Two of the most formidable authors in women's literature did this.
Sylvia Plath left this world by sticking her head in her own oven and breathing in carbon monoxide. Virginia Woolf loaded her petticoats down with rocks and walked into a river in Sussex. Both women suffered from severe, untreated clinical depression, the sources of which were unknown, but most assuredly included the sheer burden of their creative genius and unfolded piles of laundry.
This latter cause is little known--much less discussed--in the canons of English literature. But any scholar would be a fool to discount the role of piles upon bottomless piles of clean laundry awaiting weekly folding in the tragic decisions of these two women to take their own lives.
It isn't funny, and I know it's dark; but it's also the truth. Each week I feel this acutely.
I look at the piles of mismatched socks and underwear before me, and gaze out at Gastineau Channel cutting a blue-green swath between Juneau proper and Douglas Island. I think about how I don't own petticoats, but could probably rustle up some stones. Still, it would be so fucking cold, I'd surely wuss out before the water even reached my ankles.
My eyes then alight on our electric oven, and I think about how it doesn't run on gas. And how I would really need to lock myself in the garage, with a banana in the tailpipe of my Subaru, to pull off a Sylvia Plath.
And somehow that's not as romantic and dramatic, not to mention the creative genius part, which would be a hard sell post-mortem.
Back to folding underwear.