Here goes…

Just stumbled across this site when I was doing a Google search on exit bags. Yep, I was researching methods. Again. Or procrastinating, you might say. So anyway, I started reading all this stuff people have posted here – angry rants, sad stories, horrible memories and experiences, feelings of failing friends and family, loss, guilt, physical pain, pragmatic descriptions and flowery prose. And now I seem to have worked up a need to write or share or whatever, as opposed to lying in bed staring at the ceiling contemplating my imminent demise, whether it would be a good idea to wear diapers when I hang myself, or how long it would take for hypothermia to kick in at -2 celsius. I suppose this is marginally more productive.

Seeing as I’m new here, I guess I should tell you a little bit about myself and my life-long companion Suicide. I’ve just turned 40, and my first memory of wanting to take my own life is from when I was around 6 or 7. I remember being in the kitchen of our old house checking out the knife drawer, trying to decide which knife would be best for stabbing myself with (alternatively my fucker of a stepdad). I abandoned the idea because I wasn’t sure what would happen to my toys and who would walk our dog after school. My mum always said I was a “particularly shy and gloomy child”. I guess I was depressed already then, I certainly had social anxiety. I always had a massive knot in my stomach and was terrified of most types of social interaction and “being on display”. I was good at school (which didn’t help with the social side of things) and good at sports (which did help, at least to some extent). Anyways, I grew up and became a particularly shy and gloomy teenager who still entertained the idea of suicide on a regular basis. Sometimes seriously, other times more loosely. I was doing the whole goth thing, pretending to be oh-so special. There were some half-arsed attempts of slitting my wrists, drowning myself, and playing around with ropes and knots, but I never really got very far. In my 20’s I had a few rounds of serious tidying up of my belongings and financial affairs, getting rid of stuff I didn’t want people to see, but I never got past the preparation stages. For as long as I can remember my life has been an endless shifting between absolute and utter misery and relatively bearable. Never “happy”, never settled, never looking forward to things.

I never really spoke to anyone about wanting to end it all, or having nothing worth living for. And I sort of assumed that everyone has a desire to die at some point or other. Then, at 25, I made friends with a guy who was very open about his own depression, and I finally managed to put into words some of the stuff that was going on in my head. Wanting to die is not something people normally do, he told me. He encouraged me to go see a doctor. And hey presto: Prozac! I also attempted therapy a few times, but good grief, what a bullshitting waste of time and money! Fast forward 15 years – I’m still on antidepressants, I still feel life is shit and not worth busting my arse for, I hardly have any friends because I find people tiresome and demanding, and my current relationship is hanging by a thread because the poor guy finds it hard to cope with my constant mood swings and general negativity. Over the past few years my low moods, as they call it, have become increasingly low. It feels as if something is changing, maybe some day I’ll finally be able to actually act on my ideas instead of being such a cowardly loser.

Oh, and let’s not forget that I’m a cheery yes-girl at work and serene yoga instructor in my spare time. All fake. Fake, fake, fake, I despise it and it wears me out. Like quite a few others posting here, the only thing I truly appreciate is my dog, and I would hate to leave him. Though I’m not so sure he actually gives a shit, as long as he’s fed, watered, and walked.

Right, I’m not sure where I’m going with this post, so I think I’ll end it here. Not end it – end it, I’m just going to stop writing.

K