A suicide
note:
In parts.
March 8th and
9th 2013.
I can feel it coming.
I think there is a strong chance that I will kill myself fairly
soon. I can feel it, not wanting to live
anymore. A complacent ‘can go on’
attitude replaces it from time to time, but it’s like a shark swimming around
in my head…back around and biting and back around and biting. The why bother killing machine. I keep telling myself a variety of cutting
angles to pour over the same confusion.
So many negatives coming together at the same time, like spears through
the reserve bucket, until all you’re left with is all you’ve got. You live, and you keep trying to refill that
fucking bucket, but any resources you pour in it spill out the damn holes.
I am fairly certain I have settled on the exhaust
pipe. I can pop a melatonin and nod out
in the back seat listening to music and just never wake up. I’ll need to do a test run with a battery
operated carbon monoxide detector and whatever kind of apparatus I guinea rig
up to deliver the fumes. Nothing says
loser like a failed suicide attempt.
I don’t want to die.
Christ I can picture an idyllic life.
I would build a small structure, and build on it as I lived. Two acres max, which in fucking Maine isn’t
that big. Music a few close friends and
a peaceful go to work, work on the house, and hear some stories kind of
life. I try to picture what job I’ll be doing,
I can see myself with my current
employer, but can’t really picture a solid ‘job’. It gets blurry and hazy here. I don’t know what I want to do. I can exist where I’m working but the more I
feel it the more I don’t think I want to work here forever, there’s too much
bullshit. Then I realize that the
perception of bullshit is on me. I am
simply too unbalanced to deal with bullshit.
True I have made it to jobs with respectable wages and benefits and
somehow always manage to self sabotage something, somewhere. I am callously indifferent to feeling, afraid
to put anything toward anything, because I know that I can’t maintain it, I
know I will fuck it up.
I know I’m going crazy. I don’t know if it’s a side effect of all the
stress or the underlying cause of it.
Either way I am trying desperately to find a way to get back into the
real world and reduce the stress and somehow see if that is enough to move
ahead for a little while. Secretly
knowing my days of pulling normal off have grown fewer and further between as
time has progressed. What’s causing
it? Is it me, is it treatable? Not that I can afford it anyway. So what do I
do, employ my limited resources and fairly decent mental abilities to solving a
problem and hope I can keep myself together long enough to get by. In the meantime it is necessary to have a back-up
plan. A comforting respite if I find
that I really can’t deal with it and to find a somewhat dignified way to
recover whatever bountiful posterity I might have. To go out as someone who did the best they
could and lost it, rather than someone who lost it, and lived a hateful jaded,
and unfulfilling life.
Stay tuned, I can honestly say I have no emotion
towards either outcome.
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