Suicide

Things come across stronger when they come from an honest place.  To put myself in this passionate place about suicide, I removed the optimism filter that reflects arbitrary negative thoughts and instead brings the silver lining into focus.  I let any and all the horrible thoughts infest my brain like maggots on a road side carcass.  Gnawing their way though rotting and bruised flesh; they would start at the eyes and feast their way through the softer tissues of the brain. 

 I let this go on for a few minutes, long enough to light a fire and heat the air, but not strong enough to burn me alive like those crazy fully engulfed protesting monk pictures.  Any place I could find a glimpse of negativity I welcomed it with open suicidal arms.  I sat imagining methods for success on a suicide attempt; a technique that would surely get the job done, no second chances.  I thought about the suicide note I would leave or if I would even bother.  The pain it would cause, what would change, and any feelings I’d experience.

Before my mother calls me crying and begging me not to off myself, let me preface this by saying I am not suicidal at the moment.  However, unlike the hundreds of “failed” attempts, if I did choose to take this route, I have the balls and the steady hand to get it right.  Even if a suicidal thought crosses the average citizens’ mind, most people lack the general conviction to go through with it.  People swallow handfuls of pills and immediately confess their deed to the 911 operator in a panic.  In my opinion, these people want attention, not death.  Everyone knows if you’re trying to end your miserable life by jumping off a bridge, you don’t land feet first.  The feet first approach often ends with bedside flowers at the hospital, visits from loved ones, and counseling for your over dramatic, attention craving actions.  Side note for all you bridge jumpers: this is such a haphazard and ultimately rudimentary way to go, rethink it. 

I’ve had a number of suicidal thoughts in my life, but they are quickly overrun by my logical and rational mind.  My suicidal fantasies never begin with me crying in the dark over a cheating ex-girlfriend, or general unhappiness.  They are usually born mainly out of curiosity.  Just a casual “I wonder what would happen if I just punched it and drove face first into this semi.”  I’m not in a constant battle with myself trying to prevent it, it’s there if I wanted it; I just choose to be alive and write shitty articles instead.

Some people actually do that shit.  Shaky hands as he takes that last gulp straight from the bottle of Jim Beam.  A few drops run down the side of his mouth into the stream of already present tears and they fall onto his gas station- hotdog stained t-shirt.  He stumbles to his dresser with tear and alcohol distorted vision and grasps for his pistol.  The only time he’s ever actually fired it was at the shooting range with his recently deceased father.   His cheating wife is out with her new fling getting drunk and hornier by the minute.  …No, let’s make him the cheater…. His wife sits in a rocking chair at her mother’s house holding his 1 year old daughter.  Just a few weeks ago they were a smiling, happy family.  Then he decided to bring his female co-worker home while his wife was out.  She wasn’t out long enough.  Now he’s pressing the barrel of this Desert Eagle to the base of his chin in an empty dark house.  His hands shake violently as if they already know the outcome.  Two letters sit in front of him; one to his wife expressing the deepest and most sincere apology that pen and paper can create, and the other addressed to his daughter at when she turns 18.  A neatly torn piece of paper with indiscriminant blurs signifying old tear drop landing zones.  One line: “I apologize for any pain my absence has caused over these 18 years, I loved you.” BANG.

He’d be found by his wife two nights later.  Bits of scull and chunks of hair cover the dried blood background.  This will be the pervading memory that haunts his wife 17 years later when she delivers the message to her daughter.

See suicide sounds way less attractive when you look at it like that.  But suicide isn’t uncommon, it happens.  There’s a forest in Japan, AokigaharaForest that sits at the base of Mt. Fuji where about 100 people a year commit suicide.  In 2010 there were more US Military suicide deaths than combat deaths in the midst of the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts.  I look at it two ways.  First I think of suicide as the easy way out; cowards who can’t handle the normal daily troubles of life.  Then I think about how bad life would have to be before I got to this point.  How much has to go wrong and how bad are these people suffering before they make the decision to bleed out in the bath tub.  I also recognize the conviction it probably takes go through with such a permanent decision.  It freaks me out and intrigues me all at once.

I’m sure you’re all curious as of how I would commit the atrocious act of ending my own life.  Fret not you sick fucks, I’ll explain.  I have a few preferences that would shape my death choice.  The first is, I would not want anyone to find my revolting, half-rotted, probably naked, maimed body.  I don’t want my siblings or parents to be plagued with the memory of finding my body swinging from a rope in the basement.  I’m not a monk trying to make my voice heard so fire is out of the question.  I also want to be sure that there is very little chance of botching the mission.  With that I cross off; pills, jumping off of anything, and wrist cutting.

First I’d steal a boat.  I thought about renting one but fuck that, YODO, You Only Die Once.  I’d steal a small yacht from a harbor.  First I’d acquire the keys through a series of diversions and breaking and entering.  Then I’d get in the boat and drive directly out into the Pacific Ocean for as long as I could; ideally 10 -18 hours depending on fuel.  Then I’d do a back flip off the roof of the boat to experience that last rush of life.  I’d then swim away from the boat.  I’d swim until I was completely exhausted.  I’m not a very good swimmer so my guess would be 2-4 hours.  At this point, I’d hold my breath and start swimming down.   Since humans have this manifest desire to survive hardwired in our genes, I’d stay as calm as possible to avoid the desperate inhale of salt water.  I’d exhale all of my air as I make my final decent, then I’d continue holding my breath until I passed out.  Sharks and fish eat my flesh.  The rogue bones make their way to the ocean floor where they too are eaten by sea dwelling creatures.  My farewell note left on the fridge reads:  “I’m dead by now, at peace, live your life, don’t morn mine.”  I’d sign it with my first name, all lower case letters.  Then I’d smear a booger just under my name.  I’d circle the booger in pen and draw a line extending from the circle and label it, “my booger : )”.

5/28/2012

grant