and also this one

This one requires some explanation: the words of the poem are written between and around many scattered solid black pieces on the page.

'Twixt these broken pieces my words run
And broken pieces are my words
They stutter here and there
And do not meet
Uneven rhyme and broken feet

found this poem whilst cleaning

Think you now to lock the door
Seal my fate to live once more?
This time you may have me caught
But I can wait, while you cannot

You think time will let me heal
But you just give more time to feel
The pain and sorrow don't go down
They rise, whilst in them now I drown

I don't want to cause a stir
Officer, don't save me, sir
Let me dive and drift and drown
One less stress to make you frown

Let Me Go

Let me go, let me go.
Those who love me,
Please let me go.

My heart is so heavy,
My heart is too full,
Please let me go.

You want me to live,
But it hurts too much.
Please let me go.

I don't want to hurt you
But I can't go on anymore.
Please let me go.

I cannot keep on being.
I'm so very sorry.
Please let me go.

Hey, You

There's a poem I like
It's called "Remember how we forgot?"
Only the title is relevant here

Remember how worried you were
Not even a week ago?
Remember how you forgot that?

I shouldn't complain
When what I expect
Happens
When I didn't want you
To worry, anyway

Do I have to start each day
By saying
"Hey I want to die"
For you to care?
Why don't you ever
Just ask?

One person asks.
One person worries
Because he asks
And I answer

I know this is selfish
I am selfish
I'm not the only one
With problems

I just want you to ask

But it's not like I
Didn't know this would happen
I knew it would
I counted on it
It's always happened before

I write "I'm closer to
Suicide than to living"
And everyone freaks out
But I write "I regret
Not stopping to buy a gun
To blow my brains out"
And it's crickets

I don't normally
Write poems at people
And at the moment
I'm not even sure
Who "you" are

But if you see this
Ask me how I'm doing

Love is never going to be the cure
But each love is
One more thing
To tie me here
Even when I hate those ties

It's easy to say
"I love you."
It's harder to listen to the answer
To "are you okay?"

I Should Have Stopped in Tennessee

Living is not hard.
It hurts
And it's exhausting
And I hate it
But it's not hard

On the other hand
Is that living?
Because I think
Maybe that's just
Breathing

I can breathe forever
I can eat
And sleep
And go through
All the motions
And my body will
Survive

But living?
Living involves things like
Peace
And purpose
And love
And hope
And at least one reason
To keep breathing

Dying is hard
Or maybe I haven't been
Trying hard enough

I drove through at least
Two different states
Last weekend
Where I could have
Walked right in
And purchased a firearm
I even had money, for once

But I didn't
Why didn't I
I regret not doing that

I have many bladed objects
And I'm sure I could stab
Myself to death
But I feel like a gun would be
A little easier
Take a little less effort
Be a little more sure

None of this nonsense
Where I might fail
Where I might just end up
Paralyzed, because I landed wrong
I was lucky to avoid that
Once already
I doubt I'd be so lucky again

If I had a gun
I could just put it to my head
And pull the trigger
And be done

That's all I want
I want to be done
I'm so tired
I can't do this
Why do I have to do this?

Breathing is not hard
I can breathe forever
But I'm so tired
Of not being alive

Warning: Graphic Images Inside

So...self-injury has been part of my life now for 7 years. Which is kind of a long time. And it's come to the point where I'm starting to get...creative. Essentially I'm blurring the line between art and self-harm and that's...probably a bad thing?

For the Fifth Time

For the lack of burning fire
For the fear that grips so well
For the quenching of desire
For the living that is hell

For the plan that's only "safe"
For the river deep and cold
For the care that starts to chafe
For the plans both dark and bold

For the agony that's life
For the peace that lives in death
For the lack of bitter strife
For the final draw of breath

for all these I now refuse
for all these I cease to live
for all these my choice is made
for all these I leave this life

So like. I got fantastic news last week. Like, totally awesome. Literal dreams coming true.

Last night I wanted to kill myself.

I am well aware that mental illness doesn’t rely on externals, but I still feel guilty for being suicidal at a time when everything is going right.

