So, here I am, back in the place that only people who have been here before know about. I hate it when people say suicide is a selfish act. Of course it is, but I have lived a selfish life. Being called selfish after death is the least of my worries. I could repeat all the cliches “why aren’t my prayers for death answered?” Why haven’t I done it yet? It has been a consuming thought for most of my 55 years. “it will get better” “It’s only temporary” Do you think there’s anything a shrink or well wisher can tell me that I don’t know about depression and suicidal thoughts? No, there’s not – I am a fucking expert. How many times does one need to come out of depression, into enthusiasm, and back into depression? You’d think 55 years would be enough, wouldn’t you?
Then why is it so hard to take the final step? I read about young people just walking out to the garage and throwing a rope over a beam. How the hell do they do it? Surely it isn’t my fate to live a life where all anticipation is gone. I’ve done enough, had enough, and don’t want any more.
I just paid off all my debts. The hell with the mortgage. Who would want this place anyway. Should I clean the house first, so I can have a shred of dignity when they find me and at least any family who might want my stuff will say “his place was immaculate”.
What about my little cat? Who would care for an old cat? Would she care as long as she is well fed and has a place to sleep? Years ago, at my biggest attempt, I tried to take my dog with me, but as I felt myself sinking, the thought came to me that perhaps he would live and miss me, or perhaps I would live and never forgive myself. Ipecac and two days of sickness saved us both, and no one ever knew what I did. He died since then, so it’s me and kitty now.
Oh shit, I know tomorrow will come with just enough of a boost to make me keep on trudging through this crap – not enough to be happy to be trudging through the shit, but here I’ll be.
My life looks good to most people. A job many people would die for, a home, a paid-for, almost new truck, a beautiful motorcycle. But only the people who know what this feels like would know that the outside means nothing when the inside is so fucking black.
1 comment
Hello Automedon2,
I hear ya. Nice to see another old timer on here. So ya…here’s the thing. The people who go out and throw the rope over the beam in the garage do so because they are in a disassociative state…an altered state of consciousness…a psychotic fracture. Those are the ones that everyone shakes their head at…I knew he was not himself…but…ya know? Dealt with way too many of them.
Now I am a relative spring chicken next to you old man…but I have suffered from melancholia for a mere 51 years here…so yeah…I sorta get you…but the depression for me never ends. I have high lows and low lows…hahaha. Ah what the heck…just for fun lets throw in some PTSD..multiple traumas, GAD and panic disorder…and oh yeah…OCD and…blah, blah,blah….three bags full. Why do I tell you all this? Because even I have learned how to be happy most of the time…and I do mean learned…for me it is not natural…but is becoming more and more so with time and work…hahaha…work at having fun…hahaha I digress.
So the answer to your question? How long do you have to deal with it? Until the universe says otherwise so I’m told after seven failed attempts. You can keep fighting the good fight…learn some new tricks ya old dog…hahaha…or you can sink into your own despair and fear and pain. What other choice do we really have? I dunno…crazy old woman here I’m afraid…I’ve just recently learned how to play…I didn’t say I learned how to play nicely…hahaha
Here if you want to talk
Peace
Amakua