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.