When I think about ending my life, I always end up thinking of my parents finding out. Getting the call, having to identify the body etc. I don’t want to do that to them. They’ve done so much for me. The thought of leaving them in that situation, having to bury one of their children, and dealing with all that grief. I don’t see how I could do that to them. Maybe I’m wrong, and they’d do ok with it. But I can’t imagine that, knowing how much they care. I think it would utterly devastate them.
Perhaps I’m just not desperate enough yet, and there will come a point where I’ll do anything to end the pain, without considering the impact on others. Or my relationship with them will degrade to the point where they no longer care so much about my death. I’ve considered whether I should be trying to break that bond on purpose, but that seems like just another way of hurting them.
It may be that all this is just rationalization, and it’s selfish survival instinct/fear that’s really preventing me from ending myself.
Regardless, it seems I’m deciding to continue to live until something changes. And that’s where the problems arise. Because that requires me to function like a normal human being. Which requires me to be around and interact with other people, without throwing myself in front of passing traffic.
I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. I have to come up with some kind of a tangible plan to move towards a normal life, and really force myself to go through with it. When all I want is to just…stop. For all the stuff in my mind to just cease. And instead it’s all going to get amplified as I try to deal with being around people.
I need a new drug. I don’t want to go through it all sober. Something that will allow me to drift through it tranquilly whilst still being socially engaging and ‘on the ball’. That or a personality transplant. ‘Marginally worn, out of shape body seeks new, outgoing, vibrant personality for social and career advancement. Must be able to endure small talk without the desire to self-immolate.’
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I like this post, tho while youre describing u it sounds like me.
U think, from your parents perspective it would be worse if you simply went “missing” and no body was ever found?
I really don’t know if that would be better or worse. Either way it feels like too much to put on them. I’ve sometimes wondered if there’s some way round it – like paying someone to write to them for a few decades pretending to be me after I’m dead. But that’s probably not realistic.
The future controls us even if we know we won’t be there for it. The knowledge of what our parents or any loved ones will go through is part of the survival mechanism. It has to get a lot worse to override this instinct and as Cioran said “It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.”
So we trudge along in a purgatory. Wishing we were dead while unable to actualize it. We are the living dead.
Phew, that’s a bit too much bleak reality for me. I’m off to load up my brain with another dose of denial and false optimism.
Care to share how I might come across such a concoction?