It terrifies me how many writers have committed suicide

That last post disturbs me...I have spent the last like two hours or more reading mildly morose Salinger short stories (though highly entertaining per usual), as researching the suicides of Plath, Hemingway and Virginia Woolf. Disturbing.


Did you know both of Hemingway's siblings committed suicide as well?


There is this book I am dying to read, when I muster up the courage, it's called "The Suicide Mind" or some shit like that, about how creative writers have tried their hand at suicide more than any other group of people on Earth. 


It's the Sylvia Plath effect. And apparently women are more susceptible. Women poets. I write poems...and I'm a woman. Well, in high school I had halfhearted attempts at self-harm out of my anxiety (attempts to cut, taking a shitton of pills. Ironically before I read the Bell Jar.),  and it wasn't even like it was a warped kind of escape for me from life, they weren't even legitimate suicide attempts.


Yes I made myself very ill for about a day and a half because of the heaps of unidentified mixtures of pills I ingested, and I did have a wide array of tiny, noticeable scratches up and down my arms but it wasn't a cry for attention. I was having an insanely hard time at school and I felt as if my parents had given up on me. I decided to be a coward.


And I have always have anxiety issues my whole life, and it's frighteningly been the most frequent this year I believe, though far more mild than previous years. Which is quite odd. Very much so actually.


When you think about it, killing yourself is such a simple act. It doesn't take much. You don't need to be courageous and bold enough to hold a gun inside of your mouth.


I think it's unsettling that I have so many morbid enthrallments such as this.
In high school, I was also fascinated with serial killers and pedophiles. I would watch documentary after documentary about Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, etc.


Sylvia Plath stated in "Lady Lazarus", "dying is an art like everything else. I do it exceptionally well."


I sure hope I don't. I think it takes a hell of a lot of courage to commit suicides. But why are so many creative writers so haunted, depressed, lonely, secluded, and grappling with such issues? The self-loathing, self-torment and so on and so forth is blatant. I do not want to be like Sylvia Plath or Hemingway or Anne Sexton or Woolf in these ways.


Yes, I have my small demons like everything else. I won't get more into that though, I've unveiled far too much mortifying, grisly information already here. But, my anxiety, my susceptibleness for going stark-raving mad if I have nothing to look forward too, I suppose I am rather jittery, like a Mexican jumping bean.


In the book I cannot remember the title of, it delves into how the "creative intensity" of these literary geniuses minds drove them into depression and descended them into lunacy. They were trapped. Unable to gasp for air. Under a bell jar. Cloaked in the hot, dry air that they were immersed in; like a wet, suffocating blanket.


Hemingway also suffered from severe paranoia.


Also sounds like me.


Talk about suffering for your art. My demons are trivial compared to these actual literary geniuses (I'm merely a budding novelist, poet, ardent admirer and appreciator of all things Plath, Morrison, Dickinson and contemporary fiction) however they are there...well I shouldn't say THEY. IT. Anxiety. My nonsensical nature surrounding it. My paranoia which goes hand it hand with that. I think I lost a bit of weight over it the past year and a half...due to the nausea it triggers.


I pray never again it happens. It sinks me into a depressant state. I do not want to be that kind of writer. I can't be, because then I'll be a cadaver and then I'll never be able to write another word. Please God, DON'T let me be like Sylvia Plath.