Suicide discussion follows. Be forewarned.

For someone who no longer has the impulse to commit suicide, I think about it quite a bit.

It’s a feeling. I talked about feelings earlier this week. I know that my suicidal thoughts, and the attached feelings, are not invalid. I have no intention of acting upon them, so there are no real consequences to me having them in and of themselves. But I am going to write about them, and try to unpack this tangled mess in my head when I ask myself questions like:

“Why is it worth the pain and struggle to get up every morning?”

“What, if anything, do I really bring to the world around me?”

“Who in their right mind would want to give me their time, let alone trust or affection, when they see me as I am, now, and know all I was and all I’ve done?”

Especially in light of losing so much that was so important to me, through my own ignorance, impulsiveness, self-deception, and lack of cognitive wherewithal, I have a hard time considering myself a worthwhile human being. I fight every day to hold on to some semblance of self-worth, some notion that later today or maybe tomorrow will be better, and some days are easier than others. I try to focus on good moments, rather than bad ones.

And, as I have so many times before, I fail miserably and spectacularly.

I don’t even fail in half-measures. I either prevail or crash and burn in absolutely breathtaking fashion.

I’ve never attempted suicide. I’ve put myself in the care of medical professionals when I reach that brink. I rarely call a crisis hotline. 9-1-1 is my go-to “I need real help, no really, right the fuck now” number. Because I would rather face my demons head-on even if their horns are going to gouge out my idiot brain, than just give up. And if I ever did give up, I’d do the job right. I’d go somewhere nobody has to clean up after my mess and just disappear from your lives. And some people out there, my badbrain tells me, would be glad for it. Sighs of relief would be breathed.

“Good riddance,” they would say. “That guy made me so uncomfortable/angry/sad. I’m glad he’s dead.”

I don’t think the people I know are actually like that. But my brain won’t shut up about such sentiments.

If there is a God, and I was made this way for some esoteric and inscrutable “higher purpose”, I want to speak to someone in charge about this defective product. It’s really irritating.

Rather than the above maudlin badbrain idiocy, I think a lot of people would just exhale and shake their heads.

“His heart was in the right place.”

At least, I’d like to think it is. It has not ever been, nor will it ever be, my intention to just grab whatever it is I want, and to the hells what other people need. I tend to go in the opposite direction. The more I’m pushed, the more I go out of my way to satisfy other people’s needs. To the hells with my needs, self-care, or any of that stuff. Other people first. Their safety, their comfort, their desires come first. That is the way I’ve been wired since I was young.

So the thought of someone feeling unsafe or uncomfortable or having their needs unmet because of something I’ve done really fucking burns me up inside.

The feelings of the offended are not invalid. They had the right to take action. Those actions had consequences. I felt the full brunt of them. I will go on feeling them for a long time. Nevertheless, I have no desire to demonize the offended, or blame what has happened to me on them. Again – their feelings are not invalid.

Neither are mine.

All I’m doing with them is screaming into the void. It doesn’t really matter who, if anyone, is listening.

The head weasels, of course, want to know if there’s more I can do to punish myself.

Because it isn’t enough that I am left physically intact by this. They say more is required. Justice is still undone, they say. My freedom is unearned, they say. I should not have the freedom to do whatever I want, to grow in the ways I need to grow, to see another beautiful sight when I’ve done so many ugly things.

“You do not deserve your life,” they say. “You’ve wasted it. And there is no point denying that or letting it go one more day.”

At the very least, they inspire me to think: I should harm myself in some way. Castrate myself. Flagellate myself nightly. Form a celice out of wire and nails. Scar myself.

I want tattoos but cannot afford them.

I guess that will be the ultimate expression of all of this frustration and anger and pain and grief in my lifetime. Willingly allowing my flesh to get marked in a permanent way that, from what I understand, hurts in various ways depending on where it happens.

As I said, I doubt I’ll stop feeling these things any time soon. And as much as I may feel like dying in a given moment or on a given day, I think I trust my mind enough to not push me into doing something awfully stupid with dire and irrevocable consequences for my family and friends. I try to remind myself that I’m allowed to have feelings. Even if I feel like dying. I will not act on that particular feeling.

I will, instead, pack another few pinches of pipe tobacco into my pipe’s bowl.

I’ll pour myself another drink.

Maybe find something edible to enjoy.

I will wait.

And when Death finally arrives, I will toast their entry, greet them as an old friend, and wonder what the hells took them so long.