Another year, another cry-for-help suicide attempt. On Friday night, I took about twenty Valium and mixed bleach and ammonia in a bucket. I locked myself in the closet with the fumes and stuffed a towel under the door.

And then I called Amanda, to tell her I was sorry. She called 9-1-1, and before I knew it, I was in an emergency room drinking charcoal. (Talk about a cure that's worse than the disease. The valium probably wouldn't have killed me anyway, and it turns out those fumes aren't fatal, just profoundly irritating.)

I'm not happy that I lived. I'm not relieved. I'm even a little mad at my friend for calling the ambulance. I'm not about to try again, because I will surely fail again, and just hate myself more. If I can't succeed in killing myself, then I might as well concentrate on trying to make this life of mine more bearable.

I am intelligent. I know this. I have skills. I'm aware of that. On some level, I know that I can accomplish almost anything I set my mind to. But the ability I don't have is the ability to take pride in those accomplishments. The ability I lack is the ability to feel positively about myself. I can do anything I want to do - except give myself a fucking break.

Relapse

I'm in a bit of a downward spiral. It's unfortunate. I feel like I need to make changes in my life, but I can't really think of anything to do that I'm not already doing.

When I try to imagine what sort of life might possibly make me happy, this is what I imagine: Making a modest living from writing, not needing a day job, putting on free theatre like I used to in the Coffeehouse basement, having a small circle of close friends, dating someone, and having access, but not ownership of, some sort of vehicle.

But I'm not sure any of those things will ever happen again. And that's what makes me wish I were dead. Well, that and many other things. The fact that Christmas is a week away certainly doesn't help things. But don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself before the holidays. I will at least hold out until New Year's.

Wow, that was a lot of honesty. I think I have to go throw up now.

I wish I was dead

Admit it. You do, too.

the unknowable mysteries

My worst fears are confirmed. Everyone is heartless.

No matter how emotional and passionate and sweet and straightforward and loving someone seems to be... they are really only doing what is convenient.

Everyone just does whatever is easiest, from one moment to the next.

Long Story Short

I'm really stuck.

Holding Back

I used to have a friend who was crazy. She was crazy in some of the ways that I am crazy, but she was more histrionic. Sometimes she was manic, funny and adventurous. When she was depressed, she would lash out at anyone around her. I started to resent her, because she would yell at people when they - we - were trying to help her.

I realize now that I didn't hate her. I envied her. Because she expressed what she felt. She was able to yell when she was angry. Maybe it means she was a bitch, maybe it means that she couldn't hold on to any friends, maybe it condemned her to a solitary existence. But she was lucky, in a way. She expressed every thought and feeling she had. She probably felt guilty about it afterwards. She apologized. Some people never forgave her. But when she felt like shit, she spoke up. When she was angry, even at the people who were trying to help, she said so.

She was free.

I will never be free in that way. I am chained to my ideas about what it means to be a good person. I can only swallow my anger and let it rot me from the inside. It is probably for the best. Still. Sometimes I wish that I could be selfish, too. I wish I could hurt the people who have hurt me, and not give a fuck about their goddamned feelings.

Lame (adjective) -

Today, Seth called me at work. He asked me how I was feeling. The first - and really, only, response that came to mind was: Lame. I feel lame. I don't just mean that I feel like I'm lame as in uncool, or that I feel like my day is lame and my life is lame (definition 4). I feel like I'm defective (definition 2).

Still. This is considerably better than I have been feeling so far this week.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Lame.
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Tonic - Wicked Soldier
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Joanne Greenberg

I hated The Fountainhead. Loathed it. Despised it. I don't even really remember anything about the book, except a scene, toward the beginning. The hero is sitting in a boat with his friend, and he tells his friend that if he fell out of the boat, he would risk his life to save him. "I would die for you," the hero says, "But I won't live for you."

Suicide is considered such a selfish thing. I'm supposed to live out my life, no matter how unbearable it becomes... so that I don't hurt the people who love me.

Maybe it's selfish of them to ask me to suffer for them.

I can't stay here, and I have nowhere else to go. I don't have any choices left.

The Freedom of Nothing Left to Lose

I used to think that I was talented. I thought that I was special. And it was a reason to get up in the morning. I thought I had something to offer the world. Something important. But I was wrong. I'm not talented. I don't even have any potential. I will never create anything of beauty or significance. At first, this hurt me, but now I realize that I should be relieved. If I don't have a gift, then I don't have a destiny, or a calling, or a purpose. I am free. Free to live or die.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: Mediocre
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: The Smiths - Asleep
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Joanne Greenberg