Fantasies

[TW: Explicit suicidal ideation, explicit discussion of methods of suicide]

The dreams lately are fairly nonsensical. I’d never knife myself in reality.

Or at least, I don’t think I would.

But it’s these images that are filling my dreams lately, more often than they used to. Dreaming of feeling a long, thin, slick blade sliding between my ribs, going through my lungs, my heart. This should hurt, yet, in my dreams, it never does.

I’ve always known that I’m probably going to kill myself some day. I have been on-and-off suicidal for at least eight years, which is also about how long I have distinct memories (I strongly remember being viciously afraid of subways in first grade, because I could in theory throw myself off the platform and onto the third rail). I literally do not have memories of a time from before I was suicidal. It’s the only world I know.

“The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets through many a dark night.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

It’s difficult to explain to most people how thoughts of suicide can be comforting, but really, they are. In a way, they give me a baseline of bad, a line of suckiness that I really don’t have to cross. Life can be awesome. It can also really suck. And if it sucks enough, I can opt out.

Dying might have a utility of zero for me, but that’s better than a negative utility.

And sometimes, when things are going bad, that’s what I dream of; of buying a rope, of the weight of a knot on my chest, of the final terrifying free fall, the sharp yank on my neck that I probably won’t actually get enough time to feel, the finale. And this give me the strength carry on.

I believe in the possibility of a rational suicide, because if I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.


Sometimes, I plan on saying goodbye first; other times, I realize that I won’t be able to leave a note. I’ve never been able to successfully write a note except in my dreams, and those words always escape me by the time I’m awake and in front of my laptop, trying to explain…explain what? Explain me?

I don’t even know sometimes.

Maybe I’m just trying to apologize for existing.


They say familarity with death is a major factor of suicide; that people who don’t have access to more instantaneous methods like guns have to really, truly want to die.

With a gun, you can’t really change your mind in the time it takes for a bullet to kill you.

With other methods, you may actually have a window of opportunity to decide not to die.

But this is irrelevant; long drop hanging doesn’t allow enough time to change ones mind either.

But dreaming of it makes it easier to accept. There are days where it just feels like my fate; I am destined to die by my own hand, and there’s nothing anyone, least of all myself, can do about that.

I’m okay with this.


Some days, I don’t understand why I’m still alive. Some days, I feel like I’m already dead, and just going through the motions until I finally bring up the courage to finish myself off.

Some days I’m just exhausted.


Some days, I have plans. I want to build a beautiful tiny home with a floating loft bed and more books than one person should own. I like marking up books; I like having my own copies.

I want to be successful; I’d actually want to be a medical professional, honestly.

I’m not sure I can still do that.


And some days I fantasize about dying, because it’s the only thing that gets me through the darkest days and back into the light.

Advertisements

Comments are closed.