When I am feel 6ft under,
I envision all the ways I could take my own life.
I obviously haven’t,
but I still imagine them.
What would be the quickest?
The least painful?
A gun I didn't own, that I could quickly get from Wal-Mart.
A car accident.
Letting my car run in the garage.
Drowning.
Pills.
Praying to God to take me in my sleep because I'm a coward.
“God, if this is it? TAKE. ME. OUT.” True prayer.
Or maybe I am not a coward.
Maybe I know that wasn't what I wanted.
Or maybe I do and just want a divine intervention;
for God to exist--to prove, to show himself real by taking me, by answering my prayer.
Maybe I'd leave a note.
Maybe none.
Maybe I'd take my dogs with me.
Maybe not.
Maybe I'd grasp something symbolic in my final moments.
Maybe not.
Is there a right way to kill yourself?
And when I bring such images to my mind,
I cry even more,
sleep even less.
Wonder who even cares, who even loves me.
No one is reaching out to me, after all.Fixing anything.
Fuck all the people who'd said they were really my friends.
The loneliest place on earth? Thoughts of cessation while being alone.
I remember once my preacher father telling me how he'd read many suicide notes through the years and they all have a combination of this wildness and disconnectedness to them.
He told me he'd read ONE in his 65 some years of living that was from a person who didn't write that way.
One that was cohesive, made sense, had sound reasoning.
One.
I can write that way, I thought.
Who is the judge of our writing?
Only the living.
Fuck anyone for judging what I’ve ever written. No one knows this is here.
I try to imagine my own funeral and how others would react or act at it.
Do we get to see our own funeral?
I've always believed so because most movies and books depict it that way,
but pragmatism and reality resounds: that's an unreal thought.
When you're dead, you're dead.
Right?
How many things within me were crushed to feel this way? Destroyed?
And this is the "darkest night of the soul" the sages speak of.
This is the "so far gone" that many find themselves in,
and in disbelief of the other cliche--seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.
A depressed person doesn't need cliches.
A depressed person needs anything that gives hope.
And when I am low, I hang on to any ounce of hope I could muster.
Because everything was so, so awry.
All these ways I imagine a death,
I imagined my death,
yet all of the ways a person can come back to themselves was also simultaneously happening.
At least that was every time before.
But what if I’m done trying? No is trying to keep me around while I’m alive.
I’ve been discarded like I was a disposable. Rejected. Abandoned. Fill in the blank.
Like I mean literally nothing.
And why?
I’ve never put any bad energy into the universe to deserve anything bad in my life. Yet here we are.
I’m a healed person. But I’m right now a very very broken and hurt person. At the hands, yes at hands not my own.
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