I guess I should have added some footnotes

I'm sure I must have read something by David Foster Wallace at some point, but I really can't remember. I haven't read either of the novels or the short story collections, although of course I've meant to for years. Did he have something in Shiny Adidas Track Suits and the Death of Camp? If so then I read it, whatever it was. Anyway, that's not the point.

What I was making my way slowly around to saying is that even though this isn't someone who was a cherished author of mine, I was still shocked and saddened to learn he'd killed himself. And that was mostly from a personal, self-centered point of view. Because here was someone who was very respected in their chosen field (a field I have occasional aspirations toward being a part of), who was married, who had a steady job...but it wasn't enough. It got to him until he couldn't take it anymore, and he hanged himself.

I delude myself sometimes into thinking that if I was more successful in some indefinable way then it would go away. Well, maybe I'd still get depressed, but it would be less frequent, and I'd certainly never think about killing myself again. That's silly and illogical and magical-ish thinking, but it's just one of those things I tell myself sometimes. Maybe because it gives me a goal--achieve this in life, and it'll go away. I guess it helps me believe that there's a way to cure it (recurring theme), when really mental illness is like an addiction--you can be recovering, but you're never recovered. That's the truth I'm having to face again after hearing about Wallace's suicide: it will never, ever, ever completely go away, and even the most seemingly successful people can be pulled under all the way. And if they can, so could I.