desolate umbrella

I begged God again last night not to make me wake up. I Googled and Googled. The shittiest part of Googling for advice on successful suicide is that you’re inevitably led to a million sites which explain how easy it is to fail and the horrifying after-effects upon failure, which are the only life changes which might actually make your current Hell several levels worse. However unimaginable a worse life of Hell and misery seems to a person desperate for death, the effects of suicide failure shout them loud into your despairing fucking brain.
However, when reading about suicide statistics, even accidental overdose, it seems like it should be easy.
Moving forward…
Longing for peace, overdose is the first and most appealing thought. Seems almost foolproof if done with care and knowledge. Prevent vomiting? Check. Be somewhere where you won’t be disturbed before death? Check : my life IS that – no one bothers to “disturb” me… ever, really. No, I mean ever. Obtain the proper drugs which raise the percentage of success? Holy fuck, UGH. This seems on the level of impossible. Okay, okay, try an easier to obtain medicine? Shit, my success percentage just dropped by nearly 50% with just that replacement. Enter again the next-level-hell horrors of failure. My only obstacle to feeling mostly confident I would succeed is lack of appropriate drugs like Nembutal and Seconal.
Okay…. Hanging? Definitely won’t be disturbed. Good. Stroking out and hanging for days due to failure? Holy fuck. I’ve had a stroke before. If I stroked out, I’d be rendered physically incapable of a second try. Holy Holy fuck.
Gunshot to the head? Super high success rates! Yay! Wait, I have no fucking gun. I have no mother fucking gun, damnit. I also happen to have the misfortune of personal knowledge of a man who attempted suicide this way, survived, and is now a paraplegic rendered incapable of a second attempt at success and I’m certain his hell is a few levels worse than when he attempted. I also personally know two people who succeeded using this method. What is that statistically? A 75% chance for success? Hmmm….that’s not too bad statistically. Fuck me, I still have no gun. Buy a gun? How long does that take? In my current state of poverty, do I even have enough money to buy one? No. No, I do not. I do not have enough money to buy a fucking gun. FUCK.
The media makes suicide seem so easy. Last night, with the new confidence of this as my only option of hope left, I really felt empowered with the possibility of success. Then Google fucked that confidence up.
Google was even cruel enough to show me a mercy suicide done by Philip Nitchke in Australia where the 45 year old man wasn’t suffering from cancer or anything. He was just a 45 year old man done living with the hell of depression, maybe the hell of chronic inescapable abandonment and loneliness at being fully and completely invalid in this world, most likely as well as exhausted from feeling like his basic needs were a burden to everyone around him. Fuck, this made me jealous! Thinking and imagining his level of pain and the years of unsuccessfully trying everything to cope or heal that pain and now his pain is over forever. Lucky fucking bastard.
As a child, teen, and young adult, I used to fear going against God by committing suicide. I loved Jesus so much and was so deeply desperate to have God’s love and approval and to maybe get to go to Heaven if I followed His rules, that that was enough to deter me most of the time. I no longer believe in God. And the optimist in me who wants to hold on to at least the possibility of having that love in my life being possible laughs. Ohhhhhh how she laughs. She can hardly breathe as she guffaws saying, “You know damn fucking well if this God you loved enough to follow His rules all these years does, in fact, exist at all, He sure as fuck doesn’t love you, you stupid idiotic bitch. If this God exists AND loved you, you wouldn’t have this life, the chronic suffering, the lack of validity, the lack of love, the utter degeneration of your stupid fucking soul from the moment you were born.”
That’s my optimistic side pondering the possibility of God’s existence. Thus, it’s ridiculous to even bother to have my regular side explain the absurdity of this long-held fantasy of some beautiful force of good wrapping me in His love and wanting good things for me in this life I did not choose and cannot change or repair.
My final proof that God does not exist: I begged. I have begged and begged and pleaded. I have embraced change, I’ve desperately tried to grab onto radical acceptance about my life. I have fought the good fight for as long as I can remember. I have carried the burden of this life. I have forced positivity. I have begged and begged for direction or wisdom to live without the basic necessities of my soul. I have compared myself to Jesus and accepted that my Hell might be what I deserve because I was born imperfect and unlovable. How dare I complain after what God did to save my soul? The suffering of Jesus was so much worse than anything I’ve been faced with and Jesus was perfect, a truly undeserving person. Unlike imperfect, fucked up me who must deserve the Hell I was handed or it wouldn’t be my life, right?
I’ve desperately clung to everything. And I’ve begged. And begged. And begged. Still, I woke up today for just more of the only Hell I’ve ever known as life.
I’ve been begging all my life. Begging for love, begging to be heard, begging to matter, begging for forgiveness, begging for mercy, begging for support, begging to understand, begging for kindness, begging for acceptance, begging for even just one reason, begging for just one mother fucking joy in my life, begging for just one god damned person who would give a fuck if I wasn’t here, begged.
I have failed even as a beggar.

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