A Geek’s Guide to Suicidal Thoughts

Fighting the desire to die when your brain chemistry is jacked is like fighting the Borg.  Your depression is saying, “Resistance is futile.”  It’s saying, give up, you’ll be added to the collective, and… the thought is tempting.  It’s peaceful.  Giving up your control to become a part of something bigger.  After all, everyone dies eventually, it’s inescapable.  Death/the Borg is huge.  Even Data was tempted in First Contact, and Data is hardcore.  It doesn’t make you weak to be tempted.  Resisting temptation, being able to reach out for help, even if it’s just for a second, even if it’s just pushing through to one more day, makes you the strongest person in the universe. 

Depression is the Daleks, spewing self-hate and anger and helplessness.  And even when you think you’ve gotten rid of it forever, sometimes it pops up again and you need to take your sonic screwdriver and K-9 and zap the crap out of them.  And that’s how you need to see it.  It’s a war.  You’re literally fighting for your life.  And your life is worth fighting for.  You are the only you that will ever exist.  Even if you subscribe to multiversal theory, alternate yous aren’t you.  Not properly.  They have different experiences, different choices.  You are the rarest anything in time and space, and you are worth protecting. 

You are the Slayer.  You are River Tam, kicking Reavers in the face.  You’re the Doctor.  You’re on your way to Mount Doom and you will survive the journey.  You’ll defeat Voldemort.  You are Jean Luc Picard and you will not be assimilated.

And it’s okay to need help.  The Slayer has the Scoobies, River has the crew of Serenity, the Doctor has his companions, Frodo has the Fellowship, Harry had all of Hogwarts (minus Slytherin– no offense to Slytherins in the reading population you’re all great, too; your ambition, when channeled productively, is a wonderful quality), Picard had Data.  Form a team to battle by your side.  Have a support system you can call when you’re feeling low.  And if all else fails, call Giles/Gandalf at the suicide hotline– 1-800-273-8255.  Even the greatest heroes need help. 


Depressive Goblin Nightmare Girl: a response to the MPDG

The Depressive Goblin Nightmare Girl does not look like Zooey Deschanel, she is not quirky, and the only polka-dots you will ever see her with is her adult onset acne.  If you tell her you love her she will punch you in the throat and run in the other direction on her stubby, scabby gray-tinged legs.

The DGNG believes that you should only follow your heart if you’re a cardiologist or the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz.  She’s flat-footed and bow-legged and her teeth are widely spaced and look like they’ve been filed into points like sharpened pencils.  Her favorite meal is baby hammerhead sharks sautéed with three of the worst-tasting vegetables in the world.

The DGNG does not brush her hair; she has a nest of baby chipmunks living at the nape of her neck.  Generations of spiders reside in her bushy eyebrows.  She is probably wearing her snowman pajamas with the spent elastic right now (she’s been wearing them since March), because she doesn’t see the point in getting changed.  Her bony Cro-Magnon forehead has been known to crack cinderblocks when she gets into one of her fits.

Her eyes are squinted and watery, her lips are peeling like old house paint.  She’s not the kind of girl who inspires poetry, and if she does, it’s not the kind of poetry you’d want to read.