The un-doing of The Self

I want to end my life.

It’s been my only ambition for years.

But I seem unable.

Hundreds upon hundreds of nights walking alone through the dark for an hour to get to a deserted bridge to hang myself. Or to that tree in the cemetary.

And yet, here I am.

I know that suspension hanging will only take two minutes. I’ve tried so many times; I’ve experienced fainting when I’ve increased the pressure on my neck enough. I know that if I step off and have a ligature/knot that I can’t release around my neck that it’s only a matter of two-to-five minutes of pain and desperate panic. That’s easier than many common pains and should be within my capabilities. It’s far easier than the ordeal of childbirth- or even less, of knocking out a un-anaestitized tooth. What is preventing me? Hope? No, I’ve had plenty of hope, plenty of “but maybe if”-thoughts. But nine times out of ten it isn’t hope that has me walking home again. It is fear.

I’ve experienced years of panic disorder in the past and I’m terrified by the thought of the panic I expect in dying. My last minutes completely consumed by a screaming desperation to get out of the noose. Feeling all consciousness draining away except for a kicking clawing horror while I fight unsuccessfully to untie the knot and rope that is tearing at my neck.

There’ve been countless times that I’ve put the rope around my neck with both feet planted on the ground and tried to let my legs fall out from under me. There’ve been times that I’ve lifted my feet from the ground and hung entirely by my neck. But I’ve always relented. The worst times are when I begin to faint. I get a tingling and rush in my head, a ringing in my ears as the sounds around me increase in pitch and seem to echo, the world goes grey, my legs begin to falter and weaken and I become disoriented and clumsy. And I am blasted by bolts of panic and the need to escape- stand up, release the knot, get out of there. Danger!!

I have done all I can. It’s not as though I’m not willing. If I don’t die tonight, tomorrow, next week, then over the next year there will be another hundred nights where I go out with the intent of not coming back. I don’t want that. It is not as though I’m unwilling. There’s just some powerful disconnect- I truly seem unable to overcome these devious survival mechanisms that disguise themselves as exhaustion, or apathy, or panic, etc…

Living systems (for example the human body and its mind) have evolved to stay alive. And they are deceitful. I know that this contemplation, the effort I’ve put into writing this plea seems directed towards finding a way to die, but it’s really just avoidance of dying. It’s a trick to keep me breathing for a few more hours, days, etc…

Around 40,000 people kill themselves each and every year. Suicide has been happening through all time. Can I really be the most cowardly among all these ghosts? Of all the millions and millions of successful suicides how can I be a failure?

I know I will probably just have to do the thing I can’t do. Somehow find a way to overcome my resistance. Perhaps I’ll unexpectedly find the strength, or maybe I’ll merely luck into it some night when accidentally my blood pressure plummets beyond recovery, or I accidentally knock away the stepladder before I’m “ready.” Maybe my life will end clumsily. Just as long as it ends.

Problem is, that’s exactly the sort of thing I’ve been counting on for years

I really want out of here. I'm sure of it. I would forgo a good life, I would pass up every joy just to have it all over- everything. my problem isn't that I want to live. It’s a severe case of “I’m not afraid of dying; I just DON'T WANT TO BE THERE when it happens.”

I need some drug that will switch off my fight/flight response, but not sedate me- a drug that will keep me alert and active but switch off the danger signals.

I need other voices on this. Could you please make suggestions? Inform me of the needed drug and how to get it. Or not drug-related suggestions. Anything to get me out of here. Please “help” if you can.



Thank you.

what makes you lose the will to live?

Here's a lovely thing
This one has self destructive habits
Various drugs (though seldom any longer), body mutilation/modification, social gatherings
Things that in the end may very well result in a closed casket even if I die of old age
I enjoy it and see no reason not to indulge at every opertunity
There may be a lass in my imediate future who has been traumatized by these very things
We all see where this is going

i'm not sure if I can post about this sort of self-destructive behavior, since I do not cut myself or mutilate myself in anyway:

I keep on finding reasons to try and push my self over the edge, like, I would keep on going to websites that like doing what gave me my trauma, it might seem small, but i've been through a hell of a lot..
Like, I'm teetering on totally letting go, but I can't let myself, i'm worried sometimes, that if I do, bad thing's will happen, I just have so much restraint, but now i'm getting these dreams, part of the letting go is leaking through.. I've just been through so much, and I keep on punishing myself, by talking about it sometimes, or going to websites about it, I do hate what happened to me, but i'm trying to understand it, and bring me peace that's why i'm looking, it's kind of traumatic to do this, but I will have to be brave and go through it with pain.

Falling droplets stain the stones,
A lonely figure dances,
Wrists smeared red with hurt and pain,
A blood-dance, smooth and even.

Justifying cutting myself, is this right or wrong? I still don't know. I want to do it and do, but I always look for a reason. Sometimes I go against what I say and contradict myself, but is that sweet feel of pain, that flow of blood, the correct thing to do? At this point I say yes, tomorrow? Who knows, not I.

I've responded to a couple of posts, but I have not yet posted who I am. My name is Nate, I'm 24, going on 25. I've been cutting for a number of years, not really sure how long, I cut, burn,and pierce. While a large percentage of my friends cut they all seem to be aganst me doing what I do, but I don't seem to care anymore. Its odd while I'm drunk the urge to cut is much greater then normal, but I don't cut when I'm drunk because I fear that when I'm in that state I'll go to far.

( small introduction that i really don't like and i might revise. looks kinda dorky and insecure, but eh, standard fareCollapse )

the angled mouths of those who lay dying in unpleasant aesthetics. the people you want getting casually dragged-on deaths. violent pain. throats held down and sawed off. a frantic struggle to get up, but his head is bashed against the floor. a blank, hopeless, apathetic look when blood violently spurts out and twitching. left staring at the floor. nothing pretty to look at. find something pretty to look at as their nervous frantic heads make sense of dead things. like an animal in another's mouth, flailing helplessly with so much adrenaline pumping through that you won't stop struggling regardless. your heart will race and will make you bleed more rapidly than when it is not racing. razorblade pulls against you. uncontrollable desperation. pilled. the way they check to make sure you swallowed them in case you're still resisting. drunk frat party fucks side by side, first timers, confused but wanting. pain is apathetic and productive.

I'm 15 and I live in the TO. I cut, but I've burned a few times. I don't have pictures as the idea of sharing this part of me is very foreign. I don't really have much to say, so, good bye.