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?"

My Apologies

- I'm sorry you had to take five seconds out of your day to read a Facebook post telling you I'm sad

- I'm sorry that made you sad for five whole seconds

- I'm sorry your fingers stutter on the keyboard because you don't know what to say when all you have to say is "I love you" but all you say is nothing

- I'm sorry I imagine belts and nooses, not kittens, when you say "hang in there"

- I'm sorry my accumulated years of pain became too much for you after a few months or less

- I'm sorry for not seeking help, for some reason I thought that's why I was talking to you

- I'm sorry I made you cry with that poem I wrote; I shed tears of a more sanguine hue while writing it, but sure let's talk about you

- I'm sorry your attempts to cheer me up make you feel like a failure

- I'm sorry for resisting your efforts to make me feel like a failure so you could feel better

- I'm sorry for working really hard to be my own genuine self, I am obviously doing it just to hurt you

- I'm sorry my presence makes you feel uncomfortable while I'm worrying I'll be shot this time as I attempt to pee

- I'm sorry I don't fit in your boxes, because after all all your other children grew up to become who you wanted them to be

- I'm sorry it hurts you when I want to die, your pain is obviously far more important than my own

- I'm sorry I unfollowed you on Facebook, I didn't realize you wanted me to pick fights on your posts full of vitriol and lies about people like me

- I'm sorry I keep talking to you; I've tried to stop but this thing called love or something keeps getting in the way

- I'm sorry I'm learning to be happy without Jesus

- I'm sorry you were wrong

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

Demons Run

Demons run
When a good man goes to war

Well then

Start running
I am going to war
I will fight

I will fight you,
Depression.
Even when you leave me
No weapons I can lift
I will fight tooth and nail
And claw and fucking
Blade, if that
Is what it takes

I will fight you,
Suicide.
I will live
And breathe
Yes, and learn
To do even more
You are the easiest
And the hardest
To fight
Because just being
Is a middle finger to you
But just being
Is so, so hard

But I will
I will fight
I will go to war

And
I
Will
Win

So start running

Choices

I can't get my best friend's point out of my head. I'm not very good at killing myself, as evidenced by the fact that I'm still alive. And at this point in my life, it's starting to cost me things that I really want. Working with my therapist. Transitioning. Being a friend to my best friend. Getting to know my new friend. Hanging out with my old friend. So. I think at this point...I should stop.

"That's easy to say," I thought to myself. "Not so easy to do." But the truth is it isn't easy to say, either. I love having options. Like, my therapist asked me why I smuggled razor blades into the hospital last time, when I took myself there. And the answer was that I refuse to be without choice. But. It was my choice to go to the hospital. Why did I think I needed more choices? If I commit to therapy with him, it will be my choice. If I make a promise to my best friend, it will be my choice. If I make a promise to MYSELF, it will be my choice. What I really seem to want is the ability to have things both ways...safety that's not really safe, commitments that won't hold me, promises that I can wiggle out of. That's a child's way of looking at the world (or a lawyer's, I guess). I am an adult, and don't you think it's about time I put away childish things?

But it won't be easy. At this point, the option, the idea of suicide has been in my head for...almost ten years. It hasn't always been a valid option; there have been lots of times since then that I wouldn't have tried to kill myself for any reason at all. But I could have. It was there. It was my option, my decision, my choice. Always. Getting myself to where it isn't always hanging in the back of my mind will be difficult, to say the least. I mentioned this way of always having a way out of every promise is childish, and it is. But I haven't learned yet how to be an adult about it. I don't know HOW to be an adult without it. What does that look like? How does it feel?

I used words like "bind" and "cage" and "imprison" when I wrote that poem the other day about those promises. And I don't like feeling caged or imprisoned. Who does? But, really, we all bind ourselves in little ways every day. And I would much rather be bound by my own word than an external power.

I told my therapist that I can do this. I can make this commitment, and I can keep it. It's never been a question of ability, though I may have told myself a time or two it was. It's a question of desire, of whether I want to do it or not, even when it's hard, even when I would rather give up, even when I doubt whether anything will ever change, ever get better, ever seem like something more than pointless. I used to be bound by my word, and I didn't think it a hardship then. No. I was proud of it. I used to say that I had never lied to someone who was trying to help me, and it used to be true. It's not true anymore. I can't make it retroactively true. But I can make sure I'm honest from here on out, that if I make a promise, I will keep it.

So really only one question remains: will I commit, or won't I? Will I commit to therapy, to change, to getting better even if I don't feel like I'm getting better...or never do? To learning to live in this world, in my body, in my head, instead of constantly trying to leave?

Will I commit to staying alive to do the things I want to do anyway? Put that way, it seems pretty obvious.

Promises

You cannot lock me

Safe into a cage

Of my own words

My word is strong

Yes, and I will keep it

But I am human

And other things

Are stronger

My word is not law

It is not inviolate

It, like me, can break

It, like me, will break

It, like me, is broken

I have screamed

And yelled, and raged

That other people

Cannot keep me here 

And yet the last few days

I linger here for them

I don't want to cause pain

But what about mine?

I gave my word

That I would live

But I can take it back

I will take it back

I will not be bound

Not even by me

I must be free

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.

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.