BrontesA
Katabasis
- Jul 16, 2026
- 3
I posted this on the wrong discussion forum at first, sorry!
Hello everyone,
I'm new here. Firstly I would like to commend the shared sincerity that I have encountered in my short time of lurking on this forum. I don't have the tongue to articulate how I feel seeing a community form from something most society would cringe at, maybe this is what all those people meant when they said 'you're not alone', and now I wonder if any one I know attends this forum. In short: I'm incredibly glad I can share my thoughts without the usual 'noo we love you so much, we're here for you' at the slightest reveal of depressive symptoms.
Regardless, the topic I wish to discuss seems strange to me, partly because it feels disingenuous. This is why it feels best to articulate what I can, and hope for ideas to start bouncing in from other brains.
I have wanted to leave this all behind for several years, but certain aspects of my being pin my decision making process in place. Yes, I can just end it at any time, but to leave certain matters of 'evidence of being' unresolved seems a disservice to the personal character I have supposedly been building for myself (more on this later) as well as for those I leave behind.
The Journal Problem
One of the primary stall points of my planning has been my journals. They are filled with candor, which is what bothers me. In early entries, the teenage me discusses his desire to kill, with chicken-scratch depictions of gore and occasional 'boo hoo, poor me' sections that now make me feel embarrassment. Not because of the killing, but because of the crudeness of it all. I do not want to be perceived as driven or shaped by anger, but whether I am is a question I may be too biased to answer honestly. I have two journals presently. More accurately, I have two journals remaining: one old and one relatively new. Everything in between has been burned by dumbass teenage me out of shame or fear that someone may read them, I genuinely cannot even recall most of what I burned.
In the newer journal, a more mature uni age me documents his inabilities to rationalise my life - as well as the resulting breakdowns - which are more sad than angry, though rage seeps in occasionally. During this period of university, I developed a drug habit: synthetic cannabinoids. I believe the popular term is just pens or carts or something, but my first step-up from weed was HHC and similar off-brand weed alternatives. This is documented, though I refer to such as 'Soma' in my entries, as I consciously use as a method of keeping my feelings toned down. The front section of this journal was dedicated to my recovery, though now it only serves to immortalise my few small victories when I actually feel contentment.
I do not know what to do with the journals, whether to leave them as they are, tear some pages out or burn them altogether. I cannot bear to imagine what my family would think reading even a single page.
I've always wanted to use cyphers and codes, hidden notes scattered around the country for anyone who cared to find... but at this point I don't feel as though anyone would give enough of a shit.
The Character Problem
I do not know how else to refer to this. This links to my drug habit, as my sober state (in my view) is disagreeable to the world around me. For instance; the fact current world events can happen unabated infuriates me beyond words, and the fact nobody in my life is interested in the present evil infuriates me even more. In the case of politics and world events, my father always cuts me off with a 'you're letting it get to you' as if apathy is some virtue. Another example: I find the worship of money disgusting, along with the consumerism and reliance on institutions that it brings. Yet, my entire life, I have been under bombardment of conditioning to align with these things. My parents never went to college, so of course, the life of their first-born must revolve around degrees and education (More on this later). The disagreeableness towards my environment does stem from some vague "I could fix it if they just listened" complex that I cannot really name. But I'm sure we all have such a side, right?
About a year ago, I came across the writings of Yukio Mishima, and was captivated instantly. I feel genuine love for a man of such character. For those of you who do not know, Mishima was one of Japan's most renowned post-war authors, and (to my knowledge) the last person in Japan to die by Seppuku, as a form of protest against the corruption and dismantling of Japanese society by outside influence. This was done after a failed coup attempt before he could be arrested, he did it fully of his own will. His writings, his career in general, rationalise honorable death as something necessary if one wishes to avoid slow death by decay and decadence. I do not wish to grow old; to become some perverted old man who does not care about the world he lives in. Neither did Mishima. His writings have put into words the feelings I have been wrestling with for a long time.
I strongly wish to send a message with my death as for it not to be for solely selfish reasons (Although those still exist). I wish for people to know that I did not (just) die for the sake of dying because my life sucked and I was miserable, but because I no longer wished to contribute to a world I am wholeheartedly objected to. I don't think I can articulate this in any reasonable manner.
The Legacy Problem
Legacy is a dumb word to describe this. In short, I failed university miserably in my final year. Part of me thinks it has something to do with my stubborn pushback against staff incompetence (I even want to mention some of them in my final note, because that place is staffed with genuine psychopaths that should not even be allowed to live). This 'reason' feels like an excuse half the time, and is irrelevant to the point I wish to make, but I do feel serious spite in this particular area as this (psychology) was genuinely something I was passionate about. Now, I know for a fact the modern psychology monopoly only exists so that we can postulate and look smart, while not doing a single thing with the acquired knowledge. Research (my past field of psych interest) is genuinely a sham, at least where I live. Again, my character problem is showing.
The point is: prior to my 'departure' I want to buy a fake degree and grade transcript, so that my parents never find out their son failed the one thing they wanted out of him in life. This problem is more easily solved, however I seriously needed to tell someone about this failure. It is an embarrassment, and I feel as though it was completely avoidable.
Conclusion
I don't know if any of this makes sense, or even relates to the topic. Now, it feels much more like a vent post, but I still feel incredibly glad that I have some place to speak my mind. Thank you all in advance.
Please, if you have suggestions, observations or criticisms, don't pull any punches. Maybe you have sanitisation plans of your own, I would love to read about them. Now that I've put mine into words, it does not feel like a plan at all, though I am omitting a lot for the sake of not spending all night typing.
