A Post-Suicidal Reflection Note

I just want to eat and eat until my stomach walls reach their limit and my body finally gives up, or sit down and do nothing but smoke on and on until my brain cells one by one flicker out and I’m finally gone. Pretty much the most passive ways to self-destruct. Because as dramatic and forceful jumping off a building sounds, I know I’m probably not brave or rash enough. But actually, the passive ways won’t do either, ’cause they’ll give me time to think, and then I’ll be like, “Well, shit, if I don’t end up dying, then I just fuck myself over for the rest of my life because I couldn’t stand one more moment of insanity.” So, in the end, either way, I don’t kill myself because of this stupid thing called, “the head”, and I just sobber on until the insanity finally simmers itself down and then I regret wasting away hours feeling helpless and being useless. But by that point, I’m more forward-thinking that I can more quickly let that go and try to get on with my otherwise uneventful, hermetic life. And then the next day, I wake up and convince myself that my life is happy and I’m lucky to have what little I have. And then I lived happily ever after.

It’s funny, though. I’ve been aware for a number of years now that it’s only whenever (and after) my mom and I get into a fight that the passionate thought of killing myself ever occurs to me. Because I feel empty. Not empty in a numb, jaded way, but empty in a newfound, shocking, piercing way that makes me feel lost, betrayed, unloved, and meaningless. There’s nothing to fall back on. I’m falling backwards into a dark abyss of recursive nothingness.

Anyways, I’ve been aware. What amuses me now is the realization that hasn’t hit me enough times yet, that when the glimmering, unlikely thought of jumping off a building occurs to me, I always envision a certain scenario.

There’s wind in my face and it’s a little chilly, but not chilly enough to bring me back inside. Only chilly enough to set the chillingly despondent mood. Nobody comes to talk me down; I go through with it. How I do it isn’t important – this changes from time to time. (Today, I envision that I put a foot forward and lean, as if taking a step, so that gravity, rather than the force of my legs, pushes me off. Today, I imagine myself not enjoying the short ride down, with the fresh, liberating breeze in my face, as I sometimes do, but with both hands covering my eyes as if not to ruin the surprise. So I splat.) The amusing part is what I always envision (i.e. fantasize) happens afterwards.

The security guard finds me first. He either hears or sees me fall, and he is in mourning. We weren’t personal, but he’s a human being with ability to both sympathize and be shocked, so he mourns. Cops are called. They’re making a commotion but they haven’t gathered me yet. Mom comes upon me while nonchalantly and happily on her way. The security guard tells her. She is shocked. She is devastated. She can’t breathe. She’s blubbering. She is traumatized. She blames herself. It’s her fault. She spends the rest of her foreseeable life looking back on that one time she finally drove me to it.

Why this is funny… is realizing how my suicide fantasies are never so much about ending things for me as much as about getting my perpetrator to understand exactly the impact of her actions and feel bad about it enough to admit that my insufferable pain, and eventually, suicide, was her doing. So basically it’s all about self-pity. It’s funny to me.

3 thoughts on “A Post-Suicidal Reflection Note

  1. That’s the beginning of suicide ideation, though. “They’ll miss me. They’ll regret treating me that way. They’ll wish they would’ve been nicer to me.” Thinking about all of the possible ways that people could have appreciated you. Then you start enacting incredibly detailed scenarios about the ways you can off yourself, dramatically.

    Someone had said that suicide is an extremely selfish act, perhaps the most selfish of all. I tend to agree.

    Sarah – friend, bus-buddy, girl with the lovely dimpled smile and tousled hair, rock enthusiast and keeper of secrets that I cannot possibly fathom. How can I convince you that you are being depressed by a toxic home environment? The absence of understanding with a co-inhabitant is disconcerting at best, and knife-like at its worst. Self-expression is mangled and everything you say or do is criticized and brought back to you, used against you. (I would know). Of course you’re frustrated in that kind of environment.

