fadedobscurity2

In the past 12 months I’ve attempted suicide 6 times. The most recent was last week. I failed at that just like I’ve failed at life. How big of a god damned fuck up do I have to be to fail at literally everything I do? I hate life, I hate myself, I want out.

I have attempted through various means several times over the past year. All were unsuccessful, obviously. So I fucking suck at living and I’m such a fuck up I can’t even kill myself correctly. SMMFH

50mg tramadol x 20 pills=1,000 mg or 1 gram. Goodbye world, I can’t do this anymore.

I’ve been away from home for going on a month now. I left my wife and children to come to missouri to help my mother care for my terminally ill father.
Since I’ve been here I have not taken any medications. Nothing for depression, anxiety, Borderline personality disorder, PTSD, high blood pressure, gout, arthritis, you get the idea. I’ve also been doing door dash to make money on the side, which makes my arthritis hurt even more(it’s in my knees and my feet, which have been deformed since birth).
So I’ve been off the psychiatric meds for going on a month. I’ve been doing ok, until the last few days. The thought of my dad dying is both sad and somewhat relieving. My father was verbally and physically abusive. In these last few years, we have gotten closer but we definitely aren’t best friends or anything. The most abusive thing he did was psychological. My sister molested me when I was 6, and my father punished me for it. No police, no charges filed. We got advice from the pastor of the right wing fundamentalist church we went to(every time the doors were open) he said to handle it within the family. Well, the sexual abuse that was stopped by punishing me, turned into physical abuse from her that went on for years that both of my parents observed and did nothing about. I told them repeatedly that she hit me, scratched me, cut me with knives, but the family just pretended it didn’t happen, and went on being good Independent Fundamental Baptists(think Duggars). I even told my teachers at the religious school we attended what was happening, that got around to my parents and again, I was punished for “dragging the family name through the mud”. We left the church not long after and started going to a different, but still Fundamentalist Baptist. My sister had left home by that time and was making babies and screwing everything with a dick.
Now the opportunity. Call me a sicko. Call me a psycho. Both of those are probably true. I have access to a whole host of medications ranging from hydrocodone to some sort of kidney medication dear old dad has to take after dialysis. I’m alone in the house, dad is in the hospital, thank the fucking stars, and mom is spending the night with my other sister, who is actually somewhat sane. He’s already buried one child(same sister that molested me was murdered by a “john” in 2002). I would love to make him bury a second one. He’s responsible. For both of them. I’ll get peace and he’ll get the funeral bill, then he’ll croak and burn in hell if there really is such a place.
Opportunity is knocking. Hydrocodone? Tinadizine? Gabapentin? A combination of those? Quietly drift into the sunset beyond.

I am pure evil. I put on a show for people but secretly I wish everyone would just leave me the hell alone. Many years ago when I was in my 20’s, I sold my soul to the devil. I had a seance’, complete with candles the pentagram, the whole thing. Initially I didn’t think anything had really happened, but now I’m convinced I did what I intended to do, and there is no going back.

I sold my soul in exchange for health wealth and happiness. I lost everything and gained nothing. I’m not healthy, certainly not rich, and I’m not happy either. I’m convinced that this deed of mine has resulted in something similar to demonic possession. I think this because some things I think and do I wouldn’t have done prior to my deal with the devil.  He talks to me. Tells me to do things. Sometimes I do them sometimes I don’t. Sometimes he leaves me alone, but he’s here most of the time. He breathes in my ear. He’s a figure I see out of the corner of my eye. He torments me at night. He tells me I’m worthless and I believe him. He tells me I’d be better off dead and I believe him. He tells me my family would be better off without me and I believe him. He controls me. I’m tired of resisting. If I give in, I am afraid of what will happen. I know I’ll eventually kill myself, but I’m afraid of whet happens before that.

I want to go back in time. No not for some stupid purpose like to win an old flame or shit like that. I want to go back to the day I met the ***** known as my ex wife and tell her to fuck off. That way I never would have made the 17 year old pissant that has to hide behind mommy instead of manning up. God damn id like to lay him out..find out just how much of a man he is. Pfft he’s a god-damned fucking *****. He’s a 17 year old arrogant pissant that believes he has the world by the tail. Well go on my son, because if you stay here someone is gonna get hurt and it won’t be me..fuck you to hell.

