Marc’s Digression: Thanks; That Time I Attempted Suicide

first ran 5/4/00

This is the last digression I will write. At least for a while. I haven’t decided if I will continue doing these rather self-indulgent pseudo-essays next year or if I’ll try my hand at real journalism.
Writing is something I’d be doing even if I were stuck on a deserted island, with sand for paper and my finger for a pen. It isn’t that I am particularly good or that I have some overwhelming or insightful vision to express--I just like words, the way some people like potato chips or cross stitches or sitting on their butt watching television. Josh Hathaway is fond of saying I shit words and he’s right. My digressions are the bi-weekly moving of my vowels.
I’m sorry. That was a terrible joke.
I began doing these vowel-movements last September, with a little-noticed piece on J.D. Salinger and how his works drove me to smoking. Since then, Natalie has only rejected one of my columns (called “Comparative Studies of Pizza Delivery Deities,” the column can be found on my web site, www.geocities.com/palindrome111)--for the most part, she has let me get away with murder. Kerry Tanner and Natalie have both been very encouraging. They’ve spoiled me. I know I’ll never have this kind of creative freedom again. Whether anyone wants to admit it or not, America only likes a smart-ass who is pulling down more than 70 or 80 grand a year.
Which brings me to you, the readers who have been surprisingly responsive to my stuff.
Thanks. A lot. My digressions were experiments and I was never sure how each one would go over. Would comparing writer’s block to erectile dysfunction offend too many people or would it only offend just enough people to make it worth writing? Would anyone besides me be amused by the insanity of Dark Shadows fans? Does anyone remember the film Amadeus well enough to justify my review of it? How many rhetorical questions can I string together in one paragraph before the reader gets bored and flips over to Matthew’s page?
I’d like to say I wrote with an audience in mind. That’s the law of writing, you see: always keep your audience, even if it just one person, in mind when you write. But I really was only writing for myself and was always surprised when others enjoyed what I had to say.
I’d also like to thank Mary Jennings, the publications adviser. She got me writing for the Flor-Ala last year and has been supportive and patient ever since.


Enough of that.
For my final digression, I’d like to tell you a funny story about the one time I attempted suicide. I’ll keep it quick.
It was the summer between my junior and senior year of high school. Mom and Dad were at work. I didn’t have to be at work until eleven. Dad was my boss--I had a job at the family business.
When I woke up on this beautiful summer day, I remained in bed for a bit, listening to the birds singing. Listening to children playing down the street. Listening to the silence of the house.
As I lay there, listening, it suddenly occurred to me that life would not get any better than it was at that moment. I was happy, which is clearly the right time to kill yourself--if you kill yourself while you’re miserable then you won’t really enjoy the process of dying. The only reason to commit suicide, in my opinion, is to have some control over your own death--so you might as well enjoy it.
I got out of bed, grabbed my car keys, and pulled my Mazda 626 into the two-car garage. I got a copy of Anne Sexton poetry (seemed fitting), closed the garage door and sat in the car with the engine running, waiting for the carbon monoxide to kill me. It was 9:30.
I didn’t exactly desire death. As I said, I was happy--there were no depressing thoughts or tragedies going on that day. I was a little bored, I think, and wanted to see what death was like. If anything, I was simply curious.
By 10, nothing had happened. No lightheadedness, no difficulty breathing. Drawbacks of a two-car garage, I guess. By 10:30, I realized I needed to either die immediately or get dressed for work, because if I didn’t die and was late for work, my dad would be pissed. I turned off the engine, climbed out of the car and into the shower.
This was my first real experience with the power of deadlines. Writers learn very quickly that if you miss a deadline, you’d better have a reasonable excuse, like death or, at the very least, a coma.
Have a great summer!

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