I am a 17 year old girl and I found this website while seeking least painful methods of suicide on Google.
If I had half an ounce of courage in my veins, I would damn painlessness and go out messily: off the edge of a building of with a bullet to the temple. I am, however, extraordinarily cowardly when it comes to agony. I would be inclined towards an overdose, but I hear that’s a horrible way to go – vomitting. I would inject some air into a vein, but where would I get the syringe? And I’m no fan of needles… In short, the recurrent thoughts of suicide are becoming more and more forceful. I have spent my entire life tired, dispassionate, drained. My life is nothing, means nothing is founded upon fumes which have no future. My life is not so terrible that I’m seeking to escape it, no – it’s not anything, and I am utterly, mortally weay of it. I’m ready for it to be done. I want to throw up my hands and walk out the doors, cash in my chips, a gambler who only wants to lose and be allowed to leave. I am done. Finished.
I have been to two different psychologists in the space of six months. They have both been sweet, kind and uniquely and extraordinarily useless. They tell me to put on a happy face, think my way out of my depression… but I imagine that if this was something I could think my way out of, I would have done it years and years and years ago. They have not given me medication. They have not offered a diagnosis. They have invited me into their offices, week after week, telling me to give a flippant account of my day and my work and my pastimes. They are damned useless.
Naturally, the iinstinctual part of me – devoid of emotion or humanism – is hell bent on survival. It urges me to tell the psychologists that I am actively contemplating suicide, and to undergo the fortnight of horrors of an involuntary psychological hold. My dearest friend tells me to do this. She is bi-polar and has been admitted once before. She says it saved her. I am too much of a coward to make the phone call, to be behind looked doors, to have to break the news to my parents. I am fairly certain it would kill them. I’m fairly certain it would end my academic career – they would find a way to remove me from university, to drag me back home again under the guise of keeping me safe.
I am too cowardly to make the phone call. I am too cowardly too use a knife.
I never knew that the inbetween could be such a hellish, listless survival.