Hello Noose, My Old Friend.

“This must be what death feels like”.
My body felt so cold and numb. My skin was dry, and my intake of air was obviously obstructed. I sat by the window of my dorm room on a Friday night, similar to many others, with a bundle of my twine twisting between my fingers.

I usually try to convince myself of ending my life on Friday or Saturday because it’s ideal for my roommates to be gone while I try to liberate myself from this absurdity. I have participated in suicidal gestures – even if they would be unbeknownst to anyone else. A full attempt usually is rather opposite; I’m nonemotional and nearly robotic the entire day prior to it. It typically ends with a rope around my neck the entire night or at my bedside when I wake up the next morning.

I’m somewhat fascinated by the symbolism of hanging. It’s just so raw and unapologetic how it slowly grips you by the soul and tears it from your body. The violent convulsions and throes of death (defecating, ejaculating) that ensue are just evidence how lethal this method is.
I’m aware of discrepancies between two demographics pertaining to the supposed difficulty of hanging as far as an exit method. Much information is available online, (advocating suicide or otherwise) and it is extremely helpful info that facilitates others to approach this method effectively and safely and not in the dark.

I actually used to be afraid to an extent of how the experience would be of my exit. I feared that out of my lack to do anything correctly (an idea reinforced by my mind from the lack of self-esteem and confidence) I would fail miserably, and suffer as my body seized uncontrollably in my final moments. Or worse, a paralyzed veg. I’m more desensitized in my enlightenment of what usually results in a method such as hanging; the physiological affects in particular. It doesn’t scare me, in fact a sense of giddiness creeps over me when I think about it; those who ever contemplated suicide and felt that familiar eerie relief, “it’s finally over.”