When I was much younger and arguably more stupid, I decided I’d broken enough hearts and that it was time to remove myself from the world. Downstairs in the kitchen at about 3 in the morning I stood there holding the kitchen knife against my left wrist, feeling the prickling of the edge. The two thoughts that stopped me?

1) I just spent a lot of time sharpening this knife the proper two-ceramic-rods way, it would be a damn shame to dull that edge on bone.

2) Grandma’s going to be PISSED if I bleed all over the linoleum.

Nothing about so much to live for, so many people who loved me, what my passing would do etc etc, just quiet 3 AM pragmatic points. Somehow this helped, and I wound up making myself a sandwich and going back to bed with a certain sense of embarassment. It was never that bad for me again, I discovered that “I cannot self-terminate”, and learned how to deal with my high-functioning-sociopathic nature, and while life isn’t a cakewalk it’s a lot easier.

Hang in there, guys and gals, it really does get better. Even if you wind up with a sandwich instead of scars or toe tags.