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It’s All About Effort

At what age is it socially acceptable to end your life?

It seems to me that it’d be somewhere between the ages of 30 and 40. You’ve made it through your twenties, you tried hard, you’ve reached the point of ‘adulthood’ that everyone else seemed to have reached with ease, and you still spend all your time wallowing in sadness from not having viable employment skills or lasting relationships of any kind. You burned your bridges for friends years ago after they got tired of having to listen to you ‘whine’ about how bad you feel, your parents want nothing to do with you because you’re becoming an embarrassment to them and anything romantically never lasts because you ‘don’t try hard enough’. The job market is a crushing joke, school is out of the question purely from an economic standpoint and you’ve got nothing left on the table except for becoming that friend who ‘will only sleep on your couch for like, two weeks, I swear to god, Brian.”

Life becomes a ‘choose your own adventure’ of suicide. Unsure which path to take, which page turn will eventually lead you down the road of your own demise, and both excited yet afraid, because it’s totally natural to feel both. In fact, it gets to the point where planning the end of your own life is actually a positive thing, because it means you’re doing something every day! You’re working towards an actual achievable goal! All these external factors you have no control over are forcing your hand to this decision. It’s not fair, but it’s the way it is. You get creative with the possible, seemingly endless ways to end yourself. You’re starting to feel more intellectually stimulated than you have in years. It’s so refreshing to feel like what you’re doing matters. You choose your method, get your supplies together and then sit down and look at everything and realize…

“Hey…I did something. I DID something!”

You’re 34, and things aren’t looking great, your prospects are shit and you feel so utterly alone, and society may have given up but you DID something. That took effort. Effort that can be applied to something else with the same passion you had for this. The way I see it, if I can do something like this, something that takes a lot of time and thought and preparation, then maybe I CAN do something else. Maybe I can work towards getting my work made, get people to care, fix my life and make things worth being around for. I could get married, I could get my writing published and maybe I could even help others who have been in a similar position.

And if that doesn’t work, at least I know in the back of my mind that I COULD kill myself. It’s nice to know you have some semblance of control in your life.

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I Write Suicide Notes

I’ve written a lot of suicide notes in my life.

It’s a healthy thing, honestly, as it allows you to write down what you feel bad about, look at it objectively, and realize what exactly your problems are at that time; especially if these things are making you consider the idea of suicide. I mostly did this as a teenager and in my early twenties. It only stopped a few years ago when, at complete and total rock bottom, I actually went to write a real suicide note and, upon realizing I’d only written “I can’t do this anymore” on a post it note that I’d pinned to my shirt while standing on the roof of my apartment building, discovered that even if I ever did intend to end my life I still wouldn’t talk to anyone even from beyond the grave. That was sort of an eye opening experience. Being so walled off that even your actual suicide note is vague. I think maybe part of it was because all the others I knew nobody would ever read, but I feel that there has to be something more to that.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it. There will probably never be a time in my life when I don’t want to kill myself. As happy as I can be for certain things, like having my girlfriend and the eventual possibility of raising a family or being a published author, in the end that feeling never really goes away completely. I don’t write suicide notes really anymore. Now I just write in this blog. I suppose that could be viewed as a positive step up. But there’s nothing really positive in life. Life is inherently meaningless, and we created ‘purpose’ as a way to trick ourselves into believing that we exist for a reason, that we aren’t here for no particular reason, because we can’t stand the idea that our entire reason for being doesn’t matter. But…that’s the thing to keep in mind, I guess. If life is inherently pointless and meaningless, and has no reason, then we can create whatever reason we want. Even something as simple as ‘Well, I like the smell of this teabag, and if I were dead, I’d miss it’. It doesn’t even have to be a big reason.

As a little girl, despite how much I wanted to die, I also really liked reading and my dogs, and so I knew I wanted to continue to like those things and I couldn’t do those if I were dead. Maybe that’s what life is. A series of sort of reasons to not kill yourself.

What’s the meaning to life?

Whatever the fuck you want it to be.

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Treading Water

I’ve muddied the waters of my consciousness with insecurities and delusions, anxieties and intrusions, turning the once clear crystal blue lakes of my mind into dark brown sludge that no positive imagery can wade through. Whatever once lived in these fresh water feelings have long since drowned and floated to the surface; happiness is a bait we all take, never realizing on the other end is misery, masking itself as something else until it’s too late.

I once marveled at the heat that radiated from the fireplace, warming my hands like magic. Everything was magic. I once ran through grass in rain, laughter shrill and strained; nothing made sense at a time, and that was what made it fun, nothing makes sense now and that’s what makes me pained. I’ve drowned my good memories, grabbed them by the roots of their hair and held them under for too long, until the bubbles stop coming. I cannot have good thoughts, they take up too much space. I have too many demons to face, I need the room for negativity and disgrace.

A rowboat? No. An entire boat. That’s what it’d take to get through this moat. To sail swiftly through these troubled waters, these thrashing waves of sadness, these crashing waves, the madness. I’d need a crew, a shipmate or two, to fix the mess that I’ve created. To haul out from this ocean all the dead noise, all the forgotten years. Everything I drowned, I tossed in carelessly without a thought; who knew it couldn’t swim. That’s not my fault. We’ll spend the days harpooning every last remaining feeling, every emotion, until they’re hunted to extinction. We’ll get into the diving bell, and sink on through this hell, fight our way through the darkest depths and then the cycle can start anew. Better thoughts. Brighter thoughts

A better me for the better you.