Being Suicidal

Have you ever tried to kill yourself? Not that I am suggesting, but you know, like a passing thought. I mean, has it ever crossed your mind? The idea of killing yourself, because if it did, and if you did try to kill yourself, you’d be called being suicidal. They have a name for this in psychology, I can’t quite remember. It’s a funny name, some sort of psychiatric name for hopelessness. They say it’s out of depression or I don’t know may be because you have been sitting around doing nothing, except for putting on weight.

 

All right, then, what would you use?  An Italian stiletto to slice your wrist or a jump from the roof, perhaps, or sleeping pills? Yeah! Sleeping pills that will put you to sleep forever, but there is every chance of you not dying at all, and you might end up waking up convulsing in a hospital room surrounded by flowers and friends and relatives who are looking at you with over-eager eyes but are really fuming inside, for you have ruined their other wise fine day. Gosh! That’s embarrassing. You might as well have died. You see, death must be grand. Grandeur never ceases to amaze people. We plan for possibly everything that we can, except for the most certain thing in our life.

 

The fastest way is to strangulate yourself, but that will take lot of set-up time, a rope, a chair, hangman’s noose, and something to hang it to. After all that you are not even sure whether you are goanna get it right. That’s hard work, I say. And I have always believed, ‘why work hard for something you are not getting paid for,’ and besides many celebrities have hanged themselves to death so it’s pretty boring. Isn’t it?

 

I am not depressed, I suppose; or perhaps I am and I just don’t know it yet. I guess I must be really depressed to write something like that. I don’t know. I haven’t proofread it yet, and I am not going to read it again. No, not this piece, not this time. But it sure though looks like a wretched piece of shit, the way its going. It certainly isn’t what I sat down to write. I wanted to write a joke, something funny. This, however, looks pitiful, like a guy whose life is spent heartbroken or in contemptuous desolation. Desolation! Yeah, that’s the word.  It means bleak and empty. Apposite, I guess. Honestly, I don’t have a fucking clue what I am writing. But I am writing all the same. It’s frustrating. I mean, it’s like you go into the bathroom to brush your teeth and end up cleaning the wash basin with toothpaste. Sometimes I feel I am not fun anymore, like an old whore who falls asleep half way through sex.

 

Have you ever read a bare act or statute? When they amend it they add a proviso to it. I like the way it begins, ‘notwithstanding anything contained in this act,’ it means whatever you’ve read so far can go to hell, for what you are going to read will over-rule everything. I wish life was like that, where you can amend things and over-rule everything.

 

Animals never kill themselves. It’s the species with smarter brains that do. That brings me back to the topic of killing myself. Oh! Don’t worry. I am not going to kill myself, I wasn’t going to; it’s just a thought. I am sorry if I scared you. I am just venting. A shrink once told me, ‘you have to vent, let go,’ he said, ‘ take a deep breath and now hold on to it . . . keep holding on to it. Do you feel suffocated?’

I gave him a sluggish nod. ‘Now let go,’ he said, ‘do you feel relaxed?’ of course I do you fucking nut job, my lungs have oxygen now. But I got the point. I need to let go. I have found a good way, I say.  Just write . . . anything that comes to my mind, no matter how fucking useless that is, for I can’t be taking it out on people. When I am displeased I shouldn’t be displeasing others. It’s easy to take it out on people, say few harsh words. Sure, if I condemn others it will relieve my feelings, but what will I get out of it. A hollow sense of pride, a feeling that I can be just as cruel; and what have I given, a boiled sense of resentment, hurt, pain and possibly no respect left for me either. Oh! Enough for now. Eh? Okay, let’s have a vote: reasons to kill myself?  Do you really think I am goanna give up my life just because I have been feeling low? Naah! Not really. I think I am goanna stick to reasons to live and that’s aplenty. Like this jaded post, a reason to be pissed off. Let’s find a reason to be happy. A way not to hate but a way how to love.

 

 

 

-For a dear friend