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Over the last three entries is a play I wrote. This is not.

I just finished reading a letter posted in this thread. In general, I have a low opinion of drug abusers, people that kill themselves, and people that try to harm cops. But, it got me thinking.

A while back, I got as close as I ever did to suicide. I'm guessing for most people this happens in the teens or so, but for me it waited until the early 30s. I had pissed away my 20s, lost my high school sweetheart by being a dick, and generally ground to stop right after being unfairly fired from a job I loved.

I lamented a summer away, writing a screenplay and finding an excuse to live every single morning and sometimes a couple times during the day.

Some days a movie worked, other times it was a TV show or meeting a friend... but, since I wasn't working on the actual problems, eventually I ran out of excuses.

One morning, I figured the time had come. I plodded around the house... I had already written a note a couple weeks back, so that was taken care of... I cooked myself a nice steak dinner... then ran out of excuses and was about to get to work... when the phone rang.

On the other end was this girl I barely knew. A girl I had forgotten I had even given my phone number to. And why she kept it, I know not (she was in what I thought was a stable relationship). Anyway, she wanted to hang out, I wanted her to come over, and to speed things along, we hung out that night, she eventually went home after some boring conversation, and the next morning I woke up feeling like I wanted to live for the rest of my life.

And so I have.

I saw her briefly once more, some years later, actually, and thanked her, but she didnt see the significance. Who could? And, yes, I attached significance to her call. Who wouldnt?

Throughout the next few years, as the good days finally outnumbered the bad, I wondered what I had been kept around for. Surely some kind of cool reward or event would make me understand why destiny had kept me alive. I got a great job, started working in a field I thought no one had a real job in, still didnt make any money, but was generally happy.

Lately, Im starting to realize Im almost 40, with no house, no real girlfriend or true love having replaced the earlier one, and not much to look forward to. Yeah, Im going back to school, but it isnt here yet, so its all wait and worry about moving and student loans.

More and more, the why am I here creeps in.

My mistake was wondering why I was here as it related to me. My discovery, after reading that suicide letter mentioned above, is that I might be here for someone other than me. Which, despite the duh factor it has, is pretty profound.

We are selfish creatures. Dont deny it, its not a fault issue... its biologically wired into you. We create societies out of a need to benefit ourselves. While the events we do as individuals might help the society as a whole, we really are just looking out for ourselves; being part of a group just helps the individual units get what they need easier.

Its easier to hunt in packs, shop at a market, go to a bar to find a biological mate. Very rarely do people do things that only benefit the group. Otherwise we would stop breeding, obey all the laws, drive smaller cars (or not drive at all)... that kind of thing.

While I dont believe myself to be selfish (I lend money to friends, offer them couches to sleep on, do them favors), I have certainly been known to only wonder how the world relates to me.

And, for the first time, I really have considered the idea that it might not. At leasat, not all the time.

I have a wonderful friend named Inga, who lives in a wheelchair. Maybe its back into that egotistical trap just by saying it, but her life is better, because of my presence in it. It should go without saying that mine is, as well. I'm not saying she doesn't have a good life or trying to make you feel sorry for her. She's an awesome person, all on her own. But with me, she's better.

I dont spend time with people I dont draw strength from... more on that later.

If I was lying dead on my carpet all those years ago, Inga and I would have never met.

I have a best friend named Mike, who lost his brother to drug abuse. He was about my age. I think Mikes life is better because Im still in it. We met just after his brothers death (and my divorce) and having two people in his life dead... well, that would have been a dark time.

After I didnt kill myself, Mike broke up, then reunited with his now wife... using me for at least some support during the rocky break-up part.

I have a sister, who, as of three years ago June 9th, has remained sober for the first time in her adult (and most of her childhood) life. She was a victim of sexual abuse from 3 to 13 and even in her most drunken or insane years (she suffered from multiple personality disorder), she looked to me for strength. Would she have gotten sober if I was dead? Im more inclined to think she would have followed me into the grave.

And the list goes on.

The world, at least, is a different place because Im in it. And its a different place because youre in it. All your drama, all that emotion, all that time you spend with others... that means something.

Recently I emailed a friend who I hadnt heard from in quite some time. At one time we emailed fairly frequently... when we first met we would carry on conversations over email (she didnt us IM for some reason) and I routinely deleted 300 emails from her at the end of the week. She moved away with her husband and daughter, I thought never to return... then moved back a couple year later, much to my happiness.

We started emailing again, though not to the same extent, went to lunch, and she ended up helping me with one of my plays. I went to her house for a couple of parties. Then, one day, she stopped talking to me.

Now, she could have been busy, but the truth is, when you suggest lunch a few times and that person is always busy and doesnt offer an alternate date... something else is going on.

So, I finally couldnt take it anymore. I emailed her and asked.

The reply I got back was two days later... meaning she didnt know how to respond. Whether annoyed, guilty or something else, two days later means, somethings up.

In brief, the email laid the guilt at my feet for being so dependant on her. That I somehow needed to fill a void, that I was being too emotional, and, the most painful of all, that our relationship was casual in her eyes. She made it quite clear that she doesnt draw emotion from friendships... mine or otherwise.

Initially hurt, now Im just in a state where I call bullshit. Everybody draws emotion from friendships. Or they dont have them. Me, I draw all my strength from family and friends. If I dont like you, I dont talk to you. I dont do casual friends very well, as someone on this site has already discovered, and thats why my friends list remains below 10.

As a side note, I sent a similar email to another friend of mine, who has recently moved. She wrote back saying how she misses me and hopes we can hang out next time she or I am in town. Even if she was lying (which she wasn't), that response certainly cast even more light on the other email I got.

I want to have people around me that affect my life. So I thought yesterday.

Today, I want people around me that Im going to affect. Today, as selfish as it sounds, I dont want to be friends with anyone that is going to dismiss me as casual or say I dont have an effect on them. Because I do. Everything I say to you, everything I do, should make you look at the world differently than the way you look at it yourself. Because thats how you make me feel.

Yesterday, I lost what I thought was a friend. Someone I cared about as much, but not more than, any of my friends. Her life is lesser for it. As is mine.

But today, I am alive because if I wasnt... her life would have been less interesting the last few years. And Ill remain alive because the people around me deserve a more interesting life... and a life with me in it.

And thats the humble truth.