Anonymous Woman writes shitty confessional about her casual suicidal ideation:

Every ten minutes or so my brain says “Hey man, maybe you should kill yourself” and then cut scene to:

Listen my guy, maybe just straight up die

ANONYMOUS WOMAN crosses the road and is slammed by a car: death.

ANONYMOUS WOMAN takes a gun, puts it in her mouth and pulls the trigger creating a fine mist of blood: death.

ANONYMOUS WOMAN opens the window of her dorm room and jumps out and hits the ground: death.

Fantasizing is followed by: sudden rush of dopamine. It feels good to contemplate nonexistence.

For the brief price of never again existing in the physical plane, you too can escape all your problems, the terrible apathy that dogs all your decisions, the complication of relationships and friendships and when you are dead nothing you have done matters and you can exist in people’s memories as perpetual if, that brief lovely spark of potential.

Thinking about nonexistence, thinking about the gore and viscera of my body hitting ground while I am gone, that makes me happy. It sends a brief hit of fear and excitement and anticipation to my brain.

And it’s very weird — thinking about your own death is, in fact, thinking about the reaction to your death as opposed to thinking about the death itself that is to say: the aftermath is unknown but the continuation of everyone else’s lives is not and it is always a good thing when people recognize your existence — even postmortem. Or so someone I read in my Lit Theory class wrote, three semesters ago. I don’t remember the author’s name. I don’t care to look it up.

But anyway, to get back to my original point, every ten minutes or so — and this is on the bad days, mind you, not the really bad days, the really bad days are minutes apart, continued loop of PULL TRIGGER SLAM FLOOR in perpetuum — I think “hey man maybe I should go kill myself.”

I fantasize about running into the road when I’m waiting for the light to change. I live in the city and there are many crosswalks.

Here is the unfortunate thing: I do not know whether I am serious or not. Is this:

  1. Suicidal ideation, which will eventually grow exponentially into a full blown suicide.
  2. Overdramatic falsehood.
  3. Genuine desire to be dead coupled with genuine understanding that death is irreversible
  4. Narcissism and the desire to fuck up a bunch of people’s psyches, assuming that more than 5 people (Mom, Dad, handful of friends) will be more than superficially upset.
  5. Appropriation of mental illness and general hypochondria.
  6. Compulsive ideation of my death, but uncoupled with desire.
  7. Some combination of all the above.

But lets call it a casual, passive and impotent suicidal ideation, for the sake of giving something classification, even if arbitrary.

Here’s the real question, I suppose: do I want to die?

I write suicide notes. I save them in my google drive. I compare them to what real suicide notes are supposed to sound like. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, apparently my notes still think too much about the future, they do not dwell on the mundane grind of daily life enough, they do not sound defeated enough. They sound melodramatic, sarcastic, overblown. I am, in life, melodramatic, sarcastic, overblown — at least some of the time.

Here are the only ways you are allowed to talk about suicide:

  1. You can make outrageous jokes about it in what is termed deliberate falsehood.
  2. You can talk about it intensely seriously, with all the feelings and emotions that it entails.

Neither of these are conversations I particularly want to have. I have no use for people having emotions at me. I don’t want the student counseling services to be called on me. I don’t want to be taken seriously with this, I am not at risk for suicide despite my continued fantasies. I don’t want my friends to walk on eggshells. I have friends with real problems: diagnosed anxiety/depression/whatever. I have self-diagnoses and the internet and an inability to take anything seriously or give something the gravity it deserves.

I do not think this topic deserves gravity. There are only two outcomes: Either I want to kill myself or not, and in either case I have no plans to actually go through with the outcome for four years, minimum. I set a date for consideration of the subject. This affects no one’s life (or lack thereof) but my own.

How do you know if your desire to kill yourself is real? How do you bring it up?

When I am not happy I do not remember what happiness feels like. I remember that it exists. I do not remember why it matters. I am mostly exhausted most of the time. I do not like anything I am doing. I have tremendous trouble mustering enthusiasm for anything. Massive trouble caring.

Oftentimes the emotion drains out of me like sand: I will be at dinner with my friends and suddenly none of them matter and the situation is patently ridiculous and I would like to go home and sleep in my bed please and thank you. None of this is new. I do not think this is related.

It would be nice to know whether I really do want to kill myself. It is the uncertainty, pardon the pun, that is killing me. If I knew that I wanted to kill myself, then I would deal with that. If I knew that I was being a melodramatic appropriating asshole, I would deal with that as well. But as it is, I just try not to think about it, and then start thinking about the crunch of bone and the lights going out and blood on the floor and goodbye fuckers I’m gone.

It would also be acceptable to only think about dying once or twice a day. Multiple times an hour — multiple times a minute — is pushing it.

Is the fact that I’m writing this proof that I do or do not want to be dead? My mind leans toward the latter. If I wanted to be dead I guess I would be thinking about wanting to be dead, without thinking about the reasons behind it all the time.

So then, last question: Why can’t I stop thinking about being dead?