I want to kill myself.
I’m not going to do it right now, so don’t alert any
authorities or anything, but I want to. I don’t want to want to, but that’s
life, right? This has been my reality since around age eleven. I just want to
kill myself.
Some days, I want to stop feeling and let myself die.
Some days, I want to murder my greatest enemy - myself. Some days, I hate
everything in the world. So. Fucking. Much. That I simply can’t see my way to
exist through another horrifying day. Some days, I am so exhausted by the
thought of doing laundry that I don’t know how the hell I’ll be able to
accomplish any task ever again.
Those are the most prevalent flavors of my suicidal
thoughts. Obviously, I haven’t gone through with it. I haven’t a fucking clue
how I haven’t, but I’m still here. I’ve achieved some delicate balance. Most of
it comes from releasing the notion of ever being happy. I don’t exhaust myself
with chasing ideals of fulfillment. I don’t strive or desire. I’ve let my
ambitions go. I simply don’t have the resources for such things. I’ve been much
more stable since doing this.
Being a gamer, I have to make the comparison that it’s
almost like mana usage in Dragon Age. There is always a part of me fighting off
the desire to end my life, like a shield spell that uses a dedicated 30% of my
mana pool. I start my day out at 70%. The Deal With Constant Pain spell takes
another 30% or so, some days more, some days less. On any given day, I’m
operating at about 40% of average mana, so I don’t have a lot of room for
anything but work and basic life maintenance. I live within a very narrow
margin that I have to carefully monitor.
It’s been worse, it’s been better, but I’ve been
relatively okay of late. I only think of killing myself every couple of days,
and usually without any real emotional investment in the idea. It’s been far
worse. If you live in my town, there have been many nights when, had you been
walking down Orange Street, you might have found me sitting on one of the
benches outside of the eight story parking garage, crying softly to myself,
going back and forth on if I was going to get into that elevator.
Right now, I seem to be at the Groucho Marx level. “I’m
not crazy about reality, but it’s still the only place to get a decent meal.” I
can find and experience enjoyable sensory phenomenon. Death will end that and I
only have one shot at this, so, if I want more pizza and orgasms, I guess I’d
better deal with the rest of the bullshit. This is Level One, and about as high
as I can expect to function.
Level Two is I Can’t Do This To My Friends. I know
firsthand how hard the suicide of someone close to you can affect you. At this
level, even though my isolation and depression have separated me almost
entirely from feeling like I can ever connect with anyone on a meaningful
level, I know that many people would likely be damaged to some degree by my
death and I can’t handle the guilt of doing that to so many lovely people who
have been so charitable, if misguided, to care about me.
Level Three is I Fucking Hate You All. This is when I begin to resent that every
person in my life is passively guilting me into living even when they refuse to
help (in my twisted vision of things). I want to scream in the face of everyone
who professes to give a shit, saying that thing that I know I could say that
would drive a permanent wedge between us. I want to dissolve every connection
once and for all, leaving me alone and free, able to end my life with no one to
mourn me. Because if all I’m doing is living for other people, and THEY AREN’T
HELPING ME, why the fuck should I care how they feel after I’m gone?
Obviously, I realize the distorted cognitions of Level
Three. I know people want to help, I don’t actually resent them (you). I just resent
the fact that no one can reach inside me and actually do something to fix me.
I don’t know what Level Four is. I suspect that if I find
out, I won’t have the opportunity to record it.
Why am I writing all of this? Chris Cornell just
committed suicide, so the topic is in the ether. Naturally, we all have
feelings about it. Naturally, there is a greater discussion about mental
health, depression, and suicidal urges. Naturally, this sets me into a shitty
place.
The following is a Facebook post I made about a year ago
on the topic of how people want to help. I feel it bears repeating.
"If you're depressed and
contemplating suicide, please reach out."
I've seen (and said) this statement
many times. It's earnest and well-meaning and I’m glad for the many caring
souls who say it, but I've begun to see the terrible flaw in it.
Let's say I have a friend. We'll
call him Mort. Mort is depressed and becoming more and more suicidal. He is
consumed by self-loathing and just wants it all to end. I post the "If
you're depressed..." line on Facebook, which Mort sees.
Here's the problem. I have put
the burden of action to protect Mort's survival onto Mort. I have put the
burden of action onto the person who least wants to see Mort survive.
He, in that psychological space, is the least qualified person in the world to
care for Mort. The onus is on him to exercise self-care, when all he wants to
see is his self end.
Do you see the problem?
If you are depressed, please,
absolutely reach out if you can. But more than that by FAR; if you see someone who is having trouble, reach out to them first.
Don't make the person being slowly crushed under their own suffering take the
first step. And don’t tell them life is worth living, get involved and show
them.
I’m astonished that people are surprised Cornell hung
himself. For the love of cake, he wrote a song called “Pretty Noose.” Are
people so naïve that they think money, fame, and love can fix this shit? This
doesn’t get fixed. You cope. That’s the best you’ve got. And maybe you cope
until life gets around to killing you. And maybe you find one day you just can’t
cope anymore and expedite the process. But that’s what we’ve got. Coping. And
sure, some of us can accomplish a lot with their remaining 40 or 70% mana.
Maybe their pool of resources was just bigger by nature, I don’t know.
One thing I want to say as I close. When and if I kill
myself, it will be my decision. There is no decision more personal and more mine
than my continued existence. My persistence is my endorsement of my self and my
reality. At some point, I may no longer be able to abide one or both of those
things. And if you judge me for that, you can go fuck yourself. Be sad for my
passing, be sad it came to such an end, whatever. Feel how you feel. But to
judge someone who took their life? To call them a coward or weak? If you can
even think such words, your myopic, infantile ignorance of how hard a person’s
struggle can be makes you a useless sack of shit. I’m not endorsing suicide,
but I do think there is a rather unnecessary negative stigma on it. It is sad, but
that’s it. To blame or denigrate someone for their choice, to immediately jump
to saying how selfish and thoughtless and awful and cowardly it makes the
deceased? That makes you garbage, as far as I’m concerned. Take your judgment
and shove it up your ass. It’s my life, it’s my death. You may have the
opportunity to make either of them somewhat better, but in the end, for better
or worse, I’m responsible for me, even if I, the actor, am a slave to myself,
the construct.
And I don’t like what you got me hanging from.
