A couple of days ago someone dumped a prostitute on my lawn. At first I didn't know if it was a man or a woman. We have a lot of both in our neighborhood. After determining that it was a woman, I noticed that she was very dazed and confused. Her hair was all messed up, she was weaving when she tried to get up and she had a real "dead" look on her face. She sat on our concrete fence, teetering and almost falling a few times and then squatted down on the parkway. She was fumbling through her sack-like purse looking for something.

Now, if I were her having gone through God knows whatever she had just gone through I would have been looking for drugs. That action would make sense to me. However, she fumbled and fumbled, until she found a brush.

She pulled it out, swiped it through her hair twice, got up like a newborn colt and waddled down to the corner to do it all again. I have just one question? Why?

Why is this person still alive? Why does she keep going? Why does she want to live? If you could bottle this it would be priceless. Why do helpless and hopeless street people like her not commit suicide? I used to know a woman who worked out in the Malibu Sheriff's office. She told me that per capita Malibu had the highest suicide rate around. Why? Is it because when you finally have everything you want its still not enough? Or is it fear of loosing everything you have that causes you to commit suicide?

I've known a number of people who have contemplated or actually committed suicide. One woman called me late one night and said she wanted to shoot herself but that she wanted to wait until she off of parole before she would do it. I told her I would buy her the bullets. I mean if she's concerned about rules why bother? She was also not the usual person you might find on parole. She evidently had slapped a Beverly Hills attorney's wife during a car accident and ended up on parole.

Another woman from France kept visiting me here in Los Angeles and was constantly complaining of depression. I know it sounds trite but it was extremely depressing. We would talk in French and everyone would think we were having huge philosophical discussions. I used to roll my eyes and say, "You don't want to know." She actually did kill herself. I got one letter from her after her first failed attempt and then a friend wrote later that she had succeeded. I understand that depression can be horrid and difficult to get out of but her life was so uncomplicated and seemingly normal.

Maybe that's it. If life is too normal for some people they have to kill themselves. This tolerance that some have for torture on a daily basis and others can't stand to break a nail is so interesting to me. Rock stars who OD. Kids who wish they could just carry the rock stars' bags, who are flipping burgers who want to live. Lifers in jail with no hope of parole who want to live. People in mansions and huge estates who never leave the bathroom (which is also the same size as a jail cell).

I also knew a guy who was in a mental institution. He was very wealthy and came from a prominent family. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. The prestigious hospital kept him there, heavily sedated, as long as the insurance was good. He had a favorite chair that he would sit in and never leave except to sleep. All of the nurses who knew what he was worth used to joke about "taking the chair." They would say, "gimme that chair, we'll sail around the world and you can even take the chair." So, there was a guy who could have gone anywhere and he's "stuck in a chair." And the nurses who would love to have gone anywhere were "stuck to the guy in the chair" taking care of him.

I haven't seen the prostitute around in a couple of days. Maybe she moved to another corner. I hope she finds more than a brush.

Diana Stoneberg writes Biographical Biopsies.