I have a weird fascination with artists who probably killed themselves. We don’t really have actual confirmation as to whether or not they committed suicide, but due to their histories of depression and drug abuse, we have an idea of how it went down. Kurt Cobain, Vincent van Gogh and Elliott Smith all come to mind.
Cobain shot himself, but some think his wife did it. Vincent shot himself, but some think two boys in a field accidentally did it. Smith stabbed himself, but the autopsy was inconclusive. In Vincent’s case, it becomes a story of an alienated man taking the hit for youthful mistakes. In Cobain’s case, it becomes a story of failed love and misogyny. In Smith’s case, it’s about a story of, “you know, sometimes weird shit just happens”.
But for me, the fascination isn’t about that. It stems from these men, extraordinarily talented artists, suffering. With depression, with drug abuse, with poor self-care, with alienation, with isolation. I deal with what they deal with. And as much as I would love to be the David Lipsky kind of writer, I’ve come to terms with being the David Foster Wallace sort. Not that I’m as talented or intelligent as he was, but I’ve got a myriad of problems that seem insurmountable.
I’ve looked into it, the link between creativity and mental illness, and the closest thing I’ve gotten to a comprehensible answer (that is, one without a sh*tload of medical and technical jargon) is that the root of the issue is overthinking.
Seems over simplified, doesn’t it?
But, as far as I could understand, simpleton that I am, the problem begins with the artist thinking and ruminating constantly. It’s how they’re able to put experiences onto the page and paint onto the canvas. They have to think about ideas and stories and problems. They take in everything around them and regurgitate it so that other people can understand it, sympathize with it, learn from it. And what is depression other than thinking about how everything is terrible and nothing matters?
Thinking. An act that’s helped create neuroscience and penicillin and the Eiffel Tower while simultaneously confining people to their beds and forcing them to starve themselves.
I’m not saying I’m a tortured genius because I suffer with all this. I’m not even saying I’m a good writer. I’m just saying that it sucks to have to fight with yourself everyday to avoid getting shot. By yourself. That sounds more dire than it is sometimes, but you know, sh*t, it happens.