    In fact, if it weren’t for faith, if I didn’t tell my mother that I felt writing was my calling, then I’d still be fighting with her to this day. And she’d be suffering under the poor, disillusioned notion that all that suits me is to be a doctor seeing patient after patient, pursuing that “honorable” profession when there are plenty of other honorable professions.

    I think you should go out and exercise. Try to find a routine of some sort that does not involve games or outer stimulation, something that requires your own mental stimulation. Maybe meditation, maybe reading at the same time for a while. Humans are habitual creatures, and often thinking follows behavior (which I learned in psych). If you prepare yourself to be mindful at a certain point every day then you will find yourself becoming mindful – essentially “tricking” yourself. At this point you would also benefit from getting some counseling; however, it does not seem like your home environment is supportive enough.

    There are so many self-help sites on tumblr, and hotlines. Let me dig them up for you.

    Above all, please, please talk to me. You’re not the first friend with suicide ideations, so I don’t feel burdened. I treasure you as a friend and I would like you to know that a support network exists. Not because you “deserve” it, or anything (I know that after certain fights with the parentals you can be coaxed into thinking sh*t about yourself, and that you don’t “deserve” the care that they’ve given you), but simply because you are a friend and I love you.

    Best, Christy.

    • Thanks for all… that. That message looks like a lot of care and thought, and I really appreciate that you cared enough to do that. Thank you for being my friend.

      I don’t think I talk/write enough about how she still tries, ’cause while she’s not exactly the most understanding, and that does get to me more often than I’d like, she does try in her own motherly way, and I can see that when I’m less passionately influenced. So thank you for understanding my emotional distress, but I prefer to think my home isn’t such a “toxic […] environment”, although you might have meant something else by that.
      I’m planning on starting something this February, and I’m looking into part-time jobs that I may want to take up, but also I’m still contemplating whether I want to re-enter society. Oftentimes I’m daunted by the thought of going outside at all (with the absence of social contact) because I’ve found that being among crowds of (evil) strangers tends to stress me out, especially where I am. The past few years have made me question if there is a place out there anymore where I can meet likable, like-minded people – where I can more closely resemble the “me” who used to like making friends, go out, and want to belong in a sense – but I don’t know. I haven’t tried a lot of geographical areas, so it might be out there as I’ve always believed. Regardless, the past few years have rendered me a home-body. So, I do plan on starting something at the least, and a little bit of exercise as well. I agree routine should help me be more occupied, more mindful – more “now”. As Woody Allen says, “busy hands are happy hands”.
      Counseling might be a good idea, but I’m not up for it yet for various reasons.

      “Someone had said that suicide is an extremely selfish act, perhaps the most selfish of all. I tend to agree.” This. I agree.

      You’re one of the most thoughtful, intelligent friends I’ve ever had, and I am blessed. (:

      • I think it makes it really difficult emotionally to know that other people are trying to understand you but they end up frustrated. It would be so much “easier” if you could just ignore them, or reject them unequivocally. But she tries, and sometimes it’s exhausting (because you know you should be grateful for it, but at the same time it’s not working).

        I had an online version of “Toxic Parenting” by Susan Forward lying around somewhere… have to dig it up. Sometimes toxic and hurtful words seem more innocuous than they are; sometimes you exaggerate them. I hope that, like you said, you’re not actually in a toxic environment.

        On the other hand, someone – a development psychologist or something along those lines, said that sometimes you can have perfectly loving parents and still end up with dysfunctional kids. It’s okay, it’s okay.

        No matter how many times you tell me that you can’t imagine yourself in California, I think you’d perform well here, especially in a school like mine. Man, what was your university like? I’m getting horrified just thinking about how it might have turned you off so completely. You might be becoming a hikkikomori – remember one of our mutual high school friends? She also experienced something similar. I encouraged her to become plugged into a more healthy church community – I think it’s similar, really, finding people you can care about. But ultimately I can’t fix things for her, or you.

        Yes, definitely – busy hands are happy hands! And thank you for your kind words. I try my best to be for the people in my life.

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