What’s so wrong? It is performed on the mistaken premise that there is no way that the pain will ever end.
I don’t believe anyone wants to die. I think they just want the pain to stop. Sometimes it seems like the pain will never end and it is so deep that suicide calls to you. Every pill you see, every upper floor window, every gun, every car is begging to be used. Unless, of course, you haven’t suffered enough to be worthy of suicide. Then you have to drive yourself into as intense a hell as you can find.
Nobody cares about me, really. They say they do, but they don’t mean it. It doesn’t matter anyway, I’m no good. Nothing I do is any good. I don’t have any friends. Nobody loves me. I’d be doing them all a favor. They say think of your children, but I’m no good to them either. They’ll be better off without me. There’s just no point in staying on. I hope I’m not a failure at suicide, too. Wouldn’t that be ironic? That guy who jumped off the tenth floor and survived.
Even if I go off the Golden Gate bridge, I might survive. If you go in at the right angle, you can arc through the water and still have enough air to make it to the surface. I don’t think I’d like to drown—that seems like it would be too painful. I just want it to be quick. No guns, though. I can’t stand guns. Pills are too wimpy. Too easy to survive. A car crash is uncertain…. I don’t know. I’m not very creative at this.
Maybe I should just find a gutter somewhere. Just lie there and suffer. Maybe someone will hit me. I could go to jail. Get raped and beaten up. Maybe I could make someone angry enough to kill me. I could go out in the woods in the winter and take off all my clothes and die of exposure. No one would be there to stop me. Maybe my body wouldn’t even be found for a long time.
You see? It’s pain, and it’s relentless and you can only imagine one thing to get rid of it. And the weird thing is that if someone offers you an alternative, it’s so easy to disbelieve it, or even to fight it. Maybe I even want to be rescued, but knowing I’m not worthy of it, and knowing I’m manipulating people into doing that, I don’t deserve to be rescued. I don’t deserve to live once I’ve considered giving up the most precious thing there is.
If I die, there will be nothing else, ever. I won’t even know there is nothing. But I’ll have no hopes and no consciousness, and so it won’t matter anymore. But on the other hand, I won’t get to see anything that life has to offer, and I want to see those things except it hurts too damn much. And it’ll never end. I know that. They are lying if they say they can fix it.
But maybe they are right—about my kids and my wife. Hurting them. Maybe I’ll try it. I’m sure that I’m responsible for my own depression. I made myself this way. Brain chemistry is a bunch of crap. Everyone tells you to just pull yourself out of it, and I tried and I couldn’t do it, so I’m a failure. But they all want me to take the pills. They must believe it works. That it’s not my fault.
Whoa. Not my fault? I didn’t just think myself into this? I feel like I can pull myself out any time I want. I just don’t want. Still…. I think I’m lying to myself a bit. I could be. Maybe there could be a future. Maybe this headach and this pressure on my shoulders and my heart, and this constant anxiety that at any moment someone is going to figure it out, and stop caring at all, even those who are paid for it (which means they don’t really care, anyway).
There’s only one thing that can fix this, and that is love. But there isn’t enough love in the world to fix me. Woman after woman could fall in love and absolutely adore me and want me and fuck me and it would still fall into this endless pit in my stomach which is never full.
Fuck! My head hurts. And I’m only trying to describe it. If I write much more, I’ll start to believe it, I think. No I won’t. That’s just a kind of affectation.
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I truly believe that no one wants to die, and that’s what’s wrong with suicide. All we want is for the pain to go and to feel loved. Truly, truly loved.