One of my favorite subjects of all time: Suicide. This concept, the belief that at any point you wanted to, you could take the life given to you and take it all away, fascinates me like no other thought. Even for the religious, it’s the only true way you can say to God “You can’t fire me, I quit!” My life’s been riddled with suicidal tendencies and countless other thoughts of the such, and I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed all of them.
Sometimes thinking of death is truly a wonderful thing, and I think those people out there without these thoughts are really missing something. When you’re all by yourself, sitting on your bed on a cold, rainy night, you reflect upon your entire life. You think of how your mother’s always mistreated you and how your father never took enough time to care about your problems, and you wonder: “What if I wasn’t here right now?” In no time you’re reliving life events, and then contemplating the same situations without your existence.
I love this feeling. Imagine just taking all the sensations and hatred you’ve ever had, and using it against all the people that have ever done you wrong, it makes me smile. Now, I’m sure people care about my death, and it’s certainly not their fault that I’m delusional enough to destroy myself, but I’d like to think that all the people that didn’t put enough time into making me happy, and didn’t ensure that we had a memorable time with each other, I’d like to think those people’s sadness would outweigh the grief of those who loved me.
I had to live with a suicidal mother as well, so this concept isn’t particularly new to me, and this started when I was around 12 years old. After a lovely visit to my second therapist, my mother was told everything I’d said to the therapist over our whole time together, which included things critically against my mother and our living conditions. Instead of taking things as a sign for help or using it to better our relationship, my mother instead decided to scream and cry the whole way home, telling me that since I didn’t think she was perfect and that our house wasn’t ideal, she was going to kill herself because of me. This is a nice feeling for a 12 year old to have, the thought that because of you, your mother was going to die. This often continued as a trend in her desperation to make me feel bad, as she would often stay up late crying after an argument, telling me I don’t love her and that she wanted to put a gun barrel in her mouth.
Side note: My mother and I haven’t told each other that we love one another in almost 7 years. The feelings seem to be mutual that neither of us depend on one another, and neither is beneficial to the others life. My father often tries to say these things, but I usually end up laughing hysterically and changing the subject. There are few people I’ve said the words “I love you” to and meant it, including my grandparents, my Aunt on my father’s side, Cliodhna, Ashley Agnew, and someone else I’d met senior year.
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