Just another day

  October 21st, 2011 by taango

Last year, my daughter went  down to the garage, tied one end of a belt to a rafter and the other end around her neck, and kicked the chair that she stood on away.

Of course, the belt wasn’t tied tight enough on either end to support her, and she fell to the floor.  After I found her laying there, I pulled a thick rope from my workbench and showed her how to tie a knot.  Then I showed her where I kept the Glock.

I’ve always wanted to kill myself.  How sweet would that be?  No more blackness, pain.  Feeling like a dog who’s been run over by a car but still breathing.  I’ve become an expert at not killing myself: little games like Do Something Else Destructive, Orgy (when I was single), Radical Life Change (join the Marines, quit my job and go back to school), Wait One More Day…

But I’ve never tried to kill myself.  I would never “try” to kill myself.  Because I’m not a poser. I’d just do it.  What kind of idiot “tries” to kill themselves?  Take a gun, put it in your mouth, and pull the trigger.   What I won’t do, and what I won’t have my daughter do, is “try” to off ourselves.  We talk, sure, and that can get bad, but suicide is off the table.

Does that sound tough?  I don’t feel tough.  I really don’t.  But I guess that’s how a depressed person makes it to the age of 46.


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