Too Early For Suicide?

Seriously, look at your watch. How often does suicide cross your mind dear friends? ("Elk" friends would make no sense). My guess is that it would not be often, but, I'd also wager that it might be a bit more then one would typically guess.

Would it be out of line to venture that your suicide fantasies might be on par with The Christmas Story's young protagonist Ralphie, when he envisioned himself going blind later in life, rightfully making his parents grief-stricken and regretful for sending him to his room and washing his mouth out with soap all those years ago?

I'm sure we've all thought how our own death would devastate a family member or an ex lover, though, sadly, we would not be conscious to enjoy it (as far as we know). Yes, friends, I've been through this, "I'll make you sorry", line of thought since I was a youngster, but this whole phase is new, and unfortunately more serious.

I've thought calmly, and with disquieting frequency, about ending my life in the last year. Thoughts that have gnawed at me with greater and greater tenacity as time moves on. This time they are not because my Dad gave me a spanking, or the girl at school I had a crush on likes another boy.

ME VS. LIFE

For the longest time (by Billy Joel), what has somehow kept me from really wallowing in the notion of killing myself at any time and place was a viewpoint I held, in which I was facing off against the personification of existence itself, and were I to just give up and end it all, life would win. I would have willingly admitted, for all to see and interpret, that I was too weak or unable to solve my own problems in life. I couldn't cut it, I failed, I gave up. Literally, life would have gotten the better of me.

Just like the poor loser in sports games from childhood, the kid who found himself on the short end of the stick, and did not have the sportsmanship (yes, I'm citing sports), the good humor, or the willingness to try harder, decides to dramatically quit mid-game out of frustration, making sure to call plenty of attention to himself, and how "unfair" or "unfun" the game has become. In reality, no one likes this kid. He is a poor participant, immature and childish.

I don't want to be this kid, and for years, the idea of becoming that kid has stopped me from doing the dramatic version of leaving the sports game when things aren't going my way. And oh, how they aren't. Oh.

And I'm not alone (well, I am, but you know what I meant). My own sister, who by all accounts is an extremely intellectual, witty, creative, aware, and humorous female, is also feeling this way. What would cause such an intelligent person, who obviously has a lot of great traits and talents, a person that could do something wonderful in this world, to become so disillusioned, faint, and filled with despair? And if both my sister and I suffer from this, could there be something related, perhaps something genetic? Or are we both simply victims of an overactive mind?

THE STATE OF THE UNION

At this point A) you're still reading, and B) you may be saying, "Things can't really be that bad, Niko," or, "You're just being overly dramatic," or even, "What a douche. Go cry to your fucking mom you pathetic child," which I do by the way. Often. Except replace the mom with a dead cat, and replace the dead cat with the memory of the dead cat, and then you got it about right.

As I often lament, and mostly from an exaggerated point of view, that I literally (figuratively) have nothing. Literally. (Figuratively).

Thats just how I feel. To me, and let me state that I'm quite good at taking things for granted, my current existence is all for naught. Dramatic? Sure. Emotionally accurate (notice the word 'emotionally' to qualify the accurate)? It sure feels that way.

2008 was, and so far still is the worst year of my life to date, but things have not really brightened up much since. I still struggle in almost every facet a person can struggle in: mentally, emotionally, physically, financially. Not spiritually though, since there is no such thing as spirit (beyond the one Nirvana smelled).

To keep things a bit more general, one of the biggest deficiencies in my life is the lack of anything even the least bit enjoyable, and positive. In a nutshell (why one would be in one of those I'll never know), I have absolutely nothing to look forward to. Seriously. Not a god damned thing. And that, my "friends", really sucks.

HAPPY LITTLE TREES

Let me paint you a lovely Bob Ross-esque panorama of my existential bitterness (you can't resell it though). Last time, we created a beautiful lake in the foreground, painted in vibrant Inability To Accomplish Your Goals, surrounded by a leafy deciduous forest, consisting of a delicate blend of Guilt For Not Accomplishing Enough and No Solace From Pressure And Obligation. See how the light dances over those highlights?

