Bless me, father, for I have sinned.

It’s been 13,344 days since my last confession.

Then again, I’m not Catholic and I have nothing to say to you.

This is not my suicide note, this is not even really a cry for help.

This is just a document. A record for the sake of accountability.

This is a public admission of guilt.

I am guilty of pre-meditated, possibly under-medicated self-loathing and murderous intent.

I’ve spent the last week or more, and certainly the past 48 hours fantasizing, considering, and contemplating suicide.

I’ve become increasingly self-isolated — I have made it my habit that I have not seen or really spoken to anyone other than those people I simply cannot avoid for months and months now.

This past week, in a staff meeting, I let loose on my boss, my boss’ boss, and the owner of the company in a vicious diatribe that probably should have gotten me fired.

I am self-destructive in my immediate relationships, picking fights with Penny.

I am having a terrible time focussing on anything — unable to watch more than 10 minutes of a television program or movie, needing absolute quiet and calm in order to read anything with any comprehension, and I’ve not been able to write anything (ie. CHUK) for a week or so. I stare at a blank screen with an equally blank mind.

I spent most of the weekend asleep-but-not-asleep, either in bed, or on the couch, alternating back and forth between calm cold rationality, trying to either justify or plan my own death, and weak, defeated tears. That I was not a wet, emotional mess was, in a way, the most frightening aspect of it all. I was not hysterical, I was not irrational, I was either numb, tired, and defeated, or else trying to make a well-thought out decision about the matter of my suicide.

And yet, I feel like I’m being torn apart.

I am so far gone that I lack objectivity, and I don’t even know how to answer such basic questions as What do you want? What would make you happy?

I don’t want to call any friends because I don’t even know that I really have any, and those few acquaintances I have do not need to be burdened by my melancholy. I see it through their eyes, and understand completely. Why would anyone want to be around me? As I am right now, I could probably put a frown on Richard Simmons’ face. Poor guy would take up smoking, be drinking bourbon out of a paper bag and sit in the corner lamenting that it’s all fucked up… it’s all fucked up…

I don’t know what would make it better. I’m not sure I remember what better looks or feels like. I am failing at life. What is it normal people do with their time?

I don’t call people to get together, because I forget what it is people do with each other. Does that sound crazy?

I fear I may be insane. I have no memory of how to behave in social situations. I can go entire days without speaking more than a dozen words or so, and when I open my mouth to say something, the sound of my voice is so rough, foreign, and clumsy to me that I immediately shut my mouth.

I’ve lost all sense of social filters, and when I do speak, in those rare instances when I am with someone that engages me in some sort of conversation, then I talk too much, get too excited, too intense.

I hate what I’ve become, and I don’t know how to change it, or if it is even possible to change it.

I cannot see living like this for another 30 years or more.

I want to die.

But I am a coward.

And so I hate myself for my cowardice, and I feel guilty for feeling this way, and useless. Like the old joke of the person who jumps off a bridge trying to kill themselves, all the while yelling “I can’t do anything right!” and landing safely on a boat.

I can’t do anything right.

I wish that I was just being angsty and immature, and having a pity party for myself. The problem is, I’m not seventeen. I don’t lack perspective. I know now for sure that I’m going to struggle with this for the rest of my natural life, and while I can, from time to time, accept that and learn to deal with it — to accept it as part of myself, and even use it — channel it for art. But right now, in the midst of it, it feels like more than I can bear, and I feel like crying off — just tapping out and admitting defeat.

Part of me — an insanely selfish and stupid part — even says “hey, you know, if you kill yourself, maybe your art will live on.

But the fact of the matter is, if no one has heard of me now, the likelihood of someone discovering me after I’m dead is about as likely as Akiva Goldsman making a decent adaption of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. (Seriously, what the hell is that all about? His most recent film, A Winter’s Tale, was a ridiculous mess. Also, Batman and Robin, anyone?)

And then there’s the resentment. When I make my list of reasons why I should kill myself and then my list of reasons why I can’t, I resent the hell out of the names or things on the list of reasons why I can’t.

“If it weren’t for _________ I could be put out of my misery.”

And then I feel awful and guilty about that resentment. I can’t win.

So, if it weren’t for __________ I would be free to destroy my life. I could quit my job, hop in a car and drive. I could have adventures until the money ran out, and then just self-destruct.

Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse.

It it weren’t for _________.

And I do have things that fill in that blank. I suppose you’re going to tell me that I should be thankful for that, and that I’m being ungrateful.

Why don’t you call me selfish, too, call me a heartless bitch, or — or— tell me that I shouldn’t feel this way, that I’m so talented, and such a wonderful person, and that I’d be missed.

As if this changes anything.

Thank you for your well-meaning concern, but the fact is, I know all these things — and STILL want to die.

So what’s wrong with me? Why don’t I know how to be normal?



Did you fall asleep?

Sorry, I didn’t mean to bore you.

Comments are closed. This isn’t a grab for attention, this is just a record of the state of my mind. If I disappear, temporarily or forever, at least you’ll know why.



One response to “Confession

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