Missed me?

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide

I couldn’t do it.

Did you think I’d gone out and do it? I skipped a week; did you think I’d not kept my promise of the first week that I was too much of a coward to kill myself? If you did, you had a great way of not letting me know. No tweet from anonymous, no police at my door – not even a call from a random shrink.

I couldn’t do it.

Or perhaps you trusted me to tell the truth. You perhaps thought I am a coward, and figured I wouldn’t do it anyway. Did you think I got sick of blogging too – like I’m sick of pretty much everything in my life? No, you should know better than that. I’ve proven the ability to finish what I start a couple of times before. And I didn’t play out any fantasies involving big rivers, cold waters, boats, or trains and bridges. No, I’m still alive, still fucked up in my head, and still thinking it would be a blessing to be dead.
On a side note, I must admit though that I did have some genuine fun this week. It has been a while since I’ve felt that kind of exhilaration; it did me some good to go into town with only my eldest son. But that’s not the reason why

I couldn’t do it.

I didn’t miss last week’s blogpost because I’d attempted to kill myself – nothing of the sort. I’m not in hospital with stitches in my wrists. Hell, that would not be the way to go for me. Too much pain. If I’d die, I’d rather die sudden. If I’d throw myself off a building I’d do it backwards. Enjoy the view of the sky and not know when I’d hit the floor. But I didn’t do that either.
I just had another week at work, and another week at uni, and another week where commuting was a torture. When you’re in my state, you don’t want to be anywhere. You don’t want to be at work (not because of the co-workers or the job; that’s all fine), but you don’t want to be home either. And you don’t want to go anywhere else either. There’s no point in the commute. The only way to either get to work, or get home, is on autopilot. Otherwise you’ll just stop and sit there. In my case, I’d lie there – on a recumbent bicycle – waiting for nothing, wanting for nothing. Looking longingly left or right at whatever may be able to kill you. And that was kind of the highlight of my week.
My autopilot continued to work though, and got me to work on time, and home in time for me not to be missed too much. And the ones closest to me have stopped suspecting that I’d rather be six foot under. But I didn’t get there, and that is not the reason I missed a week’s blog-post.

I couldn’t do it.

As a matter of fact, last week was really close to F’s birthday. And despite our differences, she’s still my mum. I’m not sure if she reads this blog – I don’t think she does. Still, I couldn’t ruing anyone’s mood while we were celebrating the fact that my mum managed to make it through another year. I was working too hard thinking happy thoughts so I could smile and wish her well. Blogging about misery of course won’t help with that. So now you know why

I just couldn’t do it.

While writing this blog, the blog was called “diary of a suicide”.

Rien…

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide

I am confused.

Wouldn’t Paris have been a perfect holiday for me this week? Get a couple of days away from my misery, see the beautiful city of love, kill a couple of faithless morons associated with Daesh, and die a hero. My loved ones would be taken care of by several grateful governments, and I would rest easy – away from my fucked up mind.

I am confused.

On July 14, 1789, Louis XVI of France wrote in his diary ‘Rien’ (nothing). Research suggests it meant that no animals were killed that day, not that nothing happened. Given the horrific events in Paris this week, I thought the reference fitting as the leaders of Paris probably didn’t go hunting for game either. But as it turns out, I was positively shocked by the events – and I felt true sorrow for those who lost their lives. I am not scared – of death or Daesh – and I am certain that – looking at the way the world operates these days – we are only at the beginning. More of these beastly acts are to come. And I want to stay far away from them.

I am confused.

I am hurting. This week even physically. On Friday I developed an ear-ache, which continued into Saturday together with a headache, and today all day my whole body ached too. But I am hurting mentally too. I am a coward, I am stupid, I am a cunt, I am an idiot. I have so much to live for, yet I can find so many reasons to die. But hearing about other people being brutally murdered, my survival instinct kicks in and sends me running. Well, I’m actually not close enough to Paris to need to run, but you get the message. I do not want to have anything to do with it. I am in no way tempted to join a group that is hell-bent on killing innocent people; have no worries. If I’d have the strength to die, I’d be the only one who does. But the flip side is, that if I encounter people who are going to kill innocents, I most certainly don’t want to be held hostage by them. I most certainly do not want to be in the team facing them, or amongst the innocents who get shot. So now you’re probably ready to understand why

I am confused.

I can not find a reason inside myself to continue living – all the reasons for me being alive are external; the people who care about me need me. But I don’t enjoy it in the least. I’d rather be dead. This lack of care should make me the ideal person to be among the innocent bystanders, for I wouldn’t care if I’d get shot, and I would probably lunge at them to try and peel their heads off with a potato knife. So why do I not want these beasts to shoot me? Why does this shit instil an unexpected fear in me? Does this mean that death isn’t as appealing as it most often seems? Do I really want to die? Or is there still some surprisingly good reason for me to live deep down inside of me? Or is it just animal nature that gets scared? I haven’t figured it out. That’s why

I am confused.

While writing this blog, the blog was called “diary of a suicide”.

Sometimes…

I am as happy as a pig in poo.

As long as I can just mind my own business, and not get dragged out of my cocoon to bother with other worldly stuff that matters to those I supposedly care about, there are moments that I don’t think about this booklet ‘how to kill yourself without rope or knife’. It is by the way surprising how many staircases appear in this booklet. But back on topic, as long as my eldest takes care of himself – plays with his friends outside, doesn’t come home till dark to eat – and my youngest gets taken care of by other adults in my life – my parents, my wife – and I can just either work my arse off, or mind my own damn business…

I am as happy as pig in poo.