Next take your number 2 brush, and let's load it with a bit of Overly Negative Self Image and Cavernous Insecurities and lets paint in a big mountain. Your mountain can live anywhere you'd like it to. There we go. That looks nice and insurmountable.

And lastly for the sky, since we already put down a layer of Desperate Need To Be Appreciated And Loved, which I had already mixed ahead of time with plenty of Inability To Assimilate Into Common Social Environments, just to help the paint stick to the canvas.

To this we'll put the last metaphorical touches on our painting, namely the light fluffy clouds that represent any and all worthwhile moments of existence that help pad the onslaught of dreary, bleak and and life de-firming bile that makes up the majority of the waking hours. No need to paint the bile, I think it can be inferred from the fluffy white clouds that are quickly drifting away on the breeze from the nearby dog food factory, never to be seen again.

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT

Do you know what does not help? Throwing me shallow cultural proverbs designed to lift the spirits (by 'lift the spirits' I mean a way for you to say something without getting personal, and make yourself feel better).

"Well, sorry to hear that, but don't worry, things are going to be alright."

Really? You know this. . . how? An amazing gift to see into the fourth dimension and view the outcome of future events? WOW!!

Don't ever tell me that things are going to be okay. Fuck, that pisses me off.

You have no idea how 'things' are going to be for me, and to simply say something just because it sounds pleasant, and has no grounded, factual basis, only helps to add to my bleakness and depression by making me enraged as well. Bullshit does not comfort me. It solves nothing beyond you feeling somehow better that you said something. Void, and empty of genuine examination and solution of the problem(s) at hand, but still something.

Never say that to me again.

THE PEANUT BUTTER SOLUTION

If there is a solution to this abyss of apathetic dissipation, I've not found it yet. I have trouble getting beyond the simple assessment of how much I don't enjoy living. I'm beginning to see that I seem to like piling all of my frustrations and problems into one lump sum, making them unwieldy and overwhelming.

Viewing the awful representational conglomerate from a distance it can often look rather silly. Yet it does not change the fact that I am extremely unhappy with damn near everything and anything. Being the pleasure-based creatures we are today, why would I want to continue an existence that was starkly absent of any bit of pleasure? What would be the incentive for me to "keep on keepin' on"? Hope? Hope for what? Don't get me started. Or actually, do get me started, but not until another blog.

With nothing to look forward to (my biased, subjective outlook of course), no respite from my own depression, strange guilt, internal and external frustration, loneliness and failure, I truly find it challenging to come up with a list of reasons for perpetuating what feels like mental and emotional molestation. And in my version, no one buys me a toy afterwards to keep me quiet.

We all deal with shit, and none of us are always happy, nor should we be. For all I know everything I feel could be a product of my built-in neural chemistry, by which I mean a "programmed" response. Something out of my control. Does that help to make it any better? Fuck no. The things I have to offer the world, no one seems to want, and the things the world tries to offer me I am violently allergic to. I believe this is what the proud Lakota Sioux call a "good trade".

EVERY LITTLE STEP (L.A. REID/BABYFACE)

Honestly people, this is not a cry for help, just an airing of my emotional laundry (which reminds me, I need to do my physical laundry. All of my socks are becoming potent enough to be used in the chamber on death row. Not the most humane way to go, I can attest).

I still don't want to be the childish kid that leaves the game early, then makes up excuses as to why they never wanted to play in the first place. (Hasn't this whole blog been a list of excuses?).

Obviously, the problem(s) lies with me, not the outside world. The only way I can rid myself of this excruciating spinning-kiddy-ride (as I've tried holding up two fingers for quite some time now) is to stop looking at everything as the fully assembled Voltron mega warrior, but instead as each individual robot cat. As much as I love viewing the collective garbage heap of my life, progress can only be made by removing each soiled diaper and used condom individually.

Of course I'm probably just being dramatic and emotional about what is essentially a miniscule blemish on my otherwise pristine, super-privilaged rip-roaring existence.

By my clock it's barely even lunch time. Too early for suicide?



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Tags: suicide commit death die dying life exist existence psychology philosophy sarcasm