Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Suicide: I hate myself and want to die

Not much new today. I'm depressed even after a poke. I started watching a movie about a writer who gains literary success for his first book, but the rest of his books are flops, and he ends up killing himself. So typical. I could see that ending coming a mile away. I gave up on Television and started reading Wild Boys by Burroughs again. Wild Boys isn't my favorite book, but its better than whats on TV. Every half hour I start to cry. I'm going to Chicago in a few hours, and I don't know if I can make the voyage. Plus the contact down there hasn't called me back to tell me if things are ready. I'm buying a rather large amount. 200 dollars worth. Almost two grams. I've been thinking of offing myself with this batch. It calms me down to think about the idea of killing myself. It makes me anxious to know I don't have the guts.

I need to shower, but can't bring myself to do so. I hate getting wet. Then having to let my hair dry. Perhaps I'll have another poke, and things will seem better. I use the word seem, because in reality things are shit, but with a chemical enhancement things seem less shitty. 

I keep putting my head in my hands. When I sigh I then inhale I can smell my own scent. I'm not so dirty as to stink. I just smell what my dog smells on me, a lot less intense though.

Let me go through my suicide fantasy. First my dad leaves for Arizona on Thursday. I'm left alone with Eleanor. I put out enough food for Eleanor until a week from Friday. I clean the whole house meticulously. I get really high on Friday night. I stay up 24 hours. I write my note, leaving behind my last request along with the songs I want played at my funeral.  All Elliott Smith songs. I feel they are soft, depressing songs, great for a funeral. I put out two pee pee pads for Eleanor so she has a place to go potty while I lie on floor dead. At noon on Friday I take an overdose of Clonazepam, Ambien, and Heroin, plus Methadone, I die an half hour to an hour later. Poor Eleanor doesn't understand what's going on. She probably lays by my cold body.  After a few days of my parents calling they call the police to check on me. My body is found, and I'm starting to decompose. Perhaps Eleanor has eaten parts of me. My parents come back to plan my funeral, Eleanor has someone to take care of her. (I thought about killing Eleanor with me, but I think that's even more selfish than killing myself)

Don't worry, I'm not going to do it.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

Couple of things:
Why do you want to go back on Methodone? Maybe you should go back and read some of your journals from that time, I thought you were pretty miserable. Plus you know it makes you gain weight, and will give you more of a physical addiction than heroin. Personally, I'd rather kick dope than meth.
Why are you so unhappy? You've got your psych meds, you've got a semi-reliable hookup for heroin, a place to live, food to eat, a family that loves you... And you're losing weight! You're writing more, and better, blogs. What is the problem? If you don't want to get clean (for real clean, in recovery, etc.) than what you have now is the best you can hope for.
Suicide is a selfish act, and leaving instructions for you're funeral is even more selfish. Funerals are for the living, they're the ones that have to deal with the wreckage, and the last thing they need to worry about is finding some playlist. They're not throwing you a birthday party. And you won't know anyway, so it doesn't matter.

Anonymous said...

fess up lady.your really a big mac addict.you made this all up too peddle your book.no junky I seen is as heavy as you.
I can send you a mcdonalds gift card for your habit.

John said...

I'm 13st 10lbs...

So I'm hardly skinny....

Gledwood said...

The bit about the dog eating bits of your dead body made me laugh and laugh. I'm sorry I have a sick sense of humour. I don't think your dying is funny, just that particular image of man's best friend tucking into her owner... very bizrre.

I have death ideation too so I can't really write something hypcritical about the world being wonderful because it's not.

I've heard of people stopping their psychiatric meds in order to get mania back. Maybe that would be helpful to you? Didn't you enjoy hallucinating? I certainly did. I didn't like the paranoia though and if I'd lived with anyone else I'd have certainly got taken down the nuthouse for making noises like a racing car (it was my manic brain revving up).

I'm not taking those antipsycho pills I'm supposedly on, because I felt so shit. Now they wanna give me a mood stabilizer. Which I don't want. As I want to be manic. I don't think there's a snowball's chance in hell of that ever happening again but I can always hope. It is the only hope left in my life.

I don't see any hope in writing as literature is dead. I hate the world, everything I loved about it is gone. It's all meaningless now. The only good thing that happened to me was when my cigarette lighter said "corned beef!" this morning.

Your book is really good, I will email you my opinion further.

I wish I could advise some amazing drugs or find some amazing mania machine on the internet. We could both do with being in a good mood.

I could try and borrow £15 this evening to buy 0.3g of gear but that will only prolong the misery till tomorrow when I still won't be able to use. Don't get jealous that heroin costs something like $80 a gram here ; I'm sure it's far crappier than what you buy.

I wish you wouldn't kill yourself but I can't tell you not to else I'd be making myself into a great fat hypocrite. Anyway take care. And don't get hung up on me lauging, it was just me being sick. I honstly don't think your dog would eat you. BTW you would need to put out dried food else the tinned stuff would get flies all over it.

Gledwood said...

I know that was a crap message I left before. Please don't be offended that laughed. Someone once laughed at me when I described committing suicide then waking up gazng into this white infinity thinking "oh is this what it's like to be dead!" then I realized I was floating in very cold water and the white infinity was just the side of the bath.

Please don't kill yourself. I didn't know what to say before, maybe I should have kept my big trap shut.

I feel like fried up dogshit today. Really really crap. I've had no gear today or yesterday. Ie none of the only antidepressant that works for me. My druggieworker said I wouldn't end up in the nuthouse because I "had so much insight into my condition" but that's bollocks. I knew I was depressed when I tried to kill myself the last 2 times and I genuinely wanted to die. I didn't dare reveal suicidal ideation that would really fuck me up.

If you want methadone you're best off finding a dual diagnosis clinic. Or what about that Norvic House thing you were going to go into?

Please email the thing that I asked for.

Valerie would say "chin up darling and stop talking to that Gledwood". Fucking cow that she is.

I've got to go I'm in the sourest of moods too. Wish I would fucking drop dead.

ps I'm going to put this on my blog butI'll tell you 1st. I was riding the busback from the supermarket having this repeated fantasy about finding an eighth of gear wrapped in black plastic. In my dream I tore open the bag and the most intense smell of heroin enveloped me.

Anyway I got off the bus and deliberately walked through the back alley where heroin would most likely to be stashed. I have found heroin in alleys twice before (ain't London great). There was an old door lying on its side, poking out was ~ guess what! ~ BLACK PLASTIC. I grabbed it and found an unopened quarter bottle of vodka. Better than nothing I suppose. But nowhere as good as heroin.

How weird is that??

Anna Grace said...

Don't worry Gledwood, that part about eleanor eating me was suppose to be funny.

I'm glad someone noticed.