, that's us trying to remind ourselves that there is good in the world, things worth living and fighting for. When we write about characters who are in pain, that's us trying to bring context to our own pain, perhaps reach someone else who feels this way. That's what got me into writing dark, emotional lyrics in the first place, hearing musicians when I was young talk frankly about the feelings that isolated me from everyone else around me.
And, perhaps disturbingly, people like that: somehow, pain is a beautiful thing.
I feel like the reader often goes through a parallel process to the writer. We read stories about violence because it resonates with us, the idea that we can solve things by just kicking ass. We read stories about funny things because they give us that moment of joy and disconnection from reality, regardless of how sad we might be. We read stories about beauty and heroism because we want that reminder of the good in the world. We read stories about people in pain because, on some level, we find comfort in their sadness, the idea that another person, even fictional, could be going through something we can compare our own emotions to, and, perhaps, the hope that they can move on.
Mental Illness can be a double-edged sword for creating these things.
On the one hand, our familiarity with suffering gives us context from which to understand the pain we put our characters through. The dissociation from reality that comes from contending with a reality that is too horrible for the mind to deal with makes it easier to step into a fantasy world. The need to connect to other people, to shout that we have emotions and they are real, so that everyone can know, offers a constant drive.
Conversely, one of my greatest regrets in life has been the time spent on the floor, the time wasted by mental illness, when I could have been creating. It's always a constant struggle to get literally anything done. Mental illness is the reason why, for all the interesting things I've worked on in my life, so little of it actually reaches the point where you see some record of it. When asked, Vincent van Gogh said the same thing: whereas others saw his illness as his inspiration, he saw it as the greatest hurdle to creating more.
There's something terrible about the irony of pain both being seemingly required to create artists, while simultaneously being the thing that holds us back.
My Little Pony
Those who’ve been following the “Looking Back” posts will remember how, the first one, I said that My Little Pony was a source of joy that came into my life as I was closing the door on its darkest chapter. In that time, not only has it regularly given me a fun, 20 minute reprieve from the darkness that has followed me since that time period, but it’s also given me these relatable characters who deal with real problems, real emotions, and real pain for me to, on some level, empathize with. That’s why Discord, Luna, and Gallus resonate with me so thoroughly: I feel like, on some level, I can connect with them. The stuff the adult fans come up with is even better.
What I didn’t say is that My Little Pony has been, at times, one of the things that drags me away from the edge.
Over the years, when I’ve thought about killing myself, I’ve reminded myself that new episodes of My Little Pony are coming out, and that I won’t get to see them if I’m dead. That’s literally what this show means to a lot of people, one more reason to stay alive, just so we can see the next episode. One of the saddest things about people who actually succeed in suicide attempts is that a brief push away from the edge is often all it takes for the urge to pass. Very few of us actually plan out our suicides in advance, and those who do almost always find a reason to cancel those plans. We don’t really want to die, we’re just caught up in a moment where we’re in too much pain to recognize that.
After a while, I’ve come to recognize my suicidal urges for the fleeting things they are, and that, aside from the fact that my life is much more tolerable now, probably the only reason I’ve lasted this long.
Other people don’t do that though.
There are a lot of people who were pulled out of dark places by this show, and even more who use it as a reason to keep going. Once the final episode airs, we’re going to see a lot more of these suicide notes pop up within the community, especially since they often have a ripple effect: simply being aware of someone else in your community’s suicide can trigger suicidal contemplation. Obviously, I’m writing this article right now because of one within the FiMFiction community.
If you know someone who starts talking about their suicidal feelings, my advice is to, first and foremost, remain calm: the fact that they’re talking to you means they want to hear someone else’s thoughts about it, and the most isolating thing is when people freak out that you’ve voiced your deepest emotions. If you don’t react in a calm, understanding manner, all you’re doing is ensuring they won’t talk to you about it next time. Other than that, remember, it usually only takes a few minutes of calm distraction for the moment to pass. Ask if there’s something they want to talk about, something that’s bothering them, or if they want to talk about something else, like Ponies. What’s important is that we know there’s someone who cares enough to show interest in our wellbeing.
