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this might not become a suicide note

by evianwatre

down below is some stuff i wrote for myself to read, it’s my attempt of exploring my relationship with suicide and death. i wrote this in a different language and i simply ran it through google translate, this might be unreadable, but i thought i should post something here once in a while.

everything i’ve wrote is deeply, deeply personal, i’ve never shared an analysis of my mind this personal and in detail before, on anywhere. i might come back and archive this, and also, i feel deeply insecure about my real age, i feel so bad for being this age because i feel like nothing in my head truly means anything. please know that all i feel and say in this translated text is deeply real. i feel like i could be ten years younger, or twenty years older, but not in a age like this. it’s almost shameful. because of how many people my age that’s been exaggerating their negative thoughts, i feel like i might be lying to myself too.

i feel fine by the way, i’m probably not going to kill myself this year, i think. just deeply numb and i’ve been feeling far away from reality as i was writing this, sorry again if the text is hard to read. again, it’s translated from another language through google translate and i just went with my flow of consciousness.

i’m sorry.

(It may be a suicide note, if I die this is my suicide note, if I did not commit suicide then this is an ordinary record)

The (*please let me keep it a secret) year of life is about to come.

In the past () years, I have not tried to commit suicide, but I have never done it seriously, with a mortal heart, and even planned any steps until last year or in recent years.

In the beginning, to bring the memory back to the beginning, I must write it down. Remember things, or remember things that need to be remembered, I need to write them down.

Death has been hanging in the stream of my vague memory, like a tree branch floating on the water, like the dazzling white sunlight on a sparkling day, like the gray and black mist that cannot be shaken off in a cloudy sky.

There has never been any misunderstanding about death, at least I can’t remember what the day of death was like. The first memory is that I was lying on a cloth sofa in one of my homes, seas and sky, with a foggy ceiling and a fuzzy eggshell-colored time and space, and I was crying in that small space. Because the second aunt will die, because my mother will die, because everyone will die, so will I. At that time, I felt that the death of my grandparents was something more distant, like a tree. The older I got, the more vigorous and sturdy, the more I was loved by everyone. I realized that I probably wouldn’t cry at their funeral. Words. I don’t know, because they are not dead yet, and I even think I will die before them.

Everything will end, of course. When a person reaches a certain age, he will begin to lose one by one and the things around him, including life, health, and the sense of being alive. Still in Haitianyuan, the earliest memory of dreaming. The gray-blue bedroom, first my parents’ bedroom, then my parents’ bedroom, and then my sister’s, was finally abandoned in the dust.

Dreams are slices of frosted thin glass, stacked squares or rectangles, after being illuminated by sunlight for a long time, it turns like rice paper wrapped in candied haws. The shape is no longer clear, the content is no longer clear, and the pieces blend into one piece. I digressed, now I will talk about my dream.

The first dream was in the middle of the night, in the faint blue bedroom, but with yellow light, it was impossible to describe the color. These were useless to the reader.

My dream is in that bedroom, and I float. There is another dream that has been integrated into the honey paper: I received a machine that said that I would die in a day or a few hours. What a real dream! I was so scared, I woke up with the chests of mom and dad beside me, “you won’t die, it’s just a dream.”

The fear of death entangled me in kindergarten for two or three days. I think so, then I didn’t dare or deliberately didn’t think about it.

Ahhhhh, keep on remembering.

Then, a harder sum, an exam, the third or fourth year end of the year, got c. I remember I put my head on the bed, I cried and cried, I don’t know if it was for grades or my parents or crying on my own, my life seemed to end there.

Simply, the thought of wanting to die.

From kindergarten to the fourth grade of elementary school, there are only poetic scene fragments that I have torn apart, in which there have been countless quarrels, countless crying and roaring countless countless countless countless countless countless countless countless countless countless, all of which I should remember, but I forgot.

Negative thoughts are not uncommon after the fifth grade, although I probably have not been a “good girl” since the second grade. Later, I jokingly confessed to my mother: “I used to be acting.” Mom didn’t believe it, then I didn’t believe it either. Maybe I was really a pure, clean, clever and well-behaved child. I should remember, but I forgot.

I experienced a crush that I brainwashed myself in elementary school. I fell in love with a guy with the same surname as me and sitting next to me. I remember looking at two “boys you can like” when I was in the first grade. I chose one and kept repeating “You like him” to myself. But who knows? I also have a good impression of the guy I didn’t choose. Maybe I like both of them, but it doesn’t matter. Why am I writing about my crush in elementary school? I do not know. In the past few years, the spiritual gray has gradually spread to the memories of the past, and those memories that should have been colored in childhood have also become thinner, except for the swings, summer nights, eternal sea and sand that I have stuck in the gully of my brain. , The only beautiful memory in my life.

It doesn’t matter, but after I was in middle school, I instilled a similar crush on myself. It was still the process of falling in love with someone. After the fiasco, I would never like people normally. Later, I was touched all over my thigh by a male friend at a party. I didn’t stop him, because my God! No one has ever touched my body like that, like touching an unfamiliar animal. For a while, I actually regarded the dopamine rooted in the body and the happiness of being “demanded” as love. It is not an exaggeration to say that it is very comfortable when touched by that person. He didn’t do anything special, just touched his leg and shook his wrist. My wrist is very thin, so it can be completely held by one hand.

Because since I was little, I have always been a child who is hungry for attention. I was in the third or fourth grade one afternoon, when a senior boy touched my crotch and blocked it in a corner without a camera. He tried to kiss me. All I knew was to block him with the book in his hand.

