This blog was never going to be a blog solely about depression. I want to write about topics I love, that I’m interested in, opinions I have, maybe even make an attempt at writing fiction, something I’ve always wanted to do. But right now, in this current state of being startlingly aware that the thoughts I’ve had on and off throughout my life is depression, I need to write about that.
You say my eyes are getting too dark now
But boy, you ain’t ever seen my mind
Paramore, Rose-Coloured Boy
On the days the depressions is bad, I want to kill myself. On the days when the depression is lurking in the background, I want to kill myself.
I have to be brutally honest in my admission that I frequently fantasise about committing suicide. I have composed a list of ways I would do it, a list of pros and cons for each one, where I would do them, what instruments I’d use, where I’d get them from. For example, I would drink plenty of water to plump up my veins before cutting up both my arms. It would be the right arm I’d cut first; being right-handed, I would need to make sure my weaker left hand would have the maximum of its own capacity at its disposal for the task. Even at my lowest, I am organised.
Like the millennial I am, I turn to Google (other search engines are available) to explore more ways I could off myself. Bang on cue, The Samaritans helpline pops up at the top of the screen. Help and guidance is exactly what I need right now but that is neither the help or guidance I am looking for. There are multiple articles and blogs dedicated to persuading you from committing the act. I mean I appreciate the sentiment, people I don’t know, but you’re not really helping with the logistics to pull this off.
Because that’s the thing: If I ever do put the plan in motion for me to end my own life, it needs to be perfect. Any and all notes need to be written before and read after my death. Final meetings with those I love and trust the most have to convey my feelings for each person, but not so explicitly that they will worry or suspect. Never say goodbye. I know what needs to be done. I want no failed attempts.
Sometimes I wonder what will happen after I die. What would the funeral be like? Who would attend? Would anyone bar my family feel any genuine pain or loss? Would I be able to see, to know, the aftermath? What happens to me? I don’t even know what I want there to be after death. Something good, I know that. Something without pain, without judgement, something peaceful, where I don’t and can’t worry about anything because what could there possibly be to worry about? I want death to be the opposite of life.
But I want to be remembered. I want people to think of me, regardless of what feeling they might conjure up. I just want to exist in other’s minds and be thought of. I don’t want to be forgotten, like I feel when I am breathing. I want people to care.
I have told a few people of my suicidal tendencies, but I know they think they are merely thoughts, something I would never go through with. The competitive, feisty, spiteful part of me wants to do it just to prove them all wrong.
When I am in that state of pure depression, the option of suicide ironically keeps me going. I could take myself to a quiet area in my workplace and slice my own throat with a knife. I could drive my car towards the cliff edge and put my foot on the accelerator, crashing into the rocks below. I could pitch myself off the bridge into a calm area of water, so flat and smooth it resembles a pane of glass, making sure to land on my head so as to snap the neck and sever the spinal cord. The number of possibilities available to me soothes me.
In my fascination with suicide, I feel drawn towards Sylvia Plath. I bought The Bell Jar, the novel she wrote based on her first suicide attempt, a while ago, but I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to read it. I am not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s for fear it’ll solidify my thoughts on my own death. Maybe it’s for fear it’ll make me think more clearly about my own life. Or it might send me to the darkest place I’ll ever go. Or make me question whether suicide is the right choice. In the blackness, I want suicide to be the only choice.
I wish to meet Sylvia Plath. I want to talk to her, ask her questions, look at her, see what makes her tick, what makes her laugh, what makes her cry, her opinions, her thoughts, her fears. I want to know if I am in any way similar to her, if I could go through with it? Am I brave like her?
Because suicide takes courage.
A misconception regarding suicide is that people who do it are cowards, choosing the easy way out, are selfish for leaving their loved ones mourning. This is simply not true. When ideas start cementing themselves into my head and I find myself actively looking for places I could hang myself in peace or searching for drugs online that will render me unconscious as I slowly slip away, the reality of the act sets in. To kill myself would be, for me, the ultimate act of bravery. We suicidal people are just as scared of death as non-suicidal people. It’s just the thought of living is a greater fear.
For me to want to live, I need happiness. I do not feel this. It passes beneath the surface from time to time but it’s never the pure, raw emotion I imagine joy to be. I’m unsure if I’ve ever clearly felt this but I yearn for it. I don’t even know what will make me happy but at this point in my life, it seems a concept so far away that it is unlikely ever to materialise.
On the days the depression is only lurking in the background, I want to live. On the days the depression is bad, I want to live. But there needs to be a change because living this life does not seem worth it.