The S Word

Let’s talk about it.

A couple of high profile celebrities have taken their own lives in the past few weeks. It’s pushed the conversation to the forefront, that you never really know someone.

I would estimate that the average person doesn’t think about this subject much, if at all, on an average day. Maybe if they see an article on a celebrity who has done it.

I would estimate that I spend about 70% of my waking life thinking about it.

It started off in a jovial manner, a joking tone. I would think “If things truly fuck up, then I’ll just kill myself” or “if this goes badly, at least I can just kill myself” or “there’s no way I would do that, I would rather kill myself”.

And then it just grows from there.

Whenever I feel stressed, I think about it. Whenever I feel down. I think about it.

I accepted a while ago that there are two possibilities for my death – it’s basically a race between my terrible diet and lifestyle, and the black cloud hanging over my head. One or the other will get me.

It’s strange feeling to think that there’s a 50/50 change my death will be at my own hand.

I know how it will be done. Guns are scary and not prevalent in Australia. Pills would give me too much time to reconsider. I’ve never been a cutter.

I’ve decided it will be a rope. A hanging noose. The rope thicker than a bungee cord – I want to feel it around my neck as the breathe stops. I don’t want my neck to snap when I jump down, which will be difficult considering how heavy I am. I will wrap a silk cloth around my neck, and the noose around that, and then slowly lower myself from whatever I’m standing on. I will be able to struggle, and feel the life leave my body. I will give my brain enough time to slow time down and allow me my final minutes, hopefully thinking over the things I will miss. The people I will miss. But I won’t be able to cry out for help.

I think about my own suicide every single day. Some days are worse than other. I don’t want to do it, and in my more lucid moments I return to that joking mindset..

I’m not actually planning it yet, but it’s strange to think that your death is a race between by terrible lifestyle and eating habits, and the dark voice in my head that tells me everyone would be better off without me and pointing out that I wouldn’t have to deal with all this shit if I just ended it.

I wonder what it’s like to live a ‘normal’ life. Where the smallest awkward moment doesn’t send you spiraling down into a pit of despair.

I’m not going to tell anyone any of this. Worse than actually being depressed is the look someone gives you when they realise that you’re broken. It’s a look that says they’re worried about you, but they’re also worried that you’re just doing it for attention. Because telling someone will get you like a day of sympathy, and then everyone is expected to return back to their normal lives. You’ve used that one grace moment.

Do it too often, and people just get tired of it.

I have never known someone who has committed suicide. But then I have known a lot of people effected by cancer, so I suppose that makes the chances of me also having cancer slightly lower. But then I guess I am the suicide person for a bunch of other people. That made more sense in my head.

But things just keep getting worse, and its getting more difficult for me to pick myself up again. I’m not sure how much longer I can do it for.