[suicide, no mention of methods because I am not that fucking irresponsible]
If you have been unfortunate enough to have read the recent nonsense on this blog then you’ll know that I am planning to end my life. Sorry, that was a bit abrupt. Should have paid more attention to those Breaking Bad News workshops. Actually, they did come in handy when telling all my Mum’s friends that she had died. I didn’t cry once. I don’t know if I should be proud or ashamed. Anyway. My thoughts are bad these days and it’s hard to create a chain of thought. My thoughts are like trying to grip water in my hands: I can see they’re there but I can’t hold them.
Blah, blah, blah, tl:dr; had enough.
I set another date as last weekend fell through (yes, that phrase is doing a lot of heavy lifting) and have started lining the practicalities up, eg finishing food, distancing myself from people, “tidying up loose ends” as the nurses put it. I adapted my plan (have a series of plans to try to account for my inevitable fuck ups) and was waiting for something to come through the post which was due the middle of next week. It arrived today. I’ve had a lot of psychotherapy in my life so I now quite often find myself observing myself as my life happens to me. (Psychotherapy never has any disadvantages or harmful effects.) I watched myself go from “oh fuck, I don’t know what I think about this” to the sudden delighted excitement of “I could be free today!” to despairing “I bet I fuck this up again”. It was lovely and awful and overwhelming. Is it odd to say I felt some hope fluttering about in my head?
I calmed down and opened up my post. Only half the order with the rest due the middle of next week as originally planned. I definitely felt some relief. I feel bad for admitting that. Does it mean I’m not committed to my plan? Am I going to fuck up again? Am I going to pull out? I don’t think so. I feel quite steady and settled in my decision to die. It will most likely be horrible but there’s nothing I can do about that; will just have to thole it. It will pass. If I don’t kill myself now then I will have years of this pain to get through. My friends and family will have years of pain of having to deal with me. I think it is natural to have a little bit of trepidation or regret about big decisions (I think I learnt that in psychotherapy) but you have to be resolute too. I’ve been certain that I was going to succeed only to fail in the past. I just have to keep trying.
I’ve never been brave. Never really stood up against authority. Never really fought for anything. Never really created anything. My funeral is going to be really boring and probably embarrassing for my family.
There is too much pain in my head taking up all the room for me to change. I am in too much pain to ask for help. Two friends today have sent me messages with soft invitations to talk. I can’t. I can’t bear to. I am too unbearably and overwhelming lonely to be able to manage being around people. I have turned down two invitations for today despite not seeing or speaking to anyone for days. I can’t cope with it. My thoughts and feelings will tear me apart. I can’t have anyone see that.
I can’t undo the terrible things I’ve done and I can’t make them better. I can’t even say sorry, not that that would make it better. The only way for those things to heal is for me not to exist in the world anymore. I need to be in the past and forgotten.
I can see that I need to do something or I will die. The hotel is booked for tomorrow. I can’t die today as it is my friend’s birthday. I have a multi-layered plan with backup options if there are fuck ups. I have learnt from my past experiences and other people’s. I think it will work. I will keep trying until it does. I have a list printed out of all my financial and household accounts with phone numbers and websites and a list of people for my family to contact. My house is not completely organised but what’s left won’t take long. I could be free. I could be at peace. Finished and gone.
There’s still a little part shouting that there’s a chance left to rebuild my life and this time maybe make a life where I feel happy sometimes. I remember the last time I felt happy: it was about four or five months ago and I was playing with my sister’s children. We were dancing round the kitchen laughing and shouting and I felt this creaking, old thing open up in my chest and head and suddenly realised I felt happy. Pretty much as soon as I named it, it disappeared. Then it fluttered back to life about ten minutes later for a few seconds. I recognised it as happiness but maybe it was joy. I don’t know the difference. I remember nearly crying and feeling embarrassed. I also remember thinking that I couldn’t remember the last time I felt that. Very long way to say that I don’t know how to feel happy. I don’t know how to create a life with happiness in it. I don’t even know where to start.
When I consider my life and weigh up the times I’ve felt happy and the very little good I’ve done against all the pain I’ve felt and terrible things I’ve done there is no contest. The average manic depressive lives to their early sixties which means I’ve probably got another twenty years of this. No. I won’t do it. (And you can’t make me.) I have had enough. I have to die.