Deathiversary

“You’re so optimistic!”

I’ve heard this several times before from several people over the years. Or, namely, the two years since I tried to kill myself. What I like to tell people is, “Optimism and pessimism are both free, but pessimism costs more.” It makes sense in a tautological sense, but the reason I tell myself that is because the idea doesn’t come naturally to me. I force myself into optimism because I don’t really like taking those little pills every day. They fuck with my ability to cum, and if I can’t cum, why live? And that’s not a thought I need in my head. So: forced optimism.

But it’s a lot darker than that.

The only reason I’m alive is because I’m too strong to kill myself. I have to deal with that every day: the dose was not strong enough, and, god damn, that was a strong dose. It’s a weird thing to think about as I wander through the world, feeling forlorn, and realizing that I have no exit plan. I don’t know if any of you dear readers have ever pondered this, but, me? I have no option but to see this shit out to the very end. And I am not looking forward to it.

I know I’m not supposed to romanticize suicide because I’m supposed to be “reformed,” but, man, fuck that, why can’t I think about this. Why is this taboo. I tried my hardest not to be here, but here I am. I’m doing this because I literally have no better option. Not even suicide. I can’t die my way out of here. I have to live through this shit. The rest of you? I bet none y’all even tried.

When I got out of the hospital and walked back into my room – blood everywhere. Pills scattered across the floor. Random bullets. The knife in my bed. Everything was chaos. I had to throw all that shit out because I didn’t want to lie back down on those sheets that were covered in blood. My mother, standing in the corner, so concerned, and me, still serotonin shocked, and reeling. The would-be murder scene.

So, I’m optimistic. How could I not be? I am one of the craziest, strongest, most vicious people I know, and not even I could kill me. I guess I should be optimistic. I mean – I, better than anyone out there, know what can hurt me. I know how to kill me. And I couldn’t do it. So – I literally have nothing to be afraid of. People who talk shit about me and sneer at me in the street act like I should be afraid, but, honey, I am the only person who can hurt me that badly. And I tried. And I failed. I think I might be invincible. Which is why I’m optimistic. If you want me out of here, you have to kill me. And it takes a lot to kill me. Trust me. I tried.

I have hope for the future. Worst case scenario: I die, and clearly I’m okay with that, so meh. Best case scenario: all this crazy shit I’m stabbing at actually pulls off, and then, poof, I’m happy, so that’s cool, too. Just please don’t suspend me in the in between.

Have you stared down the throat of your own mortality and come out alive? Can you judge me for trying to escape? Who here isn’t secretly hoping that we can just exit early? Trust me, I tried. I 12 muscle relaxers, 8 valium, 50 aspirin and half a bottle of whiskey tried. And I’m still here, and I’m still in it. If I can, you can. Shit’s not that bad.

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