You may have guessed it, I’ve had a good week. They too happen. Also nutcases who want to off themselves have ups in their lives – and this week was one for me. You may wonder why – well so do I.
I read somewhere that you don’t need a reason to be depressed. Many people who have lots to live for are depressed, and so am I – quite a large part of the year. But apparently, there also doesn’t have to be a reason to feel great once in a while. Because this week hasn’t been all that different from the other weeks.
I work 32 hours a week – at least, that’s what my contract says. However, since this contract started early September, there hasn’t been a week where I worked less than 39 hours (over-time pays extra). This week, due to a holiday of a religion I don’t subscribe to, I had to pull one eleven and a half hour shift (of which only ten and a half hours are paid – one hour break a day is my own time), which makes for a very long day. The rest of the week was quite normal, so I worked 41,5 hours all-in-all. But other than that, I was mostly left alone.
I put my kids to sleep, I spent some time walking down memory lane – looking at pictures of some fifteen years ago. That was a good time. Not a hair on my bald head thought of suicide at the time. Perhaps this stroll into my own head cheered me up a little. But whatever it is,

I am as happy as a pig in poo.

That is, until I connected with a colleague on Friday. I mean, we talk and joke around at work, but I connected with him for the first time in the virtual world. And it turns out, he advertises there that he is sick and tired of the shit that happens at home. And that shook my world again. Some doctors try to make people feel better by telling them ‘you’re not the only one’. And perhaps, for some people, that knowledge helps. For me it doesn’t; actually it works counter productive. I mean, why would it make me feel a tad better, knowing that there are other poor saps wading through just as much crap as myself? The death-penalty is a blessing compared to this; nobody deserves this! You wouldn’t wish it for your worst enemy. Knowing that there’s someone out there only halfway down the well from where I am made me lose grip; I plunged into the water and forgot why

I am as happy as pig in poo.

That doesn’t mean it’s forever though. The coming eight weeks I have another 20 hour burden loaded on top of this 32-hour-and-a-bit work week, but in eight weeks there’s some relief: it’ll be the time between subjects at uni again. And there’ll be a week where I can just hide in my own little world; tell everyone to go fuck themselves and leave me alone. And that week, I may say that

I am as happy as pig in poo.

While writing this blog, the blog was called “diary of a suicide”.

So now…

Tags

depression, life, live, suicide

I am an insufferable cunt.

My miserable thoughts about killing myself, and the inherent depressed state I tend to be in, has turned me into this asshole your friends warn you about before you meet me. There’s good inside of me, but it’s struggling to come out. My shite thoughts about myself all too often turn into nasty remarks to the people I care about.

I am an insufferable cunt.

The most recent example of me being a complete piece of shit, who is undeserving of anyone’s friendship, was R. He is a great friend, and though I appreciate that he sticks around (even cunts need to be tickled sometimes) I feel that my vile remarks in the past week may very well have cost me a friend.
He is happy; he is in a great moment of joy in his life right now, and he deserves his happiness – like anyone does. He shares his happiness too, with anyone who wants to hear it, and of course especially with his friends. But then, when he asks me to comment, the first thing that bubbles up inside of me is bile. Instead of swallowing it, or spitting it out before replying, I give him all the bile I’ve got. And why? Well, I want to kill myself, but he doesn’t deserve to feel that way! There is no good reason to give him shit, yet I did.
If he visits me again I should get on my knees and thank him for doing so. He is a good friend, he is a great man, and he’s the best human who can stand being around me. I know I won’t get on my knees for him though. Because…

I am an insufferable cunt.

Over the past couple of years, my unrestrained tongue has killed more friendships. I won’t go into detail. It’s never to late to make things worse, yet nobody deserves the shitstorm I pour over them and repeating it anywhere won’t just make it worse, it’ll make it drag. And wounds that drag are infected; all I’m trying to do with all that’s in me is disinfect myself, and hope my misery isn’t contagious.
It’s not just my unrestrained tongue though, that gets me into trouble with people I care about. It is also my untrained tongue. Over the past few years I’ve allowed myself to be dragged into conversations out of which there’s no good way. My replies to certain inquiries have cut me in half, have made me regret being alive, have made me regret the moment I joined the company, for the inquiries were out of genuine concern, yet my replies showed no tactical or political skill whatsoever. I seem to be unable to bite my tongue and breathe before giving the politically correct answer; I go straight for my own harsh perspective; my fucked up, twisted, subjective version of a perceived truth. There’s no way I can make everything right I’ve said in the past years, and it hurts every day again.
In a nutshell, there you have it. Don’t ask me questions others may not like the answer to. Because I’m on a perpetual crash-course to ruin my friendships for no good reason. So better yet, don’t ask me anything at all, for…

I am an insufferable cunt.

This is perhaps the reason why I haven’t made an appointment with W yet; the tea may not get cold before I say something nasty. Like I’ve said before, I’m a coward – and I’ve become afraid to speak, for I am likely to say something nasty. All as a result of some depth of a depression.
On Facebook I found a quote on a picture of an out-of-focus seagull. Credit where credit is due; the picture and the quote are by Liz Young. I don’t know Liz Young, but Facebook has a way of getting quotes around the world. Liz must be quite crafty with words, as I need over six hundred words, for what she says in twelve.
“Depression is numbing.
Depression is evil.
Depression is cunning,
baffling, powerful,
deceitful.”
And that’s why

I am an insufferable cunt.

While writing this blog, the blog was called “diary of a suicide”.