I am actively suicidal. I have all the motive in the world but since I don’t really want to drive Ziva into a bridge abutment, (I was hoping to give her in one piece to Keith) I have to wait until I get the ‘exit bag’ and the nitrogen tank. I have an appointment with some highly recommended psychologist, but I’ve had shitty, shitty luck getting anybody IRL to provide anything like service. My ex’s girlfriend managed to get HER psychiatrist to give me a diagnosis – without seeing me, even ! what wondrous psychiatrists they have in the US! – and my ex’s counsellor indicated (without having a therapeutic relationship with me and on the basis of seeing me once) that he figured I was nutty. Anybody who actually sees me comes to the conclusion that I am drearily sane. Does anybody besides me believe you can be drearily sane AND suicidal?
I am in constant pain, both physical and emotional. I have nothing to live for, nothing to look forward to, my fear of death has evaporated and work is the worst of it but of course if I want to keep my job for these last few measly weeks until my package arrives I have to stay quiet about it. My cat will be looked after no matter what I do, and my kids have another parent. As Robert Ingersoll once remarked, at its worst death can be nothing more than perfect rest. Ah, perfect rest. Sounds like a plan.
I’ve been telling people at work that I’m suicidal AND THEY ARE LAUGHING AT ME. Maybe they won’t find it funny if I choose to depart this life in the parking garage.
Fuck all y’all. I am out of here; I’m going home to break the news to the kids and Jeff.
The weirdness and wonderfulness of the world would be diminished. Please give it a chance to suck less at a future date. And stop listening to third-hand accounts of what random psychiatrists supposedly think about you based on hearsay.
My girlfriend’s mother committed suicide with an exit bag last month. Leaving your car in one piece doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be leaving a huge griefy mess for your children. And just because there’s another parent still standing doesn’t mean you don’t have important mothering still to do.
Wait. Go to the appointment. Look at pictures of kittens.
Thanks for trying.
To self-annihilate without saying why… that’s not nice. I promised myself I’d never do that after Carmen died. To go after making your case – maybe it’s not nice, but it’s not leaving people to wonder if it was something they did.
This is about how I feel, not about anybody else. If we’re social animals and I’m finding my interactions with virtually everyone distressing – mostly because people lie so very much – AND I’m in pain all the time – why would I hang around? To see what happens next? To look at pictures of kittens when the cops let native people die in alleys and Stephen Harper’s going to win the next election? To contribute to some great cause? Not with this band of co-conspirators, that’s for sure. I’m tired of being comic relief in a world overwhelmed by greed, and tired of pretending to be a nice person when I’m not. I’m really not. To write another song? Keith says he’ll burn my mandolin and repaint Ziva. Make a big pyre, kid, I hope it brings some relief; I don’t care what colour Ziva gets painted. Take a corn broom to her for all of me.
Katie understands. Keith lectured me and threw down 45 minutes of cluelessness, and then went off to play computer games. Why would I live to give him parental advice when I can’t influence his behaviour to turn lights off? Paul doesn’t take it seriously, which after what he put me through when he was suicidal is darkly comic; Jeff laughed and talked about Elvis’ suicide.
When I said I was in physical pain all the time I wasn’t kidding. Now I know why people don’t talk about bad feelings. Nobody wants any truth I could give them. I’ll accept that you mean well and leave it at that. Yes, it’s cowardly. So what?
I bring my best and nobody wants it. What people want from me I no longer get any pleasure from bringing.
Conflikt brought that into stark relief. Life isn’t a con, it’s a pile of thankless work, most of which does nothing to make the world a better place. Work on in pain, Allegra, to no good end! Why? Cause folks says so! Thanks kid.
My parents are grievously upset but I’m hoping to get them to understand how much the comments they have made about aging have contributed to my decision. I tell them “I’m in pain.” And they cheerfully say, “It gets worse.” I believe them. Why wouldn’t I, they are my parents. It’s already so bad I can’t stand it and the disk is starting to bulge on the other side and so… more of the same.
As I said to a coworker – the only person in this situation who has come anywhere close to being rational, and who got me the name of a therapist – I don’t want to be fatter, dumber and older than I already am. I possibly have a choice about the fat, but on the other two, I’m FUCKED. I can feel my intelligence vanishing under the daily barrage of pain and the effects of grief and natural wear and anger every day suppressed; and in the immortal words of Al Swearengen (I did a search for the scriptwriter but it didn’t pop) “Age spares us no fucking indignity.”
If the tank and the bag were in the room right now I’d go out to the car and deal with it (promised I wouldn’t do it in the house). As it is, I have to wait; I gotta do three years worth of taxes and cash out some savings to get out of debt, and I promised I’d see this guy about my mental health, and it’s going to be a few days at least before the equipment gets to the mailbox. I need to find out where my damned will is, too… that lawyer’s long since closed that office. I’m allowing myself to be cheerful though. The list of things I will never have to do is getting longer and longer, and more appealing, every second.