People suck. Everyone in my life except my wife and daughter needs to go take a long fucking walk off a short fucking cliff. People that can’t fight their own battles need to fuck off. People that go running to their mother(my ex wife) when I have a problem with them need to fuck off and fight their own fucking battles for a fucking change instead of fucking running to the goon squad so they can blow me up about the half fucking truths from the fucking pissant otherwise known as my son. One of these days I’m gonna get to lay him out. God I hope that day comes soon. Either that or get me the hell out of here cuz I’m gonna make that day come soon.

Well, I promised on here that I would do it, and I did try. However my efforts were thwarted because this particular strategy though effective, is very painful.

I went to the store and bought glass cleaner (active ingredient is ammonia) and a gallon of bleach. I poured the contents of both into my bathtub. Nothing really happened. I decided that it needed to be more concentrated, but I was out of glass cleaner. I found some lysol toilet bowl cleaner (active ingredient hydrochloric acid) and poured it into the bathtub as well. That was the ticket.  Immediately my lungs began to burn, I began coughing uncontrollably, my eyes burned, my throat burned. These two chemicals combined make a toxic gas. I knew this ahead of time. My chest became tight and I was short of breath. I made it out of the bathroom to the couch where I called 911. The EMT’s immediately put me on oxygen, but my O2 saturation was low 80’s. Medically speaking this is called hypoxia. I was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where I was given 2 albuterol breathing treatments, and underwent a battery of tests. One particular test was blood gas. This blood test is taken from an artery as opposed to a vein. The results of that test revealed my blood was only 56% oxygenated, which meant my organs and brain were essentially starved for oxygen. I was transferred to another hospital where I was again placed on oxygen and given 4 more albuterol breathing treatments along with repeated blood tests. I was released 24 hours later, with a diagnosis of chemical pneumonia AKA chemical burns in my lungs.

The one thing I learned from this experience is this is not the way to check out.

My family and the doctors do not know it was a suicide attempt. They think I was cleaning the bathroom and got creative with the cleaning stuff. Since I have yet another failed attempt under my belt, I guess I will leave it this way.

Ammonia and bleach in an enclosed space, no ventilation. High concentrations of both. Goodbye world.

Its been a little while since I have been on here. I’ve been having the same struggles. I’m tired of talking about it. Doesn’t matter who I talk to about it, doesn’t matter what they say to me or what I say to them.

This has to end. Enough talk, enough thoughts, enough research. I have highly effective methods. Enough dicking around. I’m either serious or I’m not. I am dead serious. It will be over soon.

My wife wants in. She’s afraid all the time I’m going to kill myself. She’s right. I don’t know how to let her in. I’m a prisoner of myself. I want to be free. Let me out.

I have been angry before. I’ve even had rage before. Never before tonight have I had the urge to hurt someone else. I held it down long enough to quickly escape to the shower where I released my rage on my face and the wall. I’m out now, I have two black eyes, a sore jaw, and multiple busted knuckles. It temporarily satisfied the monster inside me..I don’t know when it will come out again….

Failure is only noticed when it affects other people. Instead of pointing out my failures, why can’t people just let me fade into obscurity? Leave me alone, leave me to my own devices, leave me with a knife, a gun or anti freeze, arsenic, SOMETHING!  Don’t point out my failures. Even the ones that affect other people. Leave me be. Leave me alone with my thoughts, alone to conjure up methods to try. Hell I’m such a failure I can’t even kill myself correctly. I’ve tried 10 times at least. I’ve overdosed on everything I have access to. I mean major overdose.

