It’s a great afternoon to sit on the balcony, watch the sun sink down, and write. Currently, I am working on sketching out my characters, and I’m finding it a bit hard to put detail to my male characters. Which is ironic, because I’ve historically had more problems making friends with females–I think because I tend to be more pragmatic than a stereotypical female. I actually don’t usually know why women don’t like me when they don’t.
Whereas, I usually get along pretty well with guys. Probably because I view my emotions with a degree of suspicion–a side effect of having dealt with depression in the past. But I can’t claim to know what men think.
On the other hand, I have decided that my female protagonist will have depression, because I can write about that. I was thinking today of an episode Katy had years ago. It could have been a scene out of “The Bell Jar”: she slit her wrists and took a bunch of meds, then laid down in a bathtub to die–and helpfully, contain the blood. But when all the drugs in her system took hold, she ended up thrashing about and lurching room to room, getting blood all over the walls, before finally collapsing.
Her husband came home to a house with blood-smeared walls and found her, unconscious. He then immediately went upstairs to check on their baby daughter. The baby was fine, still asleep from her nap. Then they got Katy to the hospital where she recovered.
She called me afterwards. We were at a point in our life where I no longer asked why. I knew that at some point the depression inside of her would win. The part of the conversation I remember is that she was upset that her husband could possibly think she would hurt their child. And the funny thing was, I understood both her and her husband’s point of view. I understood her–her hatred of herself was only confined to herself. She loved her baby, but hated being a mom. She felt trapped and disillusioned. The happiness she had expected from being a wife and mother had never materialized. And I understood him–he comes home to that disaster and if she’s willing to do that to herself, what wouldn’t she do to others?
Less than a year later, she did kill herself, leaving behind her 18 month old and her husband. Perhaps someday I will write her story, but I don’t think now is the time.