Archive for August 11th, 2015

Take a deep breath and…

When you have to start a conversation with “don’t freak out, but…”, it tends to mean that said conversation doesn’t really tend to happen.

How do you tell someone that you’re thinking about suicide? That dying seems like a winning proposition, that everything just seems unbearably hard, that the burden of dealing with this shell, this drama, this day, you, just makes you want to curl up and stop breathing?

I’ve thought about suicide for decades.

I remember learning about God at Harvest, the Catholic school I went to briefly when I was in second grade, and coming home to pray at night to be taken away. If I should die before I wake… oh how I wanted to die before I woke again. Still do, if you want to know.

I remember praying to the buddhas and the ancestors when I was in fourth grade, that my life should be taken and tacked onto my mother’s so I could just go. Softly, gently, full of relief into that welcoming dark.

I remember pressing the sharp edges of my wood carving tools into my skin when I was twelve, resulting in my mother screaming at me about how terrible it was of me to threaten her that way. How sinful it would be, to desecrate the skin and flesh given to me by my parents. No, no mention of how I felt, whether I needed help, if I had trouble, if there was anything anyone could do to ease the pain.

In the end, that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Almost everyone takes it personally when someone commits suicide or talks about it.

Suddenly it’s no longer about my pain, my life, my choices, but the pain of other people, whether or not I’ll ruin the lives of other people, about how this one gigantic choice isn’t actually mine to make at all.

So I don’t talk about it. I talk around it. I mention it and then I shy away from saying the truth as soon as I see that first instinctive recoil, the defensiveness roaring forth until it’s not about me anymore but about them.

The truth?

If someone offered me a completely painless and surefire way to die right now, I’d take it.

If someone said they could erase me completely from this world, no memories, no pain for anyone, and that it would be quick, I’d go for it, even if there was pain involved.

Don’t ask me questions like whether or not there’s anyone worth staying alive for.

The brutal truth is that no, there really isn’t. Think about it; don’t take it personally and think about it.

I’m in this life 24/7, which means an almost constant battering from my various health problems, depression, and other people’s applied drama.

Isn’t it better to take a step back, realize that no one really wants to be responsible for someone’s happiness around the clock, that no one cares enough to shelter my ridiculously fragile mind from the world, including myself, and accept that it is what it is?

Sure, with sufficient money and enough insulation from the world, I might be content, but is it really worth that effort for anyone? Is it even possible?

I don’t actually think so.┬áSo why not die if given the chance?

People like to say that “it gets better”. The thing about that is, no one actually wants to put a timeline on that shit.

It’s been twenty or so years, give or take a couple, and I still don’t believe that whatever pleasure I’ve gotten outweighs the misery. Odd how no one else really agrees that two decades is enough time to say that I’ve given it a good faith effort.

Wouldn’t it be better, to die and allow my organs to be harvested so that someone who actually wants to live, can? Too bad that isn’t an option or I’d hop right on that.┬áJust imagine, my one death might mean that many other people could live. Where’s the bad in that?

One of the only things stopping me at this point is that I’d feel sorry who had to find me and it seems a waste when my organs probably could go toward some good use. On the other hand, considering the poor sod who had to find Kayleigh’s mom’s exploded remains, not killing myself doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of saving anyone horror.

I’m honestly at the point of laughing whenever someone goes “what would you do if you only had six months to live?” because I would cheer, take out all of my savings, and just go to town.

I don’t want to hear “it gets better” because you can’t guarantee that. You really can’t.

I don’t need to hear “what can I do; I’d love to help” because there’s nothing you can do and it’s pointless to pretend otherwise.

What would be helpful is if this post helped even one person realize that sometimes talking about suicide isn’t about a call for help; it’s not an accusation; it’s just a fact.

Hi. My name is Katje and I want to die and no you can’t help and I don’t want help.