Fear

I don’t think I’ve realized how much fear I experience. Like, I knew there was the fear of getting better, and that I’m not the only one who experiences that. But while that is a thing, it’s not a big deal to me because I’ve pretty much given up on the concept of getting better anyway.

But I’ve been talking over an idea with a friend that is a huge change for me, and I am fucking terrified. Like, I throw around grandiose ideas probably every other day, and they’re fun precisely because they’d be awesome but they’re never going to happen. But this is something that could happen, could happen soon, a major change in my life, and it’s enlightening just how very scared I am. Apparently for all my talk of needing purpose and change and fulfillment I become a frightened child at the idea I might get those things. It makes me wonder how many other potentially awesome things I’ve been close to and not done because I scared myself out of it without realizing it.

And it’s hard, because not two hours after finishing that conversation, my head starts up with suicidal thoughts, and I start worrying. Because I barely make it through a lot of really easy days in the life I have now. The change I’m proposing has the potential to be super exciting and awesome but it’s not going to be easy mode like now.

And I don’t know what to do. Continuing like I am now isn’t impossible, but it’s not what I want. I got what I wished for (the freedom to be a lazy ass and play video games all day) and found out how much it sucks. And maybe it just sucks because the culture we have here pounds it into us over and over that unless we’re working a job and contributing in some tangible way to society, we’re worthless. Honestly, I think that’s a huge part of it. Because there was a time I was just fine sitting on my ass playing video games all day, but it was a time when that wasn’t the only thing in my life. I was a spouse, and a parent (which tbh sucked and I don’t miss at ALL), and a friend. I had more than one friend! More than two! But I don’t have that anymore.

And I know that that isolation drives me further toward depression, just as depression in its turn drives me further into isolation. It’s a vicious cycle that I don’t know how to break, and that most days I’m just too drained to even try. And I’m not sure the awesome idea will help with that, at all. In fact, it might make the isolation even worse.

The bottom line is that I don’t have a guideline. I don’t know what’s best or right for me. I don’t even know what I want, and I probably wouldn’t be able to accomplish it even if I did know.

Honestly, it’s an interesting idea, even if it’s terrifying. But maybe it’s not the right idea for me, right now.

And I’ve no idea if that’s true, or if I’m just too terrified to change.

Had a fantastic time with a fantastic friend and her presumably fantastic boyfriend.

And it’s time to get super depressed. This happens nearly every time I have a good time, and I’m starting to wonder. Is it because subconsciously I’m punishing myself for having fun? Is it that it’s happened so often it’s become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or is it maybe just my normal depression, but it seems worse because of the contrast with a brief brush with normalcy?

I was very prepared to kill myself this evening. I had everything planned out very carefully. This was no spur of the moment affair. I knew I couldn’t swallow pills, so I spent an hour grinding them very very fine, last night.

So tonight, I got my yoghurt, a big old container. I spooned a healthy amount into a bowl, as much as I thought I could eat in one sitting. Then I sprinkled in the crushed pill powder and stirred it up very well, took a bite…and gagged. It was too bitter, and I cursed myself nine ways to hell. I couldn’t add more, because I wouldn’t have been able to eat it all, and I don’t think even the whole container of yoghurt would have drowned out the bitter taste. And now that the powder was mixed in I couldn’t do anything else with it.

I’m obviously still alive. I had other ideas, but they weren’t great. And I’m careful. I’ve been trying to kill myself for two years now, and I’m still alive, because I don’t choose the most lethal methods. See, I want to die, but I don’t want to live disabled more than depression already hobbles me. It took me over a year to make good on my threat of jumping off a bridge because while it had a better chance of killing me than anything else I’d tried, I was well aware failure could leave me paralyzed, as indeed it almost did. I came very, very close to losing the use of my legs.

That’s why I chose the pills instead of the next option down on my list, which was hanging. The pills would probably have killed me, but if not, there would be no lasting side effects. If I manage to botch hanging myself, I could come away with brain damage. So now I have to come up with something else that will work, hopefully before I get too desperate to think straight and jump off something that doesn’t have water at the bottom. I’d rather die, but if I’m going to live, I’d like to be whole. After all, it’s hard to commit suicide when you’re paralyzed.

