Suddenly deciding last night, Sunday, to leave for Chicago—slept on more or less irregularly, and had trunk packed early this morning (previously ready for quick departure), tickets, etc., by noon—theatre this afternoon, and everything nearly ready now.
Turning point insofar as leaving future to chance instead of carefully planned out course . . . . for my temperament to settle down to any such dull routine as seems necessary to get on as others have. Besides, I have lost a certain grip I had before the early part of this year brought on acute nervousness, and it needs quick action to put me into touch with life. Slow and sure is not my forte, but fast and intermittent, and I have to face it whether I will or not.
Chicago, January 29, 1913.
If I wrote that the past month was the worst I had ever experienced, I would probably repeat myself, as I have had some very bad and frequent worsts, during the past year and a half, but nevertheless I never hope to feel so utterly despairing this side of eternity.
I arrived in Chicago on December 31, an hour before the new year. I was met by my uncle and proceeded to his house with him. He is a vegetarian, a raw food one, an ardent and unmerciful propagandist; his wife a chronic invalid, cold and lifeless.
There was really no room for me, and I slept in an unheated room, where they kept fruit and vegetables. It was cold, too cold to dress in without great discomfort, but uncle said the air was good for me, and the fruit had to be taken care of anyway.
Now I am generally open to reason and persuasion, even if I do act on my own impulses and ideas eventually. But I will not be forced. I have fled from one refuge to another in the hope of being free, of being able to be myself, and uncle’s insistence on my not doing this and that, resulted in argument, but no open break.
The result was that everything seemed to fall from under my feet, and on January 10th, I made up my mind to commit suicide on my twenty-third birthday, May 10th, next.
Of course, this was not the result entirely, or even principally, of my trouble with uncle. That was only important insofar as it added the last straw to my . . . . misunderstood and, if not persecuted, at least worried beyond endurance, by my relatives.
My reasons, in a few words, for deciding on suicide were: