Coq de Combat
Headphoneus Supremus
- Joined
- Nov 25, 2011
- Posts
- 2,743
- Likes
- 280
Thanks guys.
Man that is rough. Hope you get better...hope you have some people to support you too.So here we are again, committed to the psychiatric ward. Don't know for how long, but they treat me well here so this time around could be a game changer.
Man that is rough. Hope you get better...hope you have some people to support you too.
Written in 1879–80, and published two years later, this work is written by a 51-year-old Tolstoy who looks back, considering his life thusfar a failure (despite his tremendous success and status as a writer, having already published War and Peace and Anna Karenina). Chapters 4-7 deal with a period during which he struggled with suicide.
It had come to this, that I, a healthy, fortunate man, felt I could no longer live: some irresistible power impelled me to rid myself one way or other of life. I cannot say I *wished* to kill myself. The power which drew me away from life was stronger, fuller, and more widespread than any mere wish. It was a force similar to the former striving to live, only in a contrary direction. All my strength drew me away from life. The thought of self-destruction now came to me as naturally as thoughts of how to improve my life had come formerly. and it was seductive that I had to be cunning with myself lest I should carry it out too hastily. I did not wish to hurry, because I wanted to use all efforts to disentangle the matter. "If I cannot unravel matters, there will always be time." and it was then that I, a man favoured by fortune, hid a cord from myself lest I should hang myself from the crosspiece of the partition in my room where I undressed alone every evening, and I ceased to go out shooting with a gun lest I should be tempted by so easy a way of ending my life. I did not myself know what I wanted: I feared life, desired to escape from it, yet still hoped something of it.
And all this befell me at a time when all around me I had what is considered complete good fortune. I was not yet fifty; I had a good wife who loved me and whom I loved, good children, and a large estate which without much effort on my part improved and increased. I was respected by my relations and acquaintances more than at any previous time. I was praised by others and without much self- deception could consider that my name was famous. And far from being insane or mentally diseased, I enjoyed on the contrary a strength of mind and body such as I have seldom met with among men of my kind; physically I could keep up with the peasants at mowing, and mentally I could work for eight and ten hours at a stretch without experiencing any ill results from such exertion. And in this situation I came to this - that I could not live, and, fearing death, had to employ cunning with myself to avoid taking my own life.
My mental condition presented itself to me in this way: my life is a stupid and spiteful joke someone has played on me. Though I did not acknowledge a "someone" who created me, yet such a presentation - that someone had played an evil and stupid joke on my by placing me in the world - was the form of expression that suggested itself most naturally to me.
Thanks my friends. I had my first session of ECT in ten years today. The feeling is ... indescribable. Like a bad hangover with no regrets. Headache, tired, you feel like you've fought the wrong sumo, yet you know you've done nothing wrong, no alcohol and that this beating is for your health.