Hello everyone,
I'm new here. Firstly I would like to commend the shared sincerity that I have encountered in my short time of lurking on this forum. I don't have the tongue to articulate how I feel seeing a community form from something most society would cringe at, maybe this is what all those people meant when they said 'you're not alone', and now I wonder if any one I know attends this forum. In short: I'm incredibly glad I can share my thoughts without the usual 'noo we love you so much, we're here for you' at the slightest reveal of depressive symptoms.
Regardless, the topic I wish to discuss seems strange to me, partly because it feels disingenuous. This is why it feels best to articulate what I can, and hope for ideas to start bouncing in from other brains.
I have wanted to leave this all behind for several years, but certain aspects of my being pin my decision making process in place. Yes, I can just end it at any time, but to leave certain matters of 'evidence of being' unresolved seems a disservice to the personal character I have supposedly been building for myself (more on this later) as well as for those I leave behind.
The Journal Problem
One of the primary stall points of my planning has been my journals. They are filled with candor, which is what bothers me. In early entries, the teenage me discusses his desire to kill, with chicken-scratch depictions of gore and occasional 'boo hoo, poor me' sections that now make me feel embarrassment. Not because of the killing, but because of the crudeness of it all. I do not want to be perceived as driven or shaped by anger, but whether I am is a question I may be too biased to answer honestly. I have two journals presently. More accurately, I have two journals remaining: one old and one relatively new. Everything in between has been burned by dumbass teenage me out of shame or fear that someone may read them, I genuinely cannot even recall most of what I burned.
In the newer journal, a more mature uni age me documents his inabilities to rationalise my life - as well as the resulting breakdowns - which are more sad than angry, though rage seeps in occasionally. During this period of university, I developed a drug habit: synthetic cannabinoids. I believe the popular term is just pens or carts or something, but my first step-up from weed was HHC and similar off-brand weed alternatives. This is documented, though I refer to such as 'Soma' in my entries, as I consciously use as a method of keeping my feelings toned down. The front section of this journal was dedicated to my recovery, though now it only serves to immortalise my few small victories when I actually feel contentment.
I do not know what to do with the journals, whether to leave them as they are, tear some pages out or burn them altogether. I cannot bear to imagine what my family would think reading even a single page.
I've always wanted to use cyphers and codes, hidden notes scattered around the country for anyone who cared to find... but at this point I don't feel as though anyone would give enough of a shit.
The Character Problem
I do not know how else to refer to this. This links to my drug habit, as my sober state (in my view) is disagreeable to the world around me. For instance; the fact current world events can happen unabated infuriates me beyond words, and the fact nobody in my life is interested in the present evil infuriates me even more. In the case of politics and world events, my father always cuts me off with a 'you're letting it get to you' as if apathy is some virtue. Another example: I find the worship of money disgusting, along with the consumerism and reliance on institutions that it brings. Yet, my entire life, I have been under bombardment of conditioning to align with these things. My parents never went to college, so of course, the life of their first-born must revolve around degrees and education (More on this later). The disagreeableness towards my environment does stem from some vague "I could fix it if they just listened" complex that I cannot really name. But I'm sure we all have such a side, right?
About a year ago, I came across the writings of Yukio Mishima, and was captivated instantly. I feel genuine love for a man of such character. For those of you who do not know, Mishima was one of Japan's most renowned post-war authors, and (to my knowledge) the last person in Japan to die by Seppuku, as a form of protest against the corruption and dismantling of Japanese society by outside influence. This was done after a failed coup attempt before he could be arrested, he did it fully of his own will. His writings, his career in general, rationalise honorable death as something necessary if one wishes to avoid slow death by decay and decadence. I do not wish to grow old; to become some perverted old man who does not care about the world he lives in. Neither did Mishima. His writings have put into words the feelings I have been wrestling with for a long time.
I strongly wish to send a message with my death as for it not to be for solely selfish reasons (Although those still exist). I wish for people to know that I did not (just) die for the sake of dying because my life sucked and I was miserable, but because I no longer wished to contribute to a world I am wholeheartedly objected to. I don't think I can articulate this in any reasonable manner.
The Legacy Problem
Legacy is a dumb word to describe this. In short, I failed university miserably in my final year. Part of me thinks it has something to do with my stubborn pushback against staff incompetence (I even want to mention some of them in my final note, because that place is staffed with genuine psychopaths that should not even be allowed to live). This 'reason' feels like an excuse half the time, and is irrelevant to the point I wish to make, but I do feel serious spite in this particular area as this (psychology) was genuinely something I was passionate about. Now, I know for a fact the modern psychology monopoly only exists so that we can postulate and look smart, while not doing a single thing with the acquired knowledge. Research (my past field of psych interest) is genuinely a sham, at least where I live. Again, my character problem is showing.
The point is: prior to my 'departure' I want to buy a fake degree and grade transcript, so that my parents never find out their son failed the one thing they wanted out of him in life. This problem is more easily solved, however I seriously needed to tell someone about this failure. It is an embarrassment, and I feel as though it was completely avoidable.
Conclusion
I don't know if any of this makes sense, or even relates to the topic. Now, it feels much more like a vent post, but I still feel incredibly glad that I have some place to speak my mind. Thank you all in advance.
Please, if you have suggestions, observations or criticisms, don't pull any punches. Maybe you have sanitisation plans of your own, I would love to read about them. Now that I've put mine into words, it does not feel like a plan at all, though I am omitting a lot for the sake of not spending all night typing.
