byebyeburdee
I'm a loser, baby.
- Dec 12, 2021
- 24
The people who decry the romanticization of suicide have so little imagination.
I would like to share what happened when I actually did ctb in 2008. It was my 27th birthday (because I am a melodramatic musician). I had spent months planning, hoarding pills, giving away my possessions, terminating my lease, and even concocting a really beautiful exit story to explain my sudden and total absence: I was "going to Japan!"
And everyone bought it, and the people rejoiced.
The night of my death, I had a small final sushi dinner and went to bed on the couch of a "friend". My few remaining possessions, left in a note/will to my sister, were in his garage. My "friend" said goodnight, and I calmly went to get ready for bed.
Getting ready for bed on this evening consisted of Ambien, Valium, Vicodin, and good ol' over-the-counter sleeping pills. In these early days (hah!), we had garbage psychiatrists who would prescribe hardcore shit like that for anything from social anxiety to bad gas. With my little cosmetics bag, I went into the guest bathroom with a glass. I filled it with water and filled myself with all the pretty pills.
Every swallow felt a little bit sad, a little bit determined, but mostly… right. I knew I was making the right choice for me, and I was ready.
A lifetime of abuse, erased. Every terrible, disgusting choice other people had made for me: irrelevant. I was in control, and I was choosing peace and rest. A little tragic, perhaps. But also dignified, self-determining, and well considered.
I laid down on the couch, and what happened next was the most beautiful moment of my life.
Death came to meet me like a friend and a lover all at once. The love I hadn't felt in my life. Total acceptance of me as I am.
It felt like a deep, heavy, soft, warm darkness, enveloping me and pulling me down within myself to a place I hadn't known existed before. I was sinking into a velvety void that held nothing but silence and peace. No tunnel, no light, no visions; it was like slipping into the perfect nap on a rainy day, but with the magnitude of finality.
I was surprised at the time at how quickly it happened; it was irresistible, like the magnetic pull between north and south. I called for Death, and it called back to me. I reached for it, and it reached back. It was everything I had wanted for so long. It felt like going home, at last, but not like any home I'd ever known. Better than any home I could have ever imagined.
My method didn't fail. However, my "friend" came down a while later for a glass of water and noticed I didn't stir. He called 911 and was *so upset* that the paramedics rearranged his furniture trying to resuscitate me. My life was worth less than his coffee table, apparently. (You see why I wasn't too shy about offing myself on his couch; the dude was a scumbag who had only befriended me because he thought I was an easy lay.)
When I woke up three days later in a hospital, I was unable to move my limbs or speak. The doctors worried I'd be brain damaged. But I still had enough mental capacity to be enraged that my choice to end my experience of life had been denied me.
It had taken so much careful consideration to be able to make that choice with certainty. To have it ripped away was the least dignified thing I have ever experienced. Worse than beatings. Worse than rape. I made my final choice and was so, so happy at the end. And my happiness was taken away because of a man who really loved where his coffee table was positioned.
Let's romanticize suicide. It's beautiful. It's dignified. It's a mark of self-determination. It allows people who suffer to experience rest and peace.
Fuck a coffee table, and I hope we all get to experience the peace we deserve.
Much love and thanks for listening. Everyone in my life says I talk too much, and I can't tell anyone how I feel about this.
I would like to share what happened when I actually did ctb in 2008. It was my 27th birthday (because I am a melodramatic musician). I had spent months planning, hoarding pills, giving away my possessions, terminating my lease, and even concocting a really beautiful exit story to explain my sudden and total absence: I was "going to Japan!"
And everyone bought it, and the people rejoiced.
The night of my death, I had a small final sushi dinner and went to bed on the couch of a "friend". My few remaining possessions, left in a note/will to my sister, were in his garage. My "friend" said goodnight, and I calmly went to get ready for bed.
Getting ready for bed on this evening consisted of Ambien, Valium, Vicodin, and good ol' over-the-counter sleeping pills. In these early days (hah!), we had garbage psychiatrists who would prescribe hardcore shit like that for anything from social anxiety to bad gas. With my little cosmetics bag, I went into the guest bathroom with a glass. I filled it with water and filled myself with all the pretty pills.
Every swallow felt a little bit sad, a little bit determined, but mostly… right. I knew I was making the right choice for me, and I was ready.
A lifetime of abuse, erased. Every terrible, disgusting choice other people had made for me: irrelevant. I was in control, and I was choosing peace and rest. A little tragic, perhaps. But also dignified, self-determining, and well considered.
I laid down on the couch, and what happened next was the most beautiful moment of my life.
Death came to meet me like a friend and a lover all at once. The love I hadn't felt in my life. Total acceptance of me as I am.
It felt like a deep, heavy, soft, warm darkness, enveloping me and pulling me down within myself to a place I hadn't known existed before. I was sinking into a velvety void that held nothing but silence and peace. No tunnel, no light, no visions; it was like slipping into the perfect nap on a rainy day, but with the magnitude of finality.
I was surprised at the time at how quickly it happened; it was irresistible, like the magnetic pull between north and south. I called for Death, and it called back to me. I reached for it, and it reached back. It was everything I had wanted for so long. It felt like going home, at last, but not like any home I'd ever known. Better than any home I could have ever imagined.
My method didn't fail. However, my "friend" came down a while later for a glass of water and noticed I didn't stir. He called 911 and was *so upset* that the paramedics rearranged his furniture trying to resuscitate me. My life was worth less than his coffee table, apparently. (You see why I wasn't too shy about offing myself on his couch; the dude was a scumbag who had only befriended me because he thought I was an easy lay.)
When I woke up three days later in a hospital, I was unable to move my limbs or speak. The doctors worried I'd be brain damaged. But I still had enough mental capacity to be enraged that my choice to end my experience of life had been denied me.
It had taken so much careful consideration to be able to make that choice with certainty. To have it ripped away was the least dignified thing I have ever experienced. Worse than beatings. Worse than rape. I made my final choice and was so, so happy at the end. And my happiness was taken away because of a man who really loved where his coffee table was positioned.
Let's romanticize suicide. It's beautiful. It's dignified. It's a mark of self-determination. It allows people who suffer to experience rest and peace.
Fuck a coffee table, and I hope we all get to experience the peace we deserve.
Much love and thanks for listening. Everyone in my life says I talk too much, and I can't tell anyone how I feel about this.
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how are you gonna be a journalist faking your story and do it this terribly
