Please don’t be shocked. That isn’t my intent. This isn’t a cry for help. You aren’t my doctor. This is a suicide pact, and in spite of the fact that you don’t feel strongly enough to die with me today, you’ve already entered into it. It’s too late to back out now.
If I killed myself today, how long would you miss me?
Lots of us have suicidal thoughts like that. We don’t talk about them because we don’t want to freak everyone else out. I believe in the birds of a feather rule, right? …so probably more than half of the people reading me here have had them. And that probably means you.
I gotta be honest. I’m just words on a page, right? You probably wouldn’t even know I died. I shouldn’t even give a crap who’s going to miss me or for how long. But this is me and my freaky ways of being in love with you again, and yes, I give a serious crap (which, by the way, if you’re not serious about that, please just stop) how long you’d miss me.
I’m tired of not talking about my suicidal thoughts. I think maybe if we all talked about them more, less people would do it, kind of like other things we talk about doing. Maybe I’m not the best person to spearhead that topic. But I’m tired of the hours I’ve spent writing about it, only to click Move to Trash because I love you and I don’t want to depress you.
Four people in my life have killed themselves. I don’t know what the odds are. I’ve spent way too much of my own time picturing myself as number five.
Seriously, I’m not going to kill myself. But I want to. So many days of my life, I just look at the meaninglessness of it all. I realize that no matter how hard I work, no one is going to remember what I do, and a hundred years from now, no one is going to remember I even existed. Why was I even here?
Some days, the world just takes a dump on you, you know? You look up and, “Whoa, that cloud’s a little darker than usual… crap!” Figuratively. I hope. But we have lots of reasons for these thoughts, and most of us who have them are battling with an internal fecal storm called depression. I don’t need to lose my job, or my leg, to want to end it all. Sure, those things would suck. Some days, being out of coffee or breaking a nail is enough. And some days all it takes is for you to say the wrong thing.
During a test I was struggling with in school, I got up to sharpen my pencil. I stood there at the sharpener trying to picture how sharp it would have to be to push it through my temple and into my brain. The pencil, not the sharpener. Is that healthy? What about wondering if I would still get an F on the test?
My list is pretty long. I’ve only hung myself once (with a belt… I didn’t like it). I’ve shot myself in the head, and in the heart (my ♥ fav), and once in the femoral artery just to see if that would really work (I really don’t like bleeding to death). I’ve jumped from several cliffs, usually at the beach. I like jumping… Once from the top of an office building. The top of a lighthouse. A couple of bridges (not the Golden Gate, that’s too cliché). An overpass onto a busy freeway. I’ve even opened the cabin door on a trans-Atlantic flight and stepped out. I’ve poisoned myself (yuck). I’ve stabbed myself in many places and with many objects (always painful). I’ve sliced my wrists (this was very beautiful and a ♥ close second if it wasn’t for the bleeding to death part) and my carotid artery with razors. Once, I hurled myself into a giant meat grinder. I even imagined strangling myself with my own umbilical cord after I saw [name of movie withheld for those who haven’t seen it].
I think about this.
Can you tell?
You are welcome to notice that my list does not include drowning myself, setting myself on fire, or blowing myself up. You also don’t have to worry, we are not going to kill ourselves in any of those ways today. I’ve thought about this a long time and I’ve decided how it works. How it’s going to work. What we’re going to do, you and I, is we’re simply going to stop writing. Forever.
Be calm. Breathe. It’s going to be okay. If you’re one of those people like me with irregular posts, no one will even notice for at least a week. About one in ten of your followers will actually leave a message at some point over the next month wondering where you are and when the others see that you don’t answer, your blog will stop getting hits. Its pulse will stop. Peace. Easy peasy. We have to be in this together though. Are you with me?
Okay, we’ll count down from three…
Yeah, I’ll stop writing when they pry my cold dead fingers away from the keyboard. But it feels good to think about it. To be frustrated with all the times things wouldn’t come out right, or that day I got zero hits (there’s an ego boost), or the number of fiction writers who get Freshly Pressed, or just the incredible strain it puts on life. And for once, it’s going to feel good to click [Publish] instead of Move to Trash.
Share my freedom with me in the comments, please, and I’ll leave you with this message…
I read a quote the other day from Kate Chopin that said, “There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water.”
Kate said more to me with those words than I think she intended. A ripple from an oar carries on for an invisible eternity. It’s only our perception of it that wanes. This ripple I’ve started with my words will carry on in your life in ways neither of us could ever imagine.
Thanks always for reading! ♥
© 2012 Anne Schilde