It's Farther Down Than You Think.

Tonight, I finished reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. It was a really thought-provoking book for me, apart from the fact that I've about decided that Nick Hornby is one of the most insightful authors I've read in a long while and I'll probably end up reading everything he's ever written (probably by the end of the year, because that will count towards my New Year's Resolution of 100 Books This Year [16 down, 84 to go!]).

The book is about four people who meet on New Year's Eve on top of a tower. They've all gone there for the sole purpose of flinging themselves from said top-of-tower. Three of them are British, one American. They sort of band together and become a little family unit in and of themselves, stemming directly from the single moment where they all simultaneously chose to go on living.

The choice to go on living is one that some of us have to choose to make on a daily basis. You can take that in a broad sense ("Today I choose not to lay down in front of that bus.") or in a narrower sense ("Today I choose to pay attention when my kids/husband/boss is/are talking to me and really plug into this world.").

I'm the narrower sort.

I sometimes feel like my entire brain is wrapped in cotton. I have to make a conscious effort not to check out and listen to the wind-chimes in my head while people are talking to me. Sometimes, I have to make a conscious effort to live in the now.

I don't know that that makes me special - I think it just makes me tired.

At one point in the book, the little group reconvenes on the top of the tower, whereupon they witness someone actually doing what they contemplated. They try to talk him down - try to get him to join the "gang," but he stares at them and then scoots over the edge. This single event brings utter clarity to the group as a whole: whatever store of courage one has to have to actually end it, none of them truly have that.

This brings up another interesting, and, sadly, timely issue for me. To me, this is the difference between people who actually eat the gun, actually asphyxiate, actually overdose, and people who fuck around in bars doing recreational drugs, sleeping with dangerous people, drinking themselves stupid and riding on the hoods of cars around the block. (I have done two of those things - can you guess which ones?)

It's the difference between people who do these things not because they truly want to kill themselves, but more because they want someone to look and say "wow - she has a real death wish" and wonder why - just take an interest in them, no matter how fleeting - and the people who have a very serious and real desire to end it all right this second because nothing will ever change their minds.

It's the people who don't care what other people think about them anymore who have the nuts to actually do it.

My mother's cousin actually did it on Christmas Eve. She ate the gun. She quit caring what other people thought - she just did it.

She also thought my grandmother is a prophet.

What's the point? There is no point. There is only food for thought. I'm not saying you have to reach out to every unstable self-hater shooting smack in the bathroom of your favorite club. I'm not even saying you have to suddenly understand Paris Hilton. (And if you do suddenly understand her, I demand to know what brought this little epiphany on, and if we should keep you away from bars and dangerous people.)

I'm just saying, think about it.