suicide – Plume de Lynx

I can’t talk to anybody. I want out. I want out so desperately. I’m no good for them, I’ll never be. I want to drink myself to death, use as many sleeping pills I have to just never, ever wake up. I am not brave, not even brave enough to invite my girlfriend out. Why? Why am I like this? And at the same time, why doesn’t she invite me? Does she think I’m a bore? Is she scared she’s not gonna like me anymore? Is she even liking me in the first place…

I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t. I stopped taking meds, all at once, because, let’s face it, they were not working, and they were just placebo anyway. And still I’m blaming my lameness on that? Dude, wake up, you are lame, whether you’re on meds or not. So let’s just stop filling my body with these nasty stuff. I want to die. I want to die so badly. I’m always having dizzy spells, I’m drunk almost everyday, and if not drunk, using sleeping pills…

I will never be free from this… I will never be free – I may go on a vacation, go on a trip, live on my own, or live with people, it’s always stuck to me, it’s always talking to me… I am no good. I will never escape, if I don’t stop taking meds now, I’ll never stop anyway, because I won’t heal. I won’t ever go to someone to talk it out, and even if I were to do it, it wouldn’t help. Because no one cares. No one ever cared.

Everyone about suicide: “If they are in a crisis, call the line blablabla”… Why? Just so we are left hurting? Why is it better to see our hurting bodies and minds than see our corpses? Because when we are corpses, we can’t produce anything anymore? We are not USEFUL, anymore, mmh, society? You want living corpses, corpses that can amount to something, not real corpses, right? FUCK YOU. Fuck you for letting us hurt so much, so long, and presenting that as “the good thing to do.” FUCK YOU.

Today was a shitty day. I had no envy, no courage, nothing. I was…empty. I didn’t want to get up, I didn’t want to take my meds, I didn’t want anything.

I just accomplished my daily tasks, carefully placed reminders that I have things to carry out. A language course on the Internet. A shower. Dirty dishes. A phone-call from my mother, admitting that, no, I couldn’t go to class, again. Some made-up excuses why. A book. Plants.

I’m functioning on auto-pilot. As a good robot, I don’t eat. I don’t eat until my bones feel cold, my head heavy, and my eyes blurry. I end up crouched on the floor, clutching my stomach, tears on my cheeks, pitifully whining.

I can’t win against that enormous pain. I eat – I suffer. I don’t eat – I suffer. It’s an endless cycle. The stress that is devoring me whole.

Except that not eating is more acceptable for me, because it makes me loose weight. People take that as a hint of good health. When you are big, even loosing 1kg is taken as extraordinary good news – when in fact it’s because you couldn’t summon the will to keep fueling yourself. Or worse, because you were actively trying to diminish what was left of you.

You can’t disappear, your life is slipping away, so you control. You control the only sign of humanity in you: the limitless need to eat and defecate. You control sleep, you force yourself to binge on sleeping-pills and then stay awake. It’s the only thing keeping you sane. Being high on fucking sleeping-pills. How pitoyable.

And then, at the end of the day, people insult you for what you are. They exclude you, they think you do not belong. They decide not to come to a social event because you said you’ll be there.

On days like those… I wish I could take enough sleeping-pills to never wake up again. Just resting peacefully…no more judgements, no more obligations, no more human needs. I wish I could say I was staying alive for the sake of the people loving me – but their love feels fake in my dementia, and in fact, it’s only my own cowardness that is pushing me back to sleep…to face another day.