Why the Long Face? (Bojack Horseman)

Commissioned by Aleph Null

TW: Suicide

I told you about my cat Jamara. I took her to the vet every Tuesday and Thursday, I liquidized her food and fed her with a dropper, I prayed for her to get better... I'd have done anything to save her, really. And yet there was a part of me-- the part that observes and writes-- rubbing its hands and saying, "Well, at least if she dies, I'll be able to use it in Animal Man. It'll add a nice touch of poignancy."
-Grant Morrison

I have a tendency to fetishize my depression. Maybe that’s not the right word in this context, but it’s right for this article. I sometimes joke to myself that my critical approach can be best summed up as “I get depressed at art for a couple thousand words.” Not all of my work falls into this mold, but a lot of it does. My initial blog project ultimately revealed itself to be a coping mechanism for my grandfather’s death. My next project was a series of reviews with the arc words “Why shouldn’t I commit suicide” that, in its book form, talks frankly about my desires to end it all. And my most recent project, a series of short stories based on episodes of Cowboy Bebop, perhaps my first non-I’m Depressed project, has largely been a wet fart both in my opinions of many of the posts and in readership. My brand, as is want to be called, is being miserable. It’s not all I am as a writer, but it’s a large part of it.

Furthermore, I’m also very self-deprecating, such that I will frequently talk about the ways in which I screwed up, sometimes without any care for the people who I screwed. Indeed, the original version of this article was another piece where the message is “Sean is rubbish.” But I came up with way too many examples of me being rubbish that I essentially hit a wall of existential dread over whether or not we can actually stop being the person we were yesterday or if the potential to repeat cruel acts makes us… I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I stared at it for a good minute trying to find the right word, but none came out.

When I try to watch Bojack Horseman, I feel like it’s hitting way too many seared wounds. It’s not a one to one connection between the two of us. Beyond species and profession, I’m not an addict to either drugs or alcohol. I’m too introverted to be the kind of toxicity that Bojack is. And mine wasn’t as broken a home as his. But… I feel a sense of kinship to the life and tragedy Bojack lived. The desire to end it all. The feeling that every action I take only makes things worse. The urge to be the center of attention, even when it’s time to let someone else talk. The lack and desire to have closure. But closure isn’t something you deserve. It’s something other people give to you. Sometimes, that means being told to go fuck yourself while others it means just sitting on a roof, silently looking at the stars.

And here again, I write autobiographically. I sometimes wonder if this approach is solipsistic, if I’m just writing to fellate my own ego for the sake of making myself feel better over the cruel things I’ve done. That I’m not really sorry for my actions, just going through the motions of “Cruelty, Guilt, Confrontation, Apology.” Not necessarily in that order. I haven’t seen a therapist in years. A lot of other stuff took priority. I could talk about those things, but those aren’t my stories to tell. At most, I was a supporting player to those events, some I’ve discussed at length. Others are best not expressed publicly for many years.

Oddly enough, one of the many reasons why I argue I should kill myself is that I’m just a space filler. I don’t add anything to the conversation and what I do add is, at best, superfluous and, at worst, inaccurate. Anyone could do what I do and many do it better. I add personal value to the people who know me, but that’s basically it. And that loss could heal in time. Hell, I set up the blog so that, if I were to kill myself after writing this entry, you wouldn’t notice until December. (I’m not going to for a variety of reasons, the least of which being I preordered tickets to Gothic on Wednesday, I’m planning on seeing Sweet Movie a week from Saturday, and I’ve got a Sherlock retrospective essay planned I’m hoping to get onto Graphic Policy. Fittingly, the title structure for each part is based around the song “Don’t Stop Dancing ‘til the Curtain Call” as a metatextual joke about where Steven Moffat’s career would’ve gone were he to stick with sitcoms. Oh, and I’m also going to Grad School in June.)

But then… I want to put a “but then” sentence here, but I don’t really know what would be right. Whenever I write about reasons not to do it, it always feels a bit too cliched, too obvious and straightforward. You are not alone, It won’t hurt forever, I’m willing to listen, and all that. But it feels… not enough. Like I don’t fully believe the words. There are times when rock bottom turns out to be a ledge you hit that crumples as easily as paper. I want to conclude on an optimistic note because, for all my self-loathing, I believe things can get better. I believe I can be a better person than I was yesterday, even though I am still capable of doing what I did and may even repeat my cruelty in the future, intentionally or not. But I am capable of stopping myself. I am capable of doing the right thing. And sometimes that means shutting the hell up. Sometimes that means not begging for closure from those you’ve hurt. And sometimes… it means reaching out to help someone who’s only halfway down.

(Shit, I need another 50 words to accurately call this “being depressed at art for thousands of words.” …Quotes have worked out for me in the past, why not?)

I know that you're tired
I know that you're sour and sick and sad
For some reason
 So I'll leave you with a smile
Kiss you on the cheek
And you will call it treason
 That's the way it goes
Some days a fever comes at you
Without a warning
 And I can see it in your face
You've been waiting to break
Since you woke up this morning
-Catherine Feeny, Mr. Blue Sky