This post is to serve as my introduction to the Suicide Project as well as a kind of flippant virtual testament.
Had I been told one year before that I would be deeply suicidal and humbled beyond all conceivable limits, I would have laughed.
My life as a human being ended on March 22nd, 2018. My mind and body have been irrevocably changed for the worse and am severely dysfunctional, with existence being little more than a twisted anhedonic mockery of its former state. I am of twenty seven years, yet malpractise has rendered me the constitution, mental acuity and strength of one who is ninety seven.
No longer am I able to relish tomes of history, science and fiction. Neither can I sojourn in worlds of my once impeccable fathoming and write thereof. Even base physical temptations have been made inert. I am like a machine encased in flesh.
Living is balanced as if it were a kind of grimly mocking scale: on one side there is the sweetly tantalising beckoning of suicide. Upon the other, the passive impossibility of having to eke out another day. How I wish to embrace the former, yet how depressingly time-consuming and painful, indelible that decision is. If I had no religion I would uproot myself from this realm with much less hesitation.
If I were an animal, I would be deemed unfit to live and admitted to the supreme mercy of euthanasia. However most of civilisation has clung to self-righteous delusions such as preserving life even if the quality of said life is marked by permanent bleakness and unbearable, irreversible disease.
I am planning out the how, where and time. At present my plans include hanging in a nearby wood, shooting myself through the right temple with a cheap .22 calibre pistol or applying what scintilla of brain power remaining to engineer a so-called exit bag. I simultaneously loathe and dread such endeavours, but there are no other options. The mind and body are to never be trifled with so badly, lest one’s soul slip through the deepening cracks.