|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|24 Nov 2003||Chris||Nasty things have a way of happening even though intentions may be a compilation of the very best. Think of parents saying and doing shit that they think make you happy but in fact they depress you so much. Think of the Chinese government. They thought their one child per couple scheme was going to take care of over population. What they didn't count on was the creating of a mind-boggling number of Chinese only children all being spoiled by their own parents and extended family.
Today's kids are competing in the spoilt child olympic games. Qualifying for the spoilt child olympics takes energy, grit and dtermination, with continous support and cheering on by stupid doting parents and grandparents. Kids are becoming rulers of the here, there and everywhere, including street, school, house and the bathroom. And their expectations are high and lordly, expecting an all singing, all dancing performance from even the most mundane object, such as the bloody automatic toothbrush. (Everythiing's gone automatic, they'll probably soon invent an automatic ass cleaner!). Giiven that the only physical exercise most children get these days is brushing their teeth, why give them toothbrushes that do all the work? It won't be long before they will be demanding automatic contraptions to blow their noses for them.
Kids even dictate eating family habits, with cereals created to resemble little waffles and fried potatoes in the shape of super little heroes. They also dictate what stories to be told before going to sleep and the choice always falls on bloody Harry Potter or such like. Parents might either comply by ferrying their children to activities, sheering offspring and keeping them and their clothes clean, or they can avoid this by encouraging children to take up a variety of hobbies. These will keep kids occupied, and parents poor! Any form of rebellion from the parents would only lead to historic shedding of tears. Extra points in the spoiled child olympics are always given for children turning blue in the face or throwing up.
And there go the parents, buying useless shit for the kids again. And are the kids ever happy? No, they are not! There's nothing else that these kids can do in life because everything is ready made. There's nothing original. Their stupid parents just want them to do well in their exams. Some of the kids cannot make it. Those who do are covered with gifts. Those who don't are jealous for the gifts. There's a lot of shouting, screaming and crying from both parents and kids. No one is happy. Parents work kard to get money. Kids don't really give a fuck, they get what they want, get pissed with it, break it and forget all about it. When they reach that special age of thirteen they have either adopted the face with the stupid smile of senseless happiness or either have adopted the sad, depressed suicidal face. Then there are a few like me and most of you who all they need is a damn good hug, a damn good kiss, a damn good day and some damn good love and I will live.
I know what you're thinking. Aren't most of us of a young age? So are you saying we are spoilt, stupid brats? No friends, I'm not saying that. From what I read here I realise that we are the people who know what real life is. We've seen and felt pain and we are still living through it. And I can hardly say I always got what I want. I think I have always been reasonable but others do not want to be reasonable with me. With me, it's always less rather than more. Believe me, I never wanted more. I'm proud that I'm not a spoilt man with a goddamn stupid face with a stupid smile.
It's quite terrifying when a three year old appears to be the most powerful person in a room. It's equally frightening to see that all primary school children have computers, televisions in their rooms, all totemic of parents over-compensating for their own less idyllic childhood. Not to mention birthday presents for four year olds which include mobile-phones to talk to their friends, anytime, anywhere. What happened to the odd bicycle race around the block or an evening spent in lazy corners as means of communication. Call me so 20th century again but this shit is making kids more depressed and suicidal. The children's appetite for whatever the market offers is also created by the market itself which targets children as the new, all powerful consumer group. No wonder Gucci has recently launched its new children's range, with a mink coat or a leather jacket on offer for just 1,125 pounds! This is the price we are paying for a 24-7 society where things to buy are on offer any time of the day, from actual or online shops. It's the price we are paying for having more money and being more affluent. Put unparalleled affluence alongside a willingness to indulge, and you have the most sad, spoilt generation ever brought up. Blame the parents, and Freud.
But their sadness has no real basis, not like us. Life is just sad for them. You know why? The very accomplishments and good fortune parents so despeartely desire to share with their children put them at risk. The body cannot learn to adapt to stress unless it experiences it. Indulged children are often less able to cope with stress because their parents have created an atmosphere where their whims are indulged, when they have always assumed that they are entitled to everything and that life should be a bed of roses, something which we all here have known all along. The spoilt kids will get to know it later, and disappointment can be greater. Spoilt children grow into arrogant car drivers who bump their way through traffic as if the road was theirs.
I don't think we want more of that. Life is already too depressing. So you see we have a shithead generation that came before us and a shithead generation coming after us. Are we perfect? Of course we ain't but I don't rule out being the best. When you want to think positive think: 'I'm not the one who should commit suicide, the rest of the human poulation should'. Impossible, but nice!
