During the past week, Dave and I have been openly discussing some of the weird things that plague us now and in the past. We were driving along a two-lane highway, around dusk, when we began discussing suicide after a local radio host began to wax philosophically with a caller about why female teenage suicide rates have increased. It struck a chord with me, in a way, so I told Dave why.
From twelve to fourteen, I experienced a dark age, if you will. I found myself depressed for a very long time and it is hard to pinpoint the exact reason. My mother moved us. My mother married…for the third time. I disliked my stepfather…a lot. I had few friends. I could list reasons for eternity, but could pinpoint none. However remote and distant I felt to the world, I never took my life. I only imagined how it would be taken from me and when.
My prediction was that I would die in my early twenties in a car accident or through some freak occurrence that would never make the news. I thought I would die of a disease or some unique virus. Too cowardly to pick up a knife and cut my wrists or swallow a bottle of pills, I knew it would never be me that finally ended my life. I just figured someone else would rip my breath away in some imaginable, disturbing way.
Around the time I began high school, I stopped having such a hard time dealing with my emotions because I had distractions. I made friends, joined clubs, and eventually simply forgot what had made everything hurt. It was not until I was about twenty-two or twenty-three that I realized I was still alive. This was no epiphany, it was simply the recognition that I had not met an untimely death as I had thought I would. I was even driving a car full of people when it had occurred to me that my predictions had not come true.
And now, as I knock on wood, I hope those predictions never reach fruition until I am too old to remember them.