Occasionally, I get suicidal. It’s usually November, when daylight has retreated to a shuddered blink. The northern hemisphere of the planet has tilted insanely away from the sun. Perched near the top, I can hardly hold on. I become manic. I don’t sleep. I start breaking things, perhaps the statue of an angel, shattering it into a million pieces, as so then do I. The stack of turtles holding up the universe collapses. I go to bed and lie there in a tunnel under all of the covers and pillows only vaguely aware that I am repeating,
“Nohopenohopenohopenohopenohopenohope.”
I’ve put a certain amount of thought into the suicide process and have come up with a professional development plan. It has seven steps. It’s invariably the middle of the night with everyone else asleep. The house is quiet and even the dogs don’t want to be bothered. Step 1, I open the door from the house to the garage. Step 2, think for a while, get out the car keys. There are five more as you may have guessed, but at this point, I usually get all maudlin, and start planning the music for my funeral. When I put Edith Piaf on, I imagine how sad all the people at my funeral will be. It cheers me up enough to go back to sleep.