P.S. Asshole, sorry to say this but you chose the perfect name, because you talked like an..... asshole. I never said or tried to show that I know everything. Actually, I barely know anything. Just enough to feel the pain and be real. And another thing. (What I'm going to say has already been said but it's worth telling again). Look up suicide kit in your dictionary of choice and what do you find? Hey, presto....nothing! (If you are so keen on references look back on the site for someone named Phil/Lucy for the exact quote) So I write what I feel and if there is someone being shallow, narrow and naive, I think it's you! As our Phil/Lucy friend would have said, don't talk pap!
Mauvais, Harry, Leanne, etc I love you but can you reduce the 'wonderful writer' talk please? It's nice to know that someone reads this shit and cares, but say different stuff.
Love u all
See ya, and don't be spoilt kids....
|22 Nov 2003||MauvaisSouhait2Harry||You're right, Chris is an amazing writer. He puts all of his thoughts and feelings into what he says. But he shouldn't have to cut anything from the way he writes. When he writes about suicide he's writing his emotions, his thoughts and i'm sorry but i enjoy reading things such as this rather than magazine articles that talk all about sex tips and "how to get the right guy". He writes real, he writes how real life is. That is something no one should take away or stop doing. Chris, please go on writing exactly what u feel and think, i love reading ur comments.|
|20 Nov 2003||Harry||This is for Chris - you have a talent for writing. Thought you should know. Cut the bit about suicide and you could have been in any magazine of your choice.|
|19 Nov 2003||asshole||*Chris* ---for all to see---
If you only knew what it was like to actually fucking hate yourself from the inside out... you may actually have feelings, understanding, intelligence and all that other blah blah blah... I think you should off yourself and save mankind since you're so fucking full of yourself. Here's a psychology lesson, so take note: a man who thinks he knows everything, knows nothing. A man that realizes that he can't ever grasp all there is to know, knows much. When someone pats your back and tells you how smart you are, think about who that person is, references count. About suicide, the main topic, your take on it is, to me, blatantly narrow/shallow and naive. Grow up (the # of years you have been alive does not count). Just for reference:
"We want to die. But on the other hand we are the only people who know the secret for living forever and remaining young forever. If you commit suicide at 18, you will remain 18 forever, sexy and oh so lovely as I am sure you all are! So hail to our eternal youth, life, death and suicide! Let's keep our little beauty secret for ourselves and tell all the others to fuck off."
|18 Nov 2003||drowning in a sea of mediocrity||Ha. Lucy! Oh, you sound so silly. Go play with dolly now, schweedie. Ha.
Chris: You are not, boring, bog standard Chris. You sound safe as fuck to me. Haha. And remember, kids, it does get better. But you don't need me to tell you that.
|18 Nov 2003||MauvaisSouhait||Thanks Chris, i really hope to read another e-mail from you. as for today its horrible. im ready to end it all. i've been crying my eyes out and its so bad they're swollen and all puffy. I got really upset and hit my wall. i think my knuckle may be broken. my head is pounding immensely. Not a good thing. I know Chris doesn't want me to die. But who knows.. Just write me back. i miss u|
|17 Nov 2003||Steve||I love your posts, Chris. They're unique in that you take some time to introduce your topic so that you can relate to the reader. Each one is like reading a magazine article, except you and I both know you never get a decent lesson in morality out of a magazine article. Keep up the good work. It's unfortunate that I won't be able to read them anymore when/if I finally go through with killing myself.|
|16 Nov 2003||Chris||Until this morning, I can honestly say I didn't give much thought to my chin, unless I was in the process of shaving it. It seemed a perfectly adequate chin, something for my lower lip to rest on while I was watching television, but otherwise nothing to write home about. Going by the most basic criteria, I thought I had a fairly normal chin that would get an average mark if it sat for exams! But that was before I took my eyes for a walk in a men's glossy and they fell on an article about chin implants, dealing with the modern problem men face when their weak chins are seen as a portrayal of a weak character. Now I can't stop looking at my chin and everyone else's, and even caught myself greeting another member of the species with "Hey buddy, nice chin", as he grinned his way down the street.
Until now, I can only say I only gave some thought to my chin. Now I've started noticing my eyes, nose and ears too. A weak chin (whatever a weak chin is really) can be disguised under a three weeks growth but what about weak eyes or weak ears. Call me so 20th century, but the thought of having a chin implant makes me go a little weak at the knees. Oh my god, do I have weak knees too? But I do realise I am in a minority. Plastic surgery hasn't quite taken off to some extremes all over the world as it has in America, but business is booming and many are in search of a better body through a quick nip and tuck. More are just waiting for the word that it's completely safe, and they would be in the surgery's waiting room in a flash, eager to have their wrinkles and lines zapped away like magic and their lips grown a fuller shade of luscious.
