My name’s Zach. Â I am nineteen years old. Â I am not currently suicidal but have just gotten through a bout of strangeness that I think most people on this site would appreciate, in that it involved me acting out in front of others so that they might know what sorts of violence were going on inside of my psyche.
My first miseries occurred, though I am luckier than some in that my family is intact and I’ve committed no unintentional acts of grievous harm. Â Today I am rather puzzled as to why I’d previously found suicide a pleasant prospect at all; in contrast to the pain and suffering of some individuals, my life is sensible and easy.
I do not hope to ameliorate the suffering of anyone who happens to read this in search of a compatriot in psychic hell. Â I just want to tell a story that is difficult to tell to people around me, since it involves not a slight amount of personal humiliation. Â I thank God that it could have been much worse – I was not emasculated at the hands of a woman with a pair of shears, for instance. Â The feeling was painful, but the act was much less obvious.
We’d broken up, they’d hooked up. Â Out of high school, future uncertain. Â He’s home for the holiday season from a faraway famous university. Â He’s a fancy thinker, full of funny words and ambition. Â She’s throwing a party for everyone. Â Are they still together? Â Do I still feel loving towards her? Â My young mind forgot and became confused.
They get drunk. Â They’re fucking upstairs. Â It’s a big affair, everyone notices, friends pretend to not care. Â I’m curious, tipsy, and idiotically unaware. Â I know what they’re doing but I don’t prepare. Â I climb the steps and open the door, see them in there…
It was bleh.  Just sort of a dark memory – everyone’s life had better have at least one dark memory in it  to contain an acceptable amount of emotional depth.
I think my suicidal ideation comes from the notion that that gloomy night was the pinnacle of my life, and it’s all downhill from there.
No suicide attempts as a result – to do so would be wasteful. Â She is a lovely woman who smelled like stables and a peculiar flower I still don’t know, and she’s gone. Â To kill one’s self for a girl is tragic. Â I prefer my tragedy to contain more acts than this.
Of course this event was sort of the pinnacle, as I say. Â Before it life had been a cosmic eraser smudge to me, more or less, boring as the worst types of offices and classrooms. Â Smelling like sanitary soap. Â Suicide is pleasant, perhaps, because it is a sort of means of filling the awful white pulpiness with at least some form of meaning.
But for me and for now I say fuck it for good. Â For the good in all humanity I will choose to grow old.
Sanitary soap is only bad in comparison to some unattainable ideal.
Come to think of it, it may be that I’ve no business posting amongst persons of this caliber. Â I suppose I only mean to say this:
I can begin to understand the plight and predicament of a suicidal person. Â It is hellish in its one-dimensionality, in its pointless logic, to be obsessed with the termination of the person. Â It is quite repulsive, to imagine yourself rotting and to relish the image in nihilistic fashion as something that “just is”. Â Hot damn, a world without morality is a place where suicide happens all the time!
Fucking A. Â Life sucks and blows in equal measure. Â I for one still retain hope that it is possible to create a happy bubble in the respiration zone.
That’s all peace.
1 comment
Admirably well said. Keep sucking and blowing!