I finished "reading" Night Falls Fast: Understanding Suicide (1999) by Kay Redfield Jamison that I quoted earlier. "Reading" because I skimmed large portions of it, not because it was difficult subject matter but because . . . it got boring.

I liked the stories. I'm sorry, that's what I could relate to. All the biology, chemicals, statistics and other stuff I'm too lazy to qualify I could do without. There's a natural type of person who would be interested in this type of book. The author is one of them (an insider). I used to be, I shouldn't wonder. People who could relate.

It's likely a valuable reference read for those interested or curious about the pathology. The book limits its scope to the clinical and normative, but that's nothing surprising. It admits to an age bias, so a narrow focus is already intended. I didn't find a whole lot of insight, but I suppose it's difficult to be insightful about suicide. I don't mean this as criticism, the book does what it does well and handles the topic with compassion and empathy, albeit with added emotion at times.

I felt myself strangely detached while reading it. Maybe I've steeped in the topic for so long that it's not something necessarily emotional or even personal. I'm jaded. Or not even really suicidal, a poseur.

It's not a mental health issue for me as far as I'm concerned. Maybe there may have been a connection long ago, but it's a non-issue now. So reading about other people, I sympathize that they were suffering, but it's not necessarily something I share.

I suppose I found it inspirational, which of course was not its intention. It's not you, book, it's me. People who have been successful; also pointing out that I've been a failure and I don't like being a failure. I've failed at a lot of things, but things I ultimately didn't care about. This is something closer to home. And if I fail at suicide, that just means I live for a little while longer and die anyway. Maybe under more desperate or pathetic circumstances.

I'm winding up for another imminent attempt. Yet again. And like before it's totally hypothetical at this point and doesn't mean anything. I feel a need for it within the next half year or so and I'm going to focus and push for it, cognitive dissonance, aspiration, but admit it's not likely.

It's like telling a psychiatrist I'm planning to rob a bank. Which bank? I dunno, the one down the street? When? I dunno, within the next year. How? I'll cross that bridge when I get to it. Any accomplices? No. What would you do with the money? Hm, I haven't thought of that. Continue to pay rent and food? It's hardly cause for a psychiatrist to be alarmed.