At 27, I’ve settled into a comfortable coexistence with my suicidality. We’ve made peace, or at least a temporary accord negotiated by therapy and medication. It’s still hard sometimes, but not as hard as you might think. What makes it harder is being unable to talk about it freely: the weightiness of the confession, the impossibility of explaining that it both is and isn’t as serious as it sounds. I don’t always want to be alive. Yes, I mean it. No, you shouldn’t be afraid for me. No, I’m not in danger of killing myself right now. Yes, I really mean it.
How do you explain that?
After that, I celebrated each birthday with surprise because each age I hit was one I assumed I wouldn’t reach.
I know exactly this feeling. I often expected the escape from terrible depression would eventually be suicide. I still expect to die by my own hand when my quality of life declines from health problems or old age in the future.
Funny thing is, my father was the same way. He procured for himself whatever drug is administered in right-to-die cases and warned me that he had it a number of years ago. But he never asked for it when he went into hospice due to age-related health issues. He clung to life until it was gone.
I don’t always want to be alive. Yes, I mean it. No, you shouldn’t be afraid for me. No, I’m not in danger of killing myself right now. Yes, I really mean it.
How do you explain that?
Just like that? That’s how I do it at least.
I reassure people that I know I’m lucky to have people that care about me and that I never want to hurt anyone. I should stop saying “don’t worry, I’m stuck here” but that is how I feel. I’m only still here because it’s wrong to hurt other people just because I don’t want to exist.
Honestly, if there wasn’t so much social weight and taboo attached to death I would’ve ended it already. I have no interest in any of the obligations that existence carries. Eating, talking, moving, cleaning, biological impulses, feelings, comfort, pain, all of it. These meat-bags we’re all trapped in are too finicky and needy. I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. Existence genuinely disgusts me
I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it.
Pretty much how I feel too. My dad told me the condom ripped and without hesitation I asked why they didn’t just abort me as I would have very much preferred to not exist especially since my parents split pretty much immediately after I was born.
I honestly think my mom wanted pets and confused children with pets. We’d get the verbal love and pats on the head, but never any effort, never anything that involved her taking action for us. At least now my generation is obsessed with dogs and are (correctly) choosing pets over treating people like pets…
Whatever you might think of John Mayer, I really liked his phrasing of “love is a verb.”
This is me often times it seems. It’s a conflicting state of existence. And my depression seems to keep me stagnant so I can’t escape the idea my life is meaningless.
All life is meaningless, but that’s good. You define your meaning/purpose. It’s whatever you want it to be.
My issue is less with meaning and more with “God i wish I was literally anyone but me, I hate myself with the burning passion of 10000 dying suns.” Lol
I thought I was alone in this
I’ve explained it like the episode of Family Guy where they have a reality show made about them and Stewie says “it’s not so much that I want to kill Lois, it’s that I would very much like for Lois not to be alive anymore.” I don’t want to kill myself, I just don’t want to be alive.
Wow did this feel like it was written for me. The analogy of treading water, ultimately resigned to the idea that at some point, you’ll succumb, but hoping it isn’t soon.
Recently, I took a trip to Europe. There I was able to experiment with micro-dosing shrooms, and it really helped me find the connection to life and others that I’ve been missing. No, I wasn’t blitzed off 5 grams, wandering around with saucer plate pupils, I was micro-dosing while on an antidepressant which dulls the effect considerably. On one particular occasion, I opened up about some troubles I’ve had to two nice guys that were at the same concert with me. They were incredibly drunk (I’m sober from alcohol 5 years) so I felt safe in confiding stuff to them that I might normally hide. In our conversation, I talked about how these events manifested in suicidal thoughts and a half-hearted attempt, and their reaction? “Us too.”
I then went around for the rest of the night, and whenever I talked to a guy, I’d randomly add “hey, I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself.” and every single man I said that to teared up and thanked me (I said it to one woman and she looked at me like I was crazy, so I stuck with guys after that haha).
Suicide death hasn’t been this high since the great depression, it’s clearly linked to the predominant financial stress we all feel. They refer to them as “deaths of despair.”
I don’t know why I’m writing this but I feel like my comment should have a point so I’ll say this: Voting to advance social welfare saves lives. Literally.
Men generally do not have community spaces or social support networks at this moment in history. It’s something that urgently needs a social movement to address that also doesn’t involve bigotry, flag-waving or outright nazism as an antidote.
I am glad you didn’t kill yourself, too. Stay strong.
I personally think men are more likely to be successful at suicide, because men are conditioned to not mind dying by society so they will enlist in the military. There is a LOT of propaganda teaching young men the best thing they can do is sacrifice themselves.
Women attempt more because their quality of life is worse. They just don’t succeed because they are taught to be nonviolent and that it’s bad for them to die. They also have less access to guns, because again, we have a huge military culture here that pushes gun ownership on men for military enlistment reasons. Imo women attempt more with poisoning because women are often highly distressed about what they eat/thinness (eating disorders genuinely kill people).