Death Wish

I woke up one morning and I knew that today I had to hurt myself. How would it feel like to die? To finally let go? To not care anymore? To be free at last?

I am empty inside, to the point of numbness. It's like there is something already dead inside.

When you start fantasizing about how comfortable the coffin lining must be, it’s time you acknowledged that you are dead inside.

True despair is staying alive.

My thinking is paralyzed, and the mood inconsolable; and hopelessness has seeped into my entire life. I cannot separate the future from the present, and the present is painful beyond solace. I don’t think that there is any eternal anguish worse than mine.

God watches from the far wall,

But His face is cold as stone,

And if He loves me – as they tell me,

Why do I feel so alone?

I suffer from dark moods. I am developing a taste for the morbid and horrible. My head is fogged up, perpetually plunged in a world of darkness. I have found that the best thing I can do, what’s almost certain to make me feel better, is to think about death. I am in an acute pain, ad infinitum.

Most days I am too deep down in the dumps to be bothered with life. Some days I question God that why doesn’t He let me die? Most nights I lie in bed, pretending to be asleep avoiding everyone, so I could just ebb away. I think about killing myself. Sometimes the thought of bleeding my wrists out is the only way I can lull myself off and into sleep. I just replay it over and over again in my head, it soothes the emptiness inside me.

But I fear that if I go to sleep I would go under and never surface back into the world. At times I am snowed under the feeling that I would die that night only but it doesn’t happen. I want to down a handful of painkillers and just die. Make the pain go away for good. All the hurt that I have been through is always playing on a loop before my eyes, torturing me, night after night. Pain has taught me how to wane, to fade into the background, to exist but never really be there.

If you are thinking about it, death, killing yourself, that they say is the first step to hell. I have drawn my own blood, learned how to slit my own wrists, writhe in pain, and then burst into tears finally accepting defeat. I have learned to believe that I can’t be loved, like a disease. I feel hopeless.

I am terrified, of future; encountering nightmares of hurting with no end in sight. I still remember where I was the first time I thought about killing myself. Curled up in a ball on my bedroom floor crying my eyes out because it hurt that much. Wishing I could be anywhere but there and anything but alive. I wanted to die.

The thought of suicide, has gone from being a passive interest, where I visualized death but not really dying, to an actual one, an enigma that I untiringly try to decipher. It blights me incessantly, taking root in my dismal thoughts, always lingering insidiously at the back of my head.

It’s so hard to think about anything when you want to kill yourself. That's above and beyond everything else, and it's not a mental grievance, it's physical agony. My thoughts are not in conjunction with reason. So I try not to think at all.

How much do you have to hate yourself to want to just wipe yourself out?

Death is like a never attenuating wound, you can’t get rid of it, and each day you are savagely reminded that it’s still there. I don’t know why I have lost the will to live. I would like to end my life. Saying otherwise would be a lie. Death is a ubiquitous part of my thoughts, and on my worst days, I can envisage how I would like to die. And there are moments when it’s all too real, when I feel I am about to pass into the other world, that I am almost gone, that I am no longer here.

Undying scars is the price you have to pay for being endlessly blue. And I don’t know if I want them to fade. I picture my own death. I can ideate my funeral. Dear God, let it be a gloomy, gloomy day; the sky overcast, the air heavy, a little but unrelenting drizzle, the gray drizzle of sorrow, a coldness hanging about, the kind that makes people cringe at the thought of, and triggers depression, all engulfed in black, the color of death laden with a hush.

Nobody daring to ask, “Why did she do it?” The mourners wordlessly applauding, “What courage! Who has the gut to kill herself? But she did it” ... “What was that moment like for her? Or was it just a divination?”

I want to take into my own hands a decision that should better be left to God.

And the image never fades. Not ever.

I believe there’s nothing wrong with fantasizing about death. In the end, I know I will not be able to find the light in my darkness, I just know. Running a blade through my veins is what finally took all the power away from me forever. It’s a lesson in accepting reality. It’s my life. And what’s life, but a blatant act of imagination. A sense of ultimate serenity tumbles down upon me whenever I think of how I would like to die. And this peace is what’s killing me right now. There are a million ways. Each method is intensely private, arcane, and gruesome. Razor blades, cocaine overdose, cyanide poisoning, or a shot to the head. Can someone teach me how to tie a noose? Should I drive off a cliff? I want it to be tragic, a tearjerker. I want to be unforgettable in death.

There is this crushing despair. My whole being has been sucked into the void inside me. The vileness of profound suicidal depression, and the hopelessness that accompanies it, are hard to bear. The pain is almost palpable, it is vivid, heavy, and inescapable. There is no escape from this smothering confinement called life. I have begun to ceaselessly think of oblivion.

The emptiness I feel inside me as I put the razor to my wrists and open my veins is unimaginable, the emptiness and the serenity.

Oh, the satin-lined coffin, how austerely beautiful.

To be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, that is where I am headed. Besides life is for the living, anyway.

I want to be the girl nobody knew until she committed suicide, and then suddenly everyone was her friend.

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes,

Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching Earth;

Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth

With its laughter, nor for sound of sighs.

She hath many questions, to which the angels hath no replies.

― Jeffrey Eugenides

Life is a losing game, and I am a gambling woman.