Or at the very least, I was telling the truth at the time. It is, however, in hindsight, now a lie.
I am planning.
Planning for my future? No, silly. When you find out what I’m planning, you’ll see how funny that is.
I’m planning my own death.
A few really down days have hit me this week. I was tired and un-medicated on Monday, Tuesday a friend of the family passed away from breast cancer making me question my mortality and Wednesday I was in a car accident. In between, just people asking questions. Questions I can’t answer, questions to make me look dumb, questions to trap me into having my guard down. People trying to trick other people. And through it all, I watched other people go about their lives as if it was some super easy thing to do. Something you didn’t even have to think about.
Can you imagine not having to analyse every single little piece of your life. God, what do people do with all that free time?
Why can’t people be nice? Why can’t people just let the people in their life know how they feel about them without it seeming weird. I just wish I could apologise to every person I ever met.
I’m sick of thinking. I’m sick of pretending that everything’s okay. I’m sick of having nothing to live for, and holding out, hoping that things get better. Jesus, the last ten years were shit, followed by a few years of happiness and then back to the shit. I can’t live a life that is 70% shit.
I though that by now, my life would be sorted out. Then as I got older, I clung to the belief that I would at least sort out part of my life.
The truth is that nothing is sorted out. I’m working a shit job, I started stand up hoping to find a way to earn money doing something I love but it turns out even the really good comedians can’t earn enough to support themselves – fuck, what chance do I have?
I can see my life, stretching out in front of me – working the same crap job and slipping further and further into a rut. Hating myself even more.
And then there’s the crushing loneliness. If I couldn’t find someone who loved me at my best, I’m sure as fuck not going to find someone at my worst. How dare I look at women on the street. They don’t want to be looked at by me. They don’t want anything to do with me.
I’ve come up with a plan. Sometime soon, I’ll get the rope, so that I’m prepared and ready. I’ll finish organising the festival I’m running. Then I’ll stop taking my happy pills. Then a few days later I’ll get drunk. I think that should be enough elements right there to make me actually go through with it.
You don’t understand, I don’t want to do it. We depressives don’t ask for these feelings. But these feelings never go away. Sometimes, they’re allayed by friends or family, or loved ones. Sometimes we actually live a normal life, or as much as we can for people with our condition.
I’ve always had something to make me stay around. When I was young, it was the belief that I would grow up and have the life I always wanted. Then I thought I would be an actor. Then a comedian. At intermittent areas I had someone to love, who I thought loved me back.
But everyone has always done so much better without me in my life. How many times does it need to happy before I see the pattern? How many times do I do ‘okay’ on stage before I realise that I’m not very funny?
I hope I find something to live for. I hope I manage to make that connection, something to give me life. I won’t tell anyone about my plan. I don’t want people to pretend they care about me because they think I’m going to kill myself.
I wonder if there has ever been a single, solid, pure moment when someone has thought that their life was better with having me in it.
Just remember, there are 7 billion people on this planet. People die all the time. No-one will dwell on me being gone for very long. Sure, my family will have to go through my stuff, but think of all the stuff they can share amongst themselves. It’s all just stuff. It’s all just dumb, over priced stuff. It’s not who I am as a person, though I tried hard to make it fill me up so I felt whole.
My one regret, other than no longer existing, is that I won’t get to see how people react when they find out. I’ve tried to think about how the word would spread. Would it get out on Facebook and spread from there? Would my mum have to call my work? My work colleagues have to message the comedians? If I could be promised that I would come back as a ghost, I would have done this ages ago.
If I believed in an afterlife, I would have done this probably near the end of high school or in uni. After the first breakup, at the latest. It’s funny to think that my atheism has kept me alive for so long. If my mum had gotten her wish, and I had become religious, then it would have sped up my death. The fear of the unknown has kept me alive. But now, the void of nothingness stands before me. I realise that I won’t need to worry about what comes after, because I will be dead.
It’s strange, planning something like this. Comparing upcoming events against it. Seeing a poster advertising something and thinking “I won’t be here for that.”
I’ll miss the conclusion to Avengers: Infinity War. But there would always be a new movie on the horizon. I’ll miss out on seeing the new Doctor Who, but there would always be a new TV series to watch even after that. I’ll miss out on Death Stranding, but then there’ll always be a new game to look forward to, and I doubt I would have the time to play it anyway. It does look pretty awesome. But it’s all just more things. When I look at my life, there’s nothing in it worth living for that isn’t some stupid thing, some pop culture piece that I’m enjoying by myself.
They say that when someone decides to commit suicide, that they become happy, as if a weight has lifted off their shoulders. I don’t feel like that. I feel scared. I feel the blackness encompassing me, and I feel like I could start crying at any moment. I’m cranky and angry. I feel so very alone. But there’s a weird sort of calm to it too. Like my moment has been moving towards this moment. That every set back has made this a little bit easier. Every heartache has helped me to realise that it would be better not to have a heart to break.
This world is not happy and fun and joyous. It is cruel and twisted, with flashes of happiness before we return to the cruelty. To make myself into a member of society who even deserves the smallest amount of human dignity, I would have to work my ass off for a year. I would have to work so hard to even prove that I am worthy of love.
Fuck it, I’m done trying to be human. I’m done with these emotions. I’m done with other people yelling into the void and getting back flowers and everyone’s messages of support, and then me doing the same thing and not even hearing my own echo in return.
No-one cares about me. Why the fuck should I care about myself? There’s no-one on this world that will be inconvenienced for too long by my passing. And there sure as fuck is no-one on this planet who would give up everything to have me back.
When I was in high school, I had this thing where I would tell people I would kill myself when I was 40. My reasoning would be that it seemed so very old, and that I would have lived a good life and could make room for someone else on the planet.
Crazy that I was off by 5 years.
Don’t tell anyone. We can’t ruin the surprise. Can you keep a secret, internet? Shhhhhhhhh