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In the past few years, the people I know have begun producing babies and vanishing into wormholes of diapers, mucus, and misery. I find it calming to go back to my apartment at night and never once worry about their happiness or their safety. Their apartments are landscaped with simple but sophisticated furniture from non-Ikea sources they have therapists, and refer to them casually, in passing. No revelations that veer into the uncomfortably personal, no cries de coeur that are incandescent with self-loathing.
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Over the past decade, I’ve made a series of new acquaintances: calm and pragmatic people who have reasonable conversations during which we weigh both sides and make a determination. Not sure whether he wanted to be saved or whether he remembered how rarely I checked voicemail, but the cops retrieved him from his parents’ garage nonetheless. I called cops in another state once, for a friend who left me a goodbye voicemail and then tried to hang himself. But it was the same with my friends: the phone calls late at night, trips to the ER, razors and guns and pills and nooses.
I was a camp counselor for young teens for two of those summers, and that may have explained some of it: all the precocious kids away from home for the first time, imploding. The summer I turned eighteen, everybody I knew started trying to kill themselves and didn’t stop until we were all twenty-four or twenty-five. The idea of keeping a child alive baffles me.