I heard that once upon a time the most common form of suicide in England was turning on the gas in the oven and sticking your head in. So they passed laws and did something to where you couldn’t really kill yourself that way anymore, and suicide rates plummeted. It seems that you can literally inconvenience people out of suicide.

I just said I was at the lowest point I could be without being in the process of committing suicide, and that is true. But you know why I’m not in that process? Because my chosen and on-hand method involves overdosing on some meds. I have the meds. I even crushed them because a) I can’t swallow more than a couple pills without throwing up and b) they’re extended release and I wanted them to hit all at once. I have pudding and yoghurt to put them in. I have alcohol to exacerbate the effects. I have everything I need to kill myself right now, this moment. Yet I haven’t. Why?

Because the meds would kill me, sure. But in the meantime I’d get the runs and shit myself, and I just really don’t feel like doing that right now.

Sometimes it’s the little things.

Oh look, I’ve reached that point.

What point? you ask.

The lowest point I can possibly be without being actively involved in the act of murdering myself.

So, you know, if you don’t see me again, I passed that point.

Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.

Putting aside that fourteen years of depression out of twenty-six are hardly temporary, let’s look at that. Don’t we usually want permanent solutions to our problems? Like my cats chewing my ethernet cable is a problem. A permanent solution to that problem kind of seems like something I’d want!

So yeah. Bring on the permanent solutions to life-crippling problems.

I go to all the trouble of making a new gmail address to call a suicide hotline from (cuz I am wary of letting anyone get a hold of my actual number in case they called the cops or something) and it doesn’t even ring. All I get is fucking soothing hold music.

I predict either a mental hospital, a normal hospital, or a grave in my near future. Or maybe all three, though the grave would obviously come last.

I remember the last time I was truly happy. It was just over a couple of years ago, and I remember saying to my best friend, “I am so happy. Life doesn’t get better than this. But it won’t last forever. I’m tempted to kill myself because life can only go downhill from here.” I wish I had, because life since then has been…not good.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my birthday, and that sucks. Last year on my birthday I was just getting out of the hospital after a couple weeks…suicide attempt number I’ve-lost-track. It was a little more serious than some other tries, since I used an actual lethal method. But then I wussed out and took myself to the hospital or something, at this point I honestly don’t remember.

But the reason this birthday sucks is that between this birthday and last birthday, and that birthday and the one before…I’ve done absolutely nothing with my life. I’ve gone backwards. I flunked a semester of college and had to quit my job because I’m a shit worker.

Most importantly, I’ve been depressed. Steadily, without pause, for far longer than two years. And I don’t expect that I will ever not be depressed.

The reason this birthday sucks is that I should not be here. I should have allowed one of my many suicide attempts to work, and if none of them did, tried harder. I’m just wasting my life. Literally the only benefit I’m providing to the world is lowering my roommate’s rent payment. Otherwise, I’m just selfishly sucking resources. Maybe if I was happy and content, I would be fine with selfish sucking resources. But I’m not, so it seems rather pointless.

So here’s my promise, my vow, my determination: I will not see another birthday. No more. I refuse.

I wonder how many of those important things that make life worth living I'll lose before I decide it's enough?

The question is ridiculous, of course. For one, no matter what I think or decide about things, I don't get to decide what I lose. For another, well, I can't think of any I have left.

There are important things in my life still. They just aren't of the variety that makes opening my eyes in the morning something to look forward to rather than dread.

My grandma just died, and given how close they were, I doubt my grandpa is far behind. In the midst of that grief, I've wondered whether it would be better to wait and not add to it, or let my family grieve all at once.

That idea too is ridiculous, because if I cared about my family's grief I would not be thinking of ending my life. Or at least, if I cared about their grief more than I cared about my own.

I just spent a minute or so gazing down at the xacto knife in front of me. It's sitting out and not put away because I've been thinking about using it.

A few months ago I carved the word "futile" into my arm. You can still see "TILE," because the scars themselves mock me.

