Slow Suicide

I keep thinking that I should try to write something, and then ignoring the thought again because I don’t have anything to talk about
Just to have someone help me feel more shitty about it.
I’ve quit therapy.
I’ve essentially cut all people out of my life, because I get less and less patient for eking out polite, small talk or listening to offered solutions that are more impressive in their actual application than they are in simply offering such cliche words. I haven’t seen anyone in months and really couldn’t care less.

If worse comes to worse and I have to have a conversation with someone I mostly try to reserve it to them talking about whatever they feel most compelled to. If pressed much to speak on my own behalf, I typically keep it to a minimum without pretending to be positive anymore. I don’t care what people think of my attitude.
Since giving up, “surrendering”, and killing everything left inside of myself- things have reached an epitomally miserable, boring hum. I get up, feel sick, do the things anyways, hold my breath, try not to cry or smash any more appliances, take more stimulants, work on classes, barter with God for the courage to off myself or get hit by a bus, smoke, go to bed, wake everyone up screaming,  and Repeat.




Before I know it it’s been another month.

And another.

And look at that it’s been a year since such and such happened.

It would seem that things are quite settled into a rhythm of loathsome, inescapable misery. Dear Lord do I wish I had the fucking guts to actually end everything for once.

The hum goes on.

Life passes by.

I hate it more than words will ever be able to do justice, and it only compounds by the day.

But by the accounts of the few people who do regularly see me for whatever reason- I’m doing better than I have in years.

“See, I told you things would get better.”

“Yeah,” I reply, laughing inside.

I’m spending more time out of the house than I have in a long time I suppose.

I “look good.”

I’m continuing with treatment for Lyme disease, despite the numerous accounts that most of the time it’s incurable.

I finally went back to college to become a Master Herbalist. Just like I had such a passion to do all these years ago.

I’m driving and have a car again. Its even the color I wanted since I was a kid.

But it all makes me even more sad inside because I don’t want any of it and nothing feels the way it did. All of it means nothing to me.

I feel nothing. I want nothing.

I do it all for absolutely no reason but to attempt to eventually somehow repay my parents for everything  they’ve done for me for the past 4 years.
Even if that’s only by giving them the false hope that I’m finally ok.
I see that even the little steps encourage them. Yet they can’t seem to fathom why I don’t get any people in my life, much less any romantic relationships. I can’t tell them its because I can’t possibly see myself sticking around that long or that I can’t possibly care anymore. I can’t tell them that I’m only attracted to people and things that will slowly kill my soul- that I don’t have to commit to again. I  can’t seem to do anything lately that requires any kind of a genuine enthusiasm or emotion.

I’m already so dead. So tired. Tired of always being in pain.

So sick of feeling sick.

Resentful of dragging myself though the same pain everyday.

My body is sick. My heart is sick. There’s never been so little hope inside despite good-looking external circumstances.

What good are all of those things when I don’t have my mental, emotional, or physical health.

I’m sure they’re all somewhat connected, but the prognosis feels increasingly grim. Sure, I can work to obtain anything I want in life- yet I desire nothing anymore but to finally fucking die.

          Life is like having every awesome cd known to man, a Walkman, but perpetually no headphones. Those goddamn things were always tangling anyways.


My Corner Cloud Nine

“You’re painting yourself into a corner.”                                    “Perhaps so- as unfortunately I’ve already thoroughly contemplated all of these options- I just don’t care.”                                           “You’re only telling yourself that you don’t care.”

         Its been three years since I decided to take another stab at cognitive therapy and to put more mechanical effort into it. Three years and she’s the only psychologist who hasn’t fired me for whatever reason. Though after enough years of therapy I sometimes feel like I can therapize myself with all the calculated anti-statements (my term for a hard, societally fundamental truth that I would be fulfilling- were it not for thoughts and those pesky emotions), devil’s advocation, adages, and seemingly mathematical postulations from the DSM. I’ve got a bad habit at this point of cutting off counselors midsentence, because I already know that I’m conventionally wrong- or I wouldn’t be still sitting in that room. Of course I don’t really talk anywhere else either. At this point I think that’s the only reason I still go. 
         Don’t get me wrong- she’s a brilliant psychologist and I have a particular fondness for my therapist- rather conscious of her wellbeing and how frustrated she must be with me on these levels. I mean, we’ve spent hundreds of hours talking and for the most part I’ve told her more about myself than I have anyone- being from the time my entire life and psyche imploded and I became less empty headed- and consequently fucked up from it all. Now as lame as it may sound- or at least as it does to me- I always get sad and miss whomever it was that I was paying to listen to me. That and this is the last time I ever plan on trying any therapy. I often (only half) jokingly say that I’ve tried voodoo already and I think I would have to become much more commited with the occult rituals and pledge my soul to Satan to try something new to feel better.
            I’m not quitting- for a number of reasons its beneficial and expected for all appearances that a dysfunctional individual be in therapy. She hasn’t quit on me, which is great. Yet due to the new and unfamiliar place I find myself in the last couple months (after the vain optimism dissipated for lack of efficacy), I think we both could agree that it’s become redundant and now really is my responsibility to do something tangible with all this anti-statement knowledge.

Talk to people.

Have relationships.

Go back to school to get a shiny degree to hang my hat on.

Maintain a job so I can get money to support myself. 

Ultimately, pretend to give a shit. 

So for the first time in those years, I’m cutting back to only once a week or two. I’m too shut down and numb to have anything to say to anyone. 
          It’s never been quite this difficult in my recollection to pretend to give a fuck- about any of those things. Yet perhaps I’ve never understood life in this world so clearly as I recently have surrendered to know. I don’t know what to do because I’ve never been in this position in my life. There’s usually been something going on in some way that at least vaguely resembled some life left in me for desire or pursuits- relationships, athletics, music, writing, vocalized expression. Hell, even destruction and self- medication is something. 
          Yet I’ve been remarkably tearless. Something recently snapped inside of me and there’s really no better way to explain it than as being dead. I previously spent a rather dramatic week by myself thinking, weeping, screaming, mourning, praying, and plotting- and I decided I really don’t want to try anymore. I don’t want to fight anymore. 

Fight bad chemicals or useless diagnoses. 

Fight these same daily battles that have intensified for a decade. 

Fight with myself.
       It’s no secret that I’ve been loosely suicidal for the past year, though 4 months ago worsening to the point of being hospitalized for a month and a half. Yet this place I’m in now is so unfamiliar because I’ve contemplated suicide but never with such a stoic, unwavering conviction and decision. Foolishly- as though my mind is already made up- that I’ll find a way to die, though having yet to conjure the courage or cunning enough plan to ensure that I don’t end up worse off for failure. 
        I’m trying to distract my mind from the thoughts and this new reality within myself. I’m trying to just fucking do the things expected of me, and leave the emotional and spiritual parts of myself in a trash can each day- Along with all my desires, aspirations, and passions. There’s not much else left. Yet a part of myself whispers that soon none of it will matter anyways. I’m trying to just nod my head and find a way to make things look done, even though I’ve essentially already abandoned the scene entirely and divorced myself of all connection to life. I don’t know how many people can see, feel it, or sense when my eyes are lying. 

Truly- though it may sound dramatic- 

I believe that my story is over. 
Maybe I’ve painted myself into a corner. Maybe my reasoning is wrong. Maybe I don’t care. 


“You’re right. It is what it is.”

I smiled and walked out of the office.