All my life I’ve been taught to suppress my emotions. Boys don’t cry. Men don’t cry. Suck it up. Be tough. How do I suppress the emotions of being molested by my sister? Am I supposed to suck it up and be tough and “do what your sister tells you” when she’s using a 5 year old boy for her twisted sadistic pleasure? Was I supposed to be tough? If that wasn’t bad enough, to be punished for it by my parents at the hand of religious fundamentalism. Emotions. Can we start with anger? My father. The tough one. The one that verbally, physically, and mentally abused me. Yelled at me for spilling milk. Yelled at me for getting grease on the seatbelt of his brand new econo box Pontiac. Yelled at me for bad grades in school while completely ignoring the bullies at the perrochial school I attended. Constant criticism no matter what I did. Yelled at me every time I acted out, starved for his attention, driving me to a place of seeking his approval for so long and never getting it I finally just stopped caring. I don’t give a wet fart in the wind about him anymore. He yelled at my mother nearly constantly. Not a spirited discussion between two adults. I mean beligerant name calling, throwing things at her and us, slamming doors, punching holes in the wall, and watching him hold my assailant sister against the wall while drawing his fist back for lights out. He was very controlling, condescending, and critical of everything and everyone except the people he liked and the ideas he gave them. Every dime my mom spent he knew about. She had a job contributing to the household’s finances yet she got 10$ a week spending money while he spent 10$ a day between morning coffee at Denny’s, vending machine snacks, and cigarettes. Yeah. I’d say I’ve got some anger. How does someone punish a 5 or 6 year old boy for following the instructions I was given by him? Knowing what prompted my sister to use me like that, why were we not immediately withdrawn from that school? He blames the administration of the school for not searching lockers. I blame him. Immediate withdraw with extreme prejudice or continue subjecting a 6 year old boy to the jeering and bullying of her fellow classmates who not only prompted the whole thing, but encouraged it while it was happening. Yeah, I’ve got anger issues.
How did dear old dad deal with this family issue? Police? No. Backyard justice? No. Following the advice of a far right wing fundamentalist? Right. At 6 years old I was confined to my room for 30 days. Meals were served in my room. No school. No weekend activities except for church. No friends. No toys. No books to read except the Bible. No video games. Absolutely nothing to occupy a 6 year old boy’s hands and mind except an archaic book with little relevance to me then or now.
There’s peace in apathy. I just don’t give a flying flip anymore.
Caring hurts. Apathy allows an existence barely ambivalent to everything and everyone.
He would spank me over the smallest infraction. Spilled milk. Spanking. Not up for church on time. Spanking. Expressing my opinion. Spanking. Not just a pop on the butt to make a point. I’m talking a belt or wooden paddle, not just once or twice but multiple occasions of more than 10 swats. One time I brought home some seriously bad grades, and a lot of them. I think there were 17-20 below average scores. I got two whippings for every F and one for every D. All the while ignoring what I’d told them about the nightmares I had about my sister assaulting me. That wasn’t important. It had already been dealt with. If shoving it under the rug so the family doesn’t see our dirty laundry flapping in the wind, then yes it was dealt with. If sending me to a so called counselor, who was really a crooked backhanded fundamentalist who later claimed that not only did I entice my sister to molest me for a year or more, but I enjoyed it and encouraged it! More psychological abuse. Yeah I got anger problems, and we’re just getting started.

Life. Aka torment. Death. Escape, silence, peace. Aka better than torment.
God. A puppet master who has us all on strings, bringing about calamity or blessing according to his sick, twisted, self serving will.
Failure. My life is riddled with it. My life as a whole defines it.
Purpose. We have none. See above. Don't really care anyway.
Get me out. I need to escape this torment.
The voices tell me I'm weak and worthless. An utter waste of existence and a gross disappointment to everyone that knows me or claims to love me. The voices are there constantly. Running me down. Confirming everything they tell me everyday through my sorry excuse of an existence.
Failure. That's what the voices say. I'm a failure at marriage, at parenting, at working, at life in general. You are so pathetic, you fail at failing. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure. They chant. Over and over and over. Not just a failure, a miserable failure. Please I just want out. Out of this world, out of this life, out of this torment, out of this pain.
You're looking over my shoulder, waiting to criticize whatever I do. I see you from the corner of my eye. When I turn to see you, you hide. I know who you are. I know why you show up. You think it's funny, but it fucking scares me. You're not alone. I've seen others. A dark shadow. A persona of someone I knew once. You're flighty, just showing up when I'm vulnerable and pushing me to the edge of sanity. One of these days, I'm going to break.
I can't do this anymore.