I still remember the dialogue: “What are you doing”, “Touching”, blocking the corner, he said to me “Touching you”, I blocked his mouth with a book, and he asked “Otherwise you touch me?” My own pants, I shook him off and went to class.

No one knows, I searched on the Internet, this is obscenity, but why didn’t I leave a trauma? Instead, those quarrels and rainy days pierced my brain severely. I’ve been eager for attention, is that right? Is it because I am a lascivious person that I feel comfortable? Why do I like the feeling of being longed so much?

The attention is also true. I performed desperately when I was in kindergarten, desperately striving for the first place, and being a good daughter and student, but in the end I was too tired.

Because later I learned that no one in the world deserves anything beautiful, and no one deserves what they have now, including life.

I have always been a person using my own mind and virtual works to fill my desire for sex, for beautiful, normal days, until I suddenly couldn’t capture images in my mind for no reason and became blind. people. I am analyzing myself, but this does not mean that I understand or I understand who I am. I’m recording the story of this identity, but not me, not my current story.

Later, after countless negative memories, I think I was not too normal at that time. I was relieved when my mother found the invoice of the woman’s skirt in the father’s suitcase. It wasn’t that I made a mistake this time. I suddenly emptied and couldn’t feel anything. I went up the stairs and yelled, “This time it’s not because of my quarrel. “, then went back to the room. When I was in the fifth grade, I had a quarrel with my mother. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep writing, I thought I might break down.

In the fifth grade, after I quarreled with my mother, we would stand in a cold war. In the second half of the fifth year, from the sixth to the eighth grade, I was emptied for an instant after the quarrel. All the sadness and anger disappeared, and I could not remember exactly what the quarrel was for, but I would be shy and shamelessly take a tissue to soothe cry. My mother, it seems that I have never been sad before crying, even singing loudly. You know, I didn’t think about myself carefully two years ago.

Obviously those who are somber are worse than the people around me who sell badly, but I don’t know if they are younger, because I forgot. This is a very healthy and environmentally friendly way of dealing with emotions. I don’t know why it happens, but it is natural and it should be healthy.

Now I will still forget what happened after the collapse, but the pain and maddening emotions will not leave me, but will erode me until I have no strength to resist, or lurking under an emotional fold. I think that when I hurt myself and strangled my neck, I would still feel the relief and lightness of elementary school, and even get a kind of ritual satisfaction. Even more, I will look at myself from the perspective of the second person in the room, and I will feel that this morbid state is so beautiful that it completes me, even if it is wrong and sad.

I digressed a lot. I wrote about my memories on the suicideproject website. At that time, I ran out of the house when my parents quarreled and sat on the highest part of the playground. My mind was probably dumb. I was chasing a crow to kill it, thinking that someone would come to me, I will jump off there.

When I typed these words, I didn’t feel it at all. There were no words in my head. As always, my fingertips were thinking for me. I still have to clarify that these “when I want to die” are not everything that I wrote down. I can’t write them all, countless times, countless countless times, I can only write the deepest, or remember the clearest times. .

Then in (my home country), it was probably the summer of 2018. After a quarrel with my whole family, I was to be crazy. I was standing on the balcony on the fourth floor, holding the handrails. No, you can’t die, you can’t die in (), otherwise your family will lose face, everyone will know, and I will hold a funeral here. But now think about it, whether it is jumping from the rope ladder or the balcony on the fourth floor, it is hard to die.

Then it was still in (). Anyway, every time I went back to (), the whole family would quarrel fiercely, and every time I would probably get into a depression. But I still like (), because it is beautiful, because () is (), and it is the place where I should have existed if not for all this.

I remember when I was in the ninth grade, there was a time when I went home and cried until I put down my schoolbag, cried until I fell asleep, went downstairs to finish eating, went upstairs to continue crying, and then fell asleep until dawn. that was the beginning to the mental illness i have now. Maybe there is no such thing, maybe it didn’t happen, I really can’t remember.

Then, in 2019, ah, 2019, 2019, if I want to remember, I probably remember it clearly, but I don’t want to remember it, just say it a few times.

Once I used a wire on the curtain rack and stuck my neck in it jokingly. It was obviously not dead, because I was joking with myself, maybe I didn’t want to die at all.

Then it was the second time, using wires in the bathroom. At that time, the relationship between my mother and me was so bad and so bad. In the dark, I wanted to just run away like that. It was really the phone, not my fault, but mother I yelled so much that I couldn’t breathe. At that time, I was very tired and tired outside of home. I was so anxious that I felt numb and I was about to die. I was immersed in my emotions in the winter. in. After I got home, I ran upstairs thinking about dying soon. The wires were hanging in the bathroom. I didn’t die. It was still like a joke to myself, because I didn’t bring myself to kill myself. The determination did not even hang up the line. (The whole family was there at that time, could it be this spring? I can’t remember)

What then? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

On New Year’s Eve 2019-2020, I think I can die, but I didn’t do anything except post “I want to die before 2020” on the Internet.

I don’t want to write anything else. The year before last year, I wanted to take over-the-counter painkillers. But I planned a perfect plan in the depths of a certain depression.

34 days left.

140 days became 34 days.

I wonder if I can kill myself.

I can’t grow up.

Can you stop time.

I don’t want to write anymore, that’s it, goodbye.

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1 comment

postalservice 9/23/2020 - 7:46 pm

You are so bright and a brilliant writer.

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