ghoulish.fool
Member
- Apr 16, 2018
- 40
You know, living with persistent/constant/reoccurring ideation is such a bizarre and terrible way to live. I've been certain I wouldn't make it to the following year, practically every year, for the past ten years; since I was 18.
You go through the periods of being a husk on autopilot, where your existence can hardly be defined as *being alive*. The dissociation, the fake smiles and laughter stretched across gritted teeth and dangling from emotionless eyes. The self harm, the alcoholism, the drug abuse, the cycling thoughts, the isolation, the crumbling of stability, the inability to stop and rest as you're pushed forward by the current of time. Sometimes it's the searing pain in your skull and chest, other times the numbness in your fingertips.
Sometimes the warmth from within burns away the fog and clarity gleams across the landscape. Healthy eating, true excitement for your clear-headed potential, goals, hobbies, socializing, even a flickering bulb of happiness. And unfortunately the obsession and overindulgence of all things that cause you to feel decent. You may not know it yet but sometime soon you'll blink and the clear depths in front of you will coagulate and spoil. But it's only been four days!? Why? How? What happened? But rejoice, this will happen assuredly, everytime, and the dread of the moment won't be quite as potent. In fact, after a few years, you'll continue crying in bed as the clarity arrives. Taking advantage will just hurt you more. What's the point?
The act itself. The terrifying and liberating, absolute act of defiance and freedom. The suicide letters. The fantasies of a funeral service or shallow social media mentions. The brutalization of your loved ones- your ma, your husband, your dependents, the grandma who never abused you, your best mate, your psychiatrist, or your coworker who likes to slack off with you. Someone's getting hurt and you know it. Maybe it's just the crew of underpaid folks who'll have to strip the drywall of your blood, brain, skull, and hair. Or the neighbor to the west who smells the rot as she passes your apartment door to reach hers.
Methods. You save up your anxiety meds and plan to down several months worth with grain alcohol. Too bad you decided to read about how unlikely it is that you'll reach your desired outcome. You cry and complain to your pillow instead.
Push through the anxiety, plaster on a face of confidence, pretend you want protection and that you've definitely shot guns before. Keep the trembling to a minimum and the tears locked up tight. Choose something with a punch and hide your eagerness. Bullets, cases, paperwork. Act natural. Admit your license doesn't represent where you reside, why does that matter? You send mail to your parents house because of the annual changing residence. **DENIED**.
Half suspension? Pentobarbital? That four story parking lot where you parked once for work? Perseverance? Live forever? Save $10,000+ for humane and ethical euthanasia? *My little pot of gold*.
Eyes dart around my surroundings. Ten years and I'm still here. The chronic depression, the terror that's packaged neatly into a box labeled anxiety, the apathy, the nihilism, the dichotomy between the asocial me and the me who desperately craves to connect(like truly connect), the beauty blanketed by years of ash fall, the web of scars lashed across my psyche, and the vessel washed up on the shore of tomorrow. Me. Tayler.
You go through the periods of being a husk on autopilot, where your existence can hardly be defined as *being alive*. The dissociation, the fake smiles and laughter stretched across gritted teeth and dangling from emotionless eyes. The self harm, the alcoholism, the drug abuse, the cycling thoughts, the isolation, the crumbling of stability, the inability to stop and rest as you're pushed forward by the current of time. Sometimes it's the searing pain in your skull and chest, other times the numbness in your fingertips.
Sometimes the warmth from within burns away the fog and clarity gleams across the landscape. Healthy eating, true excitement for your clear-headed potential, goals, hobbies, socializing, even a flickering bulb of happiness. And unfortunately the obsession and overindulgence of all things that cause you to feel decent. You may not know it yet but sometime soon you'll blink and the clear depths in front of you will coagulate and spoil. But it's only been four days!? Why? How? What happened? But rejoice, this will happen assuredly, everytime, and the dread of the moment won't be quite as potent. In fact, after a few years, you'll continue crying in bed as the clarity arrives. Taking advantage will just hurt you more. What's the point?
The act itself. The terrifying and liberating, absolute act of defiance and freedom. The suicide letters. The fantasies of a funeral service or shallow social media mentions. The brutalization of your loved ones- your ma, your husband, your dependents, the grandma who never abused you, your best mate, your psychiatrist, or your coworker who likes to slack off with you. Someone's getting hurt and you know it. Maybe it's just the crew of underpaid folks who'll have to strip the drywall of your blood, brain, skull, and hair. Or the neighbor to the west who smells the rot as she passes your apartment door to reach hers.
Methods. You save up your anxiety meds and plan to down several months worth with grain alcohol. Too bad you decided to read about how unlikely it is that you'll reach your desired outcome. You cry and complain to your pillow instead.
Push through the anxiety, plaster on a face of confidence, pretend you want protection and that you've definitely shot guns before. Keep the trembling to a minimum and the tears locked up tight. Choose something with a punch and hide your eagerness. Bullets, cases, paperwork. Act natural. Admit your license doesn't represent where you reside, why does that matter? You send mail to your parents house because of the annual changing residence. **DENIED**.
Half suspension? Pentobarbital? That four story parking lot where you parked once for work? Perseverance? Live forever? Save $10,000+ for humane and ethical euthanasia? *My little pot of gold*.
Eyes dart around my surroundings. Ten years and I'm still here. The chronic depression, the terror that's packaged neatly into a box labeled anxiety, the apathy, the nihilism, the dichotomy between the asocial me and the me who desperately craves to connect(like truly connect), the beauty blanketed by years of ash fall, the web of scars lashed across my psyche, and the vessel washed up on the shore of tomorrow. Me. Tayler.
This comment was far more cathartic than the hundreds of journal entries I've made in the past. It was honest, raw, and shared with strangers. Feelings that aren't really allowed to be talked about. I've recently been coming back here because I needed a sense of solidarity in my decision to CTB if and when I choose to and I thought I could give back in a tiny way.
Last edited:
