There was a time in my life, not so long ago, when I could pass for normal.
Probably because, for all intents and purposes, I was normal.
I did normal things, ate normal food, took normal shows, I was thoroughly unexceptional.
Not to say I’m exceptional now, but you get my meaning.
No one ever said it’d be easy to get back to that place in my life.
But for the first time in a long time, I can see the horizon.
Those bastards were right, time must heal all wounds.
No longer am I taking one step forward and two back.
I’m making progress.
Two steps forward, one step back.
Now only a million more to go…
I rambled with the worst of them.
Fell in love with a harlequin.
Saw the darkest hearts of men.
And I saw myself staring back again.
I am so fucking selfish.
I think I’m a monster.
I can’t be angry at her, at least for no more than a flash.
Because the truth is, I’m angry at me too. I don’t like myself either. I get frustrated with me all the time.
But I’m going to fix it. I’m going to make it okay. Do you believe me?
I just needed to vent.
If you’re on this website, I genuinely feel for you.
If you’re suicidal, I genuinely feel for you.
I never used to when I first came here, a long time ago now. But I do now.
I know what that pit feels like. It’s very cold, and small and absolutely terrifying. And when you’re in it, that fear is very real. That’s the thing normal people don’t get, the thought of suicide to a suicidal person, 9 times out of 10, is absolutely terrifying.
Pain can’t be measured on a scale.
Suicides can’t be ranked.
A death should never become just another number.
But hell, what do I know? I’m technically still a teenager. The things I’ve gone through are nothing compared to the dozens of stories I read here a day.
With the greatest of respect, I am surprised so many of you are still alive. If half of your stories are true, you have suffered the most unimaginable agony I can bear to read.
But that’s the thing, pain can’t truly be compared. So I have no more right to say that you should have killed yourself from what you’ve gone through, than you do of saying I shouldn’t because my pain is nothing.
So when I tell you I spend my days waking up at whatever hour I want, watching TV and playing games all day, walking my dog in the evening and chatting to friends online, you reply with; Your life is great, you have everything, there’s no reason for you to want to die.
All I can reply is; Fuck you. Sure I’m a privileged, spoilt little white boy who wants for nothing, but this isn’t how I imagined my life. This isn’t how things were. I get that life changes. Sometimes life deals you a crappy hand and you just have to play through. But what about when the deck gets reshuffled and all of the cards are blank? I had a life. I had a house. I had 2 jobs. I had an education. I had a relationship. I had friends. I had a life and a future. Now I just can’t see any of that.
There is no way for me to slip back into that old life.
And I get that people care. My family, friends. But it’s not the same. They’re not asking because they’re interested, they’re asking because they’re scared. I have terrified people and that will never go away. They won’t ever stop fearing for me. So I’ll probably do something that will tear their hearts to shreds. Blow a hole in their lives. But they won’t live with the fear. They will never have to be scared again.
A permanent solution to a temporary problem. How do I know that? Do I just have to keep waiting this storm out, hoping one day it’ll finally pass over? I have been depressed for pretty much every single day since September 2014. I haven’t asked for help because I’m ashamed. I will never ask for help because I don’t want it.
I am pathetic. Rich little white boy. Boo hoo.
So it’s been a while since I’ve posted properly. Had a good vent.
Honestly, it’s because I haven’t needed to. Things are good. They feel good. Only they don’t really feel good. Not like they should. Not like they did.
Made a new friend. It’s nice having a new friend. Distracts you from your own life.
I have a nice little community, a nice support system, if you will. And we all look out for each other. And they just accepted me in one day. And they treat me like a friend, they are genuinely interested in my life and how I’m doing. I haven’t had that in a while. No one in the real world asks me how I am anymore. I suppose they just know.
I’m so scared.
I don’t dream of him anymore.
I have dreams of a beautiful girl I’ve never met.
A girl I will never meet.
That one thing we’re all searching for.
Whether you’re here because you’ve attempted, are planning on attempting or are just curious, were were all drawn here by one binding factor.
Death is not simple.
Death is not easy.
Death is complicated and painful, and explodes with the emotional force of an atom bomb.
Lives are ripped apart, relationships crumble, people are reduced to the most basic form of themselves.
It will make you feel things you never thought possible, do things you thought were beyond you, be the person you always feared.
Dying will feel like an eternity, whether your insides are dissolving from an overdose, or you’re blood is pumping onto the bathroom floor, or you’re struggling to breathe from a noose around your neck; You will regret it.
In your final moments, regardless of how certain you are, you will realise you’ve made a mistake.
And by that point, it’ll be too late.
You’ll die alone and scared.
I’ve done the therapy. For years now. Off and on. I can’t help but feel like I’m abandoned every time the round of treatment ends. But I know why I am. Because I don’t respond to it. But it looks like I am.
I tell them everything they want to hear. Or what I think they want to hear.
Rate your mood? I’d give it an 8 out of 10 when really it’s never more than a 2.
Take your pills… great but they never do anything.
There was a time when I wanted help.
I feel like I’m slowing down. Everything sounds distant or submerged in water. My vision blurs in and out of focus. I have no energy to do anything, not that I want to anyway.
Is this what dying feels like?
I have yet to find someone who tolerates me talking in metaphors, or even enjoys me doing it.
Regardless of all this, I’m still here, so maybe that counts for something.
I spent a large portion of this afternoon running my fingers over the scar on my throat, or staring at it in the mirror. A wound that by every right should have killed me. No one can live bearing a scar like that. It’s grotesque.