And, if you’re the person who is having a suicidal moment, my advice is, contact a friend. I’ve got a few people who’ve had one of those late night phone calls where I’m just being crazy, some people who know me well, some just random people on Discord. If that’s not on the table, take a walk, take a nap, or just put on an episode of My Little Pony: it’s a great way to calm down.
The End
I want to give you some sort of happy ending, some sort of helpful conclusion, some sort of positive take away that doesn't make me sound like this tragically insane person, or tell you that everything always get better, but I can't. In the words of Steven Universe, “There’s no such thing as happy endings.”
The people who see me on stage, who follow me into political dealings, who read my stories, who show up to appreciate the various other things I do, usually see me as this fun person, this happy and carefree person, who lives without regret, shame, or sadness. The people who see me afterwards, once I'm back out of those fleeting moments in the spotlight, who see my hands literally bleeding from being cut open by the guitar strings after a 1 hour show, the rasp in my voice from utter exhaustion, who see my bloodshot eyes after staying up for days on end on a writing binge, who see me collapsing after hours on my feet from political actions and office-calls to local politicians, who see me eating candy and ice cream instead of meals because I know I need calories and it's the only thing I can force myself to eat... They know the real me. Of the thousands of people who enjoy my work, they may be my only real friends.
And always, they invariably ask me, why do I do this to myself? Why do I put myself through this? How do I even find the strength to push myself to to my physical limits?
Because I am broken, I am in pain, and this is all I have.
Thanks for reading this. It feels something like a rant, but I hope maybe, for the people who don’t understand us, this provides a bit of insight. Since you’ve stayed this long, let me leave you with the song that was in my head last night, the most famous suicide ballad of one of the greatest lyricists of out time...
Hugs
Jeez... I had no idea. That doesn't really do it justice but I can't think of what else to say. I hope you create strange and glorious things. On that note can I still criticize your stuff?
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Yeah, sure, as long as you do it constructively. I don't have a huge ego about the things I write: I consider myself competent, but I know it has flaws.
Internet hugs for you
What an insightful read. Thank you so much for airing your thoughts out here. *Hugs*
Thank you for showing us such a deeply personal part of yourself. Here's hoping the pain acts more as motivator than obstacle on average. And my apologies if this comes across as insensitive; I'm really not sure what to say after that, but I wanted to make sure you knew you weren't just shouting into the void.
It's always hard for me to understand. I've read lots of things like this, talked to lots of people, and tried my best to... understand. I don't think I ever have, no matter how many times people tell me I write characters well. They just do their thing, I'm not always sure why.
Thank you. For just... posting this, giving those of us who 'don't get it' another angle on this. What you (and so many others in our society) suffer/have suffered is a massive deal that... honestly is often treated as some kind of joke a lot of the time. It's not. I may not know what exactly it is or what our response should be (most likely different for every person) but I do know it's not something to laugh at. Not even a nervous laugh...
I don't know what I've said in this comment. Pretty confused, as usual. Just... thank you, and take care of yourself.
-GM, master of green things.
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Honestly, there isn't much TO say. Shit is shit, and there's not much we can do to change it, only live with it. This isn't a cry for help or a plea for sympathy, it's just an attempt to help people understand what it is a lot of us go through, because to others, it must seem out of the blue.
So, uh... When is the... Next chapter of Displaced Into Nothing coming out?
(Also, have you ever actually had therapy? Sorry if that's too personal.)
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Yeah, I've had therapy. Don't have the need/disposable-income right now to justify it though. And on a semi-related note, the next chapter of DiN has been on Patreon in a 90% complete state for a while, I've just been overwhelmed by a multitude of things and unable to finish it.
That said, I don't wanna talk about my stories here: I don't want to directly promote my other work on this article.