suicide

I wonder, with all the flowers in the garden, how many of them ever think of hanging themselves with the garden hose, if ever they can.

The worst pain I had to face is the fight with myself. I'm unsure who to rout for, because they both want what__ best for me.

I want to say that yes, it was worth it; that I could suffer through pain and torture for her and go through a lot more than what Puck and his friends are capable of, and I can do it for all of eternity; suffer, until she realizes how much I love her. But she__ gone before I can say any of it. I wait till she__ left.And then I reach for my wallet.Hidden inside one of the flaps is a piece of paper that barely conceals a razorblade. Its frayed edges still have my blood on them. The blood is from the previous cuts I__e made and I carry it around like a trophy, like Dexter carries around his victims_ blood on slides. I use that blade to give myself a cut and it starts bleeding. Right away, it feels as though the pressure that has been building inside me ever since that confrontation with Puck is lifted. I feel free again.

There__ nothing.Nothing to hold on to while the current takes me.Whatever I might have had until today, I__e lost.I feel my love for her, swelling; bloating into something that__ about to explode, like an abscess that__ been allowed to rot for too long, but the pain drowns it so completely I know I__ never coming back out. This feeling, that you__e choking and that your body is underwater, immersed in the ocean, a dense flood that overpowers your breathing abilities, and your will to survive gets drowned right along with it. And as I__ drowning I see her face and hear her voice__nd it doesn__ give me hope, it terrifies me. I__ terrified because I know she__ going to be the death of me. I__ terrified because I know I won__ be able to cope. I__ terrified because the darkness is the only true friend I__e ever had and if it wants to embrace me I don__ have the power to make it stop.

The writer__ life is frightful. I have experienced deep dispair, mental ill and attempt of suicide.

There's no saving him from his deep hole. There's no saving me from my black slug.

In those moments, none of it matters. It__ like that stuff is happening to someone else because all you feel is dark inside, and that darkness just kind of takes over. You don__ even really think about what might happen to the people you leave behind, because all you can think about is yourself.

When they ask me why I jumped off the roof of my brother__ apartment building, I will tell them it was because I wanted the sky to mourn me.And because I wanted to know what it feels like to hit something so hard it shatters me into bits that they can never sew back together.

I can feel everything. And I want to keep feeling everything. Even the painful, awful, terrible things. Because feeling things is what lets us know that we're alive.

Suicidal pain includes the feeling that one has lost all capacity to effect emotional change. The agony is excruciating and looks as if it will never end. There is the feeling of having been beaten down for a very long time. There are feelings of agitation, emptiness, and incoherence. 'Snap out of it and get on with your life,' sounds like a demand to high jump ten feet.

Suicidal pain includes the feeling that one has lost all capacity to effect emotional change. The agony is excruciating and looks as if it will never end. There is the feeling of having been beaten down for a very long time. There are feelings of agitation, emptiness, and incoherence. "Snap out of it and get on with your life," sounds like a demand to high jump ten feet.

I wonder what it will feel like when all the lights go off and everything is quiet forever. I don't know if it will be painful, if in those last moments I'll be scared, but all I can hope is that it will be over fast. That it will be peaceful. That it will be permanent.

I think about Finch and Sir Patrick Moore and black holes and blue holes and bottomless bodies of water and exploding stars and event horizons, and a place so dark that light can't get out once it's in.

Yes, I'm broken. And yes, he's broken. But the more we talk about it, the more we share our sadness, the more I start to believe that there could be a chance to fix us, a chance that we could save each other.

Despair, grief, and depression are not things that people can simply stop, any more than someone can will an end to a toothache or the pain of withdrawal. Acutely suicidal people have lost all sense of having power over their pain. To tell them to magically acquire will power is like asking a crippled person to race against a champion. It does not help them do the thing in question; it just makes them feel worse.

Do you believe in other universes? Do you think there's another dimension where we're happy?

Both the suicidal and non-suicidal are often angry with others. One way to discharge this anger is to fantasize about violent revenge. The insults of daily life often cause fantasies of revenge to flare up and quickly subside. The people with these fantasies usually do not act on them; they are not motives or goals. They are involuntary responses to perceived insult__ays of coping with rage. The suicidal, whether or not they attempt, suffer tremendous and persistent pain and anger. That this pain should find its way into their fantasies and dreams is no surprise. This ideation is not a motive for action; it is an alternative to action. Fantasizing about suicide is an effort to delay or avoid suicide, not the activity of formulating a motive, goal, or intention. Fantasies doubtlessly succeed in preventing many attempts.

In my room, in the dark, I understood what I never had before, what no one else seemed to. I understood how a boy could go into the woods with a bullet and a gun and not come out. That there was no conspiracy, no evil influences or secret rituals; that sometimes there was only pain and the need to make it stop.