I mean I drew a straight razor across my neck.
Maybe I just have to suffer in this life before I check out.
I remember those few days where he left to go and see friends and a friend of ours mentioned something he’d texted to her the previous day. He wondered whether he’d made the right decision about the two of us. I lost it. I couldn’t believe it. He was so certain when he looked at me and said he couldn’t, but he was still second guessing himself. I know he doesn’t question that decision anymore, he’s lost no more sleep over it, I guarantee it.
I wonder if he still loves me. I’m not sure if I still love him. I think about it every day. I have no idea what I’d say if I ever saw him again. I probably just tell him I was sorry for everything and walk away. I’ve made up my mind now, I have to walk this road alone.
I wonder where he is right now. I have literally no idea. That’s what happens when someone cuts all ties with you. I’ve wanted to ask friends about him recently, ask them if he’s okay, but I wouldn’t want to make them uncomfortable.
This time last year I was in Scotland, with friends. I was happy. He was happy. Sure it wasn’t perfect, but it worked. That life seems a million miles away. That me seems a million miles away.
I wonder who’ll tell him. How they’ll do it. What his reaction will be. Whether he’ll cry again. Whether he’ll come to my funeral.
Whether he’ll finally bury me.
Do you guys have a suicide plan tucked away? Like something you keep in mind in case things go south, even if you’re doing great right now?
Just to clarify I just want to know if you do or not, I don’t want to know any plan details, it’s against the rules.
i hate this
i hate not being able to do it
i hate feeling my limbs shake and spasm and still having enough strength to stand
i like the release of blacking out but i hate not being able to breathe
last push coming soon
ready for this
hoping when i pull the plug i’ll just swirl away down the drain
Mum asked me today if I have any plans for next week.
No mum, nothing much.
Yes mum, I’m going to kill myself if you give me half a chance.
I want to comfort her in advance but she’d stop me.
I have to do this for myself…
Or die trying.
That’s the idea anyway.
There’s smoke in the sky. Lots of it. Thick, black smothering clouds of death.
It wasn’t there before but now I can see it, and it’s descending, covering the house.
I’d tell someone, yell for help but no one would believe me.
It’s going to get in the house, I know it.
It’s going to choke me.
He was beginning to realise that things were out of his control, always had been and always will be. He had made so many plans for the future, seemingly carved in stone. But really he was a child drawing in the sand with a stick, his ideas, his hopes and his dreams were always going to be washed away by the tide.
His body was a road map of scars, but he had no idea where they’d lead him. Each one told a different story, some told multiple versions of the same story and some refused to utter their secrets. His arms were so heavily slashed up that it gave the impression his skin had dried and cracked like desert mud in the hot summer sun. Something was bleeding through, slipping through the cracks. It’d soon be here.
Could he really hold on? He’d held on for so damn long already. Everything felt far away. They all felt a lifetime away. It was someone else who’d set fire to their lives. It couldn’t have been him.
There was one last thing he could control. One thing in his life he could make sure turned out the way he intended.
Death would set him free. Or at the very least, everyone else.
Tomorrow is Friday, the day after is Saturday, the day after is Sunday, the day after is Monday…
from there I just don’t know.
Those initials will haunt me forever.
When you hear about me, will you be sad?
Honestly, I don’t think you will.
You said you wanted to move on from me. So this will only make it easier to forget me.
That really does get me down. But that would depress anyone.
Someone with whom you’d shared such a close bond, such a strong relationship just up and decides one day that you don’t matter enough to even remember.
And sure, I fucked up. I did things I shouldn’t have. I made mistakes. But were they that bad?
There’s just one question I’m dying to know. Ironic choice of words.
Do you think of me in the middle of the night?
I’ve just realised something today. Something truly horrible. To me at least.
In nearly 5 months the only people I have seen are my family. Literally the only people I’ve interacted with are the four members of my family.
5 months ago I probably saw 20 different people a day.
It’s funny how things change.
They’re out again tonight.
Not that I asked to know what they’re doing, they still think it’s okay to tell me. Show me the life I walked out of. And maybe it is for some people, maybe some people can handle seeing what they lost.
I’d be with them if I was still there.
Or would I?
Long ago, when we first met I’d be with them. Then everything went downhill. Bits of me began to fall off the faster I went.
I’m not feeling particularly anything recently, I just feel dead. If that’s even a thing. If death could be felt. The absence of everything. The absence of caring. The absence of not caring about not caring. So on and fucking so on.
I was imagining how that last conversation would have gone with him if he hadn’t known I was bleeding, if I’d worn a jacket to cover the stab wounds. Oh and if I hadn’t passed out on our door step.
I think he would have been hesitant, maybe even resistant, to let me into the house. My house. I fucking paid for it and he asked me never to come back. I’d say I was drunk and just needed some water. He’d let me sit in the living room and I’d be bleeding, but he wouldn’t know that.
We’d talk and I’d say everything I needed to, everything I wanted to. He’d say something about something. I’ve given up trying to guess what he was thinking and feeling. Maybe he’d even laugh and I’d drift off sitting in my favourite seat on our couch, staring into our kitchen.
Instead I slumped against the door bell, stayed conscious long enough to see him answer the door in his pajamas and mouth my name before I passed out and my head slammed into the concrete. I woke up in the hospital hours later after being sown back up.
I missed my last chance to say goodbye.