Since that time I have not been without cause or means to cut again, nor even without desire. Yet my skin remains unblemished.

Part of me longs to bleed again, and perhaps I shall. The problem is that it won't help, not now, not anymore, not enough.

Once upon a time, it did help. Once upon a time, it was all I needed to fight the darkness, though like all things that fight the darkness, it did not come without a price.

But, again like all things that fight the darkness, it no longer makes enough difference to justify its use. Which does not mean that I will not use it, only that using it will bring relief only barely past the time I put the knife back down.

The blade was born of darkness, yes, but also fire and passion and the desire to live and breathe and feel, and most of all, to fight. There is no passion to be found in my life, no fire, no desire.

The only thing that keeps me here, I think, is that lack of desire. If I do not desire to live, well, I do not desire to die either, or at least, not enough to do anything about it.

I have lost so much, but I do not grieve. I do not feel enough for that.

Yet even in the midst of emptiness, I continue to breathe. And continue to breathe I will, until, at last one day, I don't.

Exactly why am I still alive?

That's a question I've been asking myself quite a bit over the last few months, actually. I haven't been able to come up with a good answer until really just now. I have managed to keep myself out of a mental hospital since April, which honestly, is pretty good for me. That's just about exactly 6 months. That's the longest I've been unhospitalized since I started being hospitalized last January, given that between last January (2014) and April (2015) I was hospitalized 15 times. That doesn't count the two different crisis centers I visited several times last spring, either. My point is, that by that one objective measure, I'm really doing quite well.

The problem, of course, is that I'm not. I did better for a bit after I jumped off that bridge. But almost as soon as I came home from my parents' house I started to crash. Or a bit before that, to be honest. In some ways, I came home so that I could crash. And I did. Hard. I made suicide plans and was not very far at all from implementing them. I only held off because I was persuaded to try therapy again. So I did. And it's not that it was useless, it's just that it didn't help. To be more accurate, I met with the new therapist three times, then he went on vacation for three weeks and by the time he came back, the government had fucked up my insurance again and he's no longer covered. I could fix it, of course. The problem is I don't care.

Which brings me back to the title of this post. Exactly why am I still alive? Because I don't care enough not to be. I was reading a book tonight, with a suicidal main character. Partway through I paused to consider that maybe that might not be the best reading material, but then I shrugged. Maybe the book would trigger something within me, maybe it would push me over the edge and back into that freefall that led to fifteen hospitalizations in sixteen months. Maybe it wouldn't, but the point is that I didn't particularly care either way. I still don't, so if it pushed me, it was just enough to realize why nothing else has pushed me over the brink yet. You see, the suicidal character in my book had will. He had determination. He had a large chunk of guilt he was trying desperately to relieve by paying the ultimate price. He had a reason to die. He was utterly and completely convinced that his death would be the best thing not only for him but for everyone else, as well.

I don't have those things. In the past, perhaps. It certainly took an iron will to step over the railing of that bridge. And then to wade out of the river once I realized it hadn't worked, instead of just staying there forever, which was my first choice. I definitely had the determination to stop feeling like I was feeling, even if it meant (and I was convinced it meant, had to mean) my death. And I was utterly and completely convinced that death would be the best thing for me. Only one of those things is true now. I still know that death is the only thing for me. There is nothing else, no hope, despite what I may have written on Tumblr. But I have no will, no determination. Certainly no guilt that would be alleviated by dying. I have nothing at all, and that is the problem.

You see, I know I'm not getting better, will never get better. I've accepted that, as difficult as it is. The problem is that I'm not getting worse at the moment, either. Why is that a problem? Because while I'm in this stagnant mindset, I do nothing. I dislike doing nothing. I was going to say I hate doing nothing, but then I stopped and realized I don't feel strongly enough about anything to justify a word like hate. I am too depressed to make me able to do anything, and that includes killing myself. So I haven't tried, not in six months. It's only been about three months since I stopped caring, and sometimes I muster up enough energy to wonder why that is, before deciding it doesn't matter anyway.

Exactly why am I still alive? Eh. Who cares.