Why?

I came to the forest to determine why. Why life? Why death? When depression sucks you down like the Le Brea tar pits, you can no longer see the ground warmed by the morning sun. You see those who have come before you mired in the sticky, intractable black ***. The skeletons of those who didn’t make it are all around you. Charles Boyer, Vincent van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf. Robin Williams, so close, you could almost touch him. A delicate balance…when pain exceeds coping resources.

For the prosecution:
– 41 years of depression
– Crimes against humanity committed to me
– Committed by me
– 25 yrs of being a parent…taking care of everyone around me…dogs, kids, parents…former friends
– Alone in my room with no friends
– Childhood scars, with no benevolent god to rescue me
– Too masculine to be a woman, too feminine to be a man…who am I? What am I?
– Misunderstood enough to be raged at by strangers
– Accepting all, accepted by none
– Chronic, unrelenting, searing physical pain
– and My children receive an inheritance

For the defense:
– Permanent solution to a temporary problem (is it temporary after 41 years?)
– When a parent commits suicide, their child is 4-5 times as likely to commit suicide. Think Ernest Hemingway to Margaux Hemingway.

It’s true…we suffer for our children.