Panromantic bisexual, music geek/nerd/obsessed, loves to play instruments, i can play 6, ive been through a lot, so i know what a lot of you feel.
Im ALWAYS here to help you; just message me and i'll do my best to help you. my ask box is always open. i love you.
If you are feeling suicidal, depressed, anxious, or anything like that, please dont hesitate to call 1-800-273-8255 (188-273-TALK. they can help you. Help is available.
You’re in luck
There’s no painless way to kill yourself.
Believe me, honey, I know; I’ve looked. When the police check browser histories of kids that have died by bleach or bullet or pills or tracks, it always shows up.
“How do I kill myself?”
“How to die without pain”
So many variations typed into Google’s search engine, often with twenty thousand hits offering different solutions. Some that are bullshit saying that if you drink too much water, you’ll poison yourself and die easily. Others say sleeping pills; some say a one-step journey off a bridge. All of them; bullshit.
No matter what you do to try and go peacefully, you’re committing the most heinous, terrible, painful act on yourself and your family. There is no death without pain. There is no such thing as a painless suicide.
Studies have shown that boys tend to go for a quick escape with minimal waiting. There is no chance to be saved. Once you get to the point where you’ve got a gun in your backpack, you think you’re beyond saving anyways. A bullet through the temple or the mouth or forehead is easy and fast, but messy. Train tracks are doable too; you just lie there, waiting for a wheel to crush the life from your skull at a hundred miles an hour.
Girls are different.
Girls slowly starve themselves. Girls buy pills and debate, writing letter after letter of apologies for their parents, their friends. They pick out the outfit they want to be buried in and then they leave a message somewhere, with someone. Whether it’s a girl or a boy or any other piece of the gender spectrum, it doesn’t make a difference. A hand that takes its own life is sexless. It is as non-binary as the horror felt by every person who has lost someone to suicide.
But deep down, maybe they wanted to be saved. Maybe when people say “I wish I could have saved them,” they should realize that they could have.
I think everyone wants to be saved. In the last few seconds before the lights go out forever, I think every soul wants to be saved. Whether it’s the split second after the trigger has been pulled or right after you’ve swallowed the bottle of pills and washed them down with bleach, the human body tries to fight it off. Blood rushes to your wounds, your stomach tries to pump itself, and everything for a moment is still. There’s stillness and a pulsing need.
A police officer looks down at your corpse and shakes his head. People stand around your casket, open or closed depending on your method of ending yourself. Soft murmurs of “he/she was so young,” and “I only wish I’d have known! I could have helped.” And maybe that’s what you wanted all along. Maybe you wanted to be selfish for once in your life. For all the shitty people in your life to realize that no, you weren’t okay. That your feelings had consequences, that their actions held weight and that they hurt.
But what good does that knowledge do you in death?
You can’t come back into the world once you’re gone. No, your name won’t live forever or be praised and admired. It will be spoken in soft, tear-filled whispers by your parents and friends. Your legacy forever tainted by the hand that dealt your final blow. You can’t find peace in death. You don’t know what lies on the other side, if you believe in such a thing. Why end something when it could be over forever? Would you take a chance on faith and end it, believing that a god will save you? Believing you will be reborn? What if you’re wrong? What if after all your pain and suffering and heartache, there is nothing? Nothing but inky blackness, or less than that. What if your consciousness just goes “poof” in your final breath? What if there is nothing?
Would you still buy the pills/gun/train schedule/bleach?
It sounds cliché, I know, but it. Gets. Better.
When you believe you have hit the bottom, there is literally nowhere else to go but up. If things can’t get worse, then logically, they will get better.
I probably look like I’m quoting some self-help book, but honestly, those things have some good stuff in them about loving yourself and losing yourself and finding freedom in words. I guess bi-weekly therapy helps too. When you get to listen to someone talking about things going upwards every other week, it eventually starts to sink in. Maybe there’s a grain of truth in that. Otherwise, why do all the shrinks say it?
So, here I am, writing this in the middle of one of my more down moods, and why? I doubt I’ll publish it in a newspaper or anything. Maybe I’ll put it on my blog. My point is that I call myself a survivor with a heavy heart. Not because I didn’t succeed in ending my life on November 19th, 2013, but because I did succeed in letting myself get to the point where I couldn’t find a bright side.
I am a survivor, fine. I’ve etched this part of my history into my life and it has made me who I am today. Whether that’s a good or a bad thing remains to be seen as I don’t know if I believe the whole “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” saying. But the point is that I don’t think anyone should have to be a suicide survivor. Because no one should be allowed to get to that point in their lives where they can’t find anywhere else to go but into the abyss.
I think every soul wants and deserves to be saved, whether they know it or not. God knows that I did, and now here I am. Still alive, still writing, still trying to do something with my life. I am a survivor.