Thankfully, most of us do not have a national characteristic to hide from. Otherwise, we would follow Chinese women who are having their eyelids sliced open and restitched to create a western-style fold. (Believe me, I don't know why the fuck they are doing it! I know some very sexy Chinese girls with Chinese eyes). South Asians who prefer their stronger noses reduced and tilted at the tip. In some other countries the national characteristic is emphasised rather than downplayed- Brazil, where plastic surgery was pioneered by Professor Ivo Pitanguy, is a typical case.
We live in a surgical age. Almost everybody is doing it, a nip here, a tuck there, a syringe of Botox in between. Cosmetic surgery in the world today is like sex in the Victorian era, everyone is doing it but we're too ashamed to talk about it. Silicone is a logical extension of the developed world's consumer culture- growing affluence, the economic dependence of the individual and the acceptibility, even admiration, at spending so much time, money and attention on our appearance. We go to the gym, dye our hair, bleach our teeth, and cosmetic surgery is fast becoming just the next step along the path all around the world.
In America, women of all ages and from all walks of life are well and truly hooked on surgery, and the latest thing to do with your best friend is no longer shopping or a holiday, but sharing the experience of cosmetic surgery. The latter is fast becoming an extension of the high-maintenance lifestyle, especially of busy American women who treat their appearance as a tool.
On the other side of the Atlantic, hundreds of Britons are taking holidays in South Africa and coming home looking years younger, owing more to the surgeon than the sun. Botox injections to remove forhead wrinkles, liposuction, tummy tuck, nose jobs, blow jobs (oops, that's not why you go to a surgeon), eye lifts and breast surgery are all surging in popularity, especially with women. Men like to have less extensive work.
Like it or not we do judge, and are judged by appearance. It would be lovely if we lived in a utopia where everybody accepted everyone's looks but we don't. And although we may complain about the commodification of the body, it's only an extension of the premium that we have always placed on good looks. We worship the cult of apperance before substance. We judge and are judged on appearance. Not only attractiveness, but qualities such as friendliness, intelligence and honesty are all seen as deficient in the plain or plain ugly, enhanced in the good looking. So the fact that beauty can be bought at a price not only leads to a happy transformation of the body, but can also be an injection of confidence to our personalities. Our personalities are not just affected by our looks, but created by them. Improved looks promise promotions at work or prospects of love and maybe some of us may feel so down because we think that we do not look good.
Well, why have I been saying all this? I think you all realise that what these people are doing is try to preserve their youth for as long as they can. These people want to live forever. They don't feel that at 40 they should replace mini skirts and thongs with extremely long skirts and normal boring panties. We want to die. But on the other hand we are the only people who know the secret for living forever and remaining young forever. If you commit suicide at 18, you will remain 18 forever, sexy and oh so lovely as I am sure you all are! So hail to our eternal youth, life, death and suicide! Let's keep our little beauty secret for ourselves and tell all the others to fuck off.
I hope this put a smile upon your faces. Recently I was reading this interview of this younger than me person (about 15). He presents a show on tv and he keeps bragging over it and about how beautiful his life is and about all his girlfriends that he went out with and where he keeps all his love letters (yes, he already seems to have had a lot and I have had none!) and how much he loves religious relaxing music and how religious and at peace with himself he is and how sweet and how he thinks that girls masturbate so much thinking about him and how many plans for the future he has, blah, blah, blah! I am exactly the opposite but strangely, it is at times like these that I feel so proud of being myself, normal, boring, lonely bog standard Chris. He sounds so artificial. He is just another sheep from the herd which is the human race, stupid face, stupid smile, stupid ideas and stupid everything. We are the black sheep (and we should be proud of it). I'm down to earth and realistic at least. Let this boy fuck off! And my chin will remain the same and the rest of my body will do too. I want flesh and not plastic and who doesn't like it can fuck off!
P.S Mauvais, I got your e-mail. Lovely! I will send back and answer your questions so hang in there my dear Donielle.
Leanne, you were right. It is so ironic to tell people to hold on more when you know that your own personal wish is to end it all. Maybe I do it out of jealousy but I am sure that I do it out of love too. I love you so much I don't want to lose you. If I was sure that after this life ends there is something better I would really encourage everyone to end his life as soon as possible but I don't know. Well, now I feel much more mixed up..... sorry!
Luv u xxxxxx
See ya in eternal life/death...
|12 Nov 2003||mauvaissouhait||Chris, i am sorry to say that i never recieved your e-mail.. Try again will you please? subject it Chris2donielle. maybe that would help. i need to comfort of your words at this very moment. im just at the point where im ready to try one last time to end all the pain and suffering. Chris.. an e-mail, being able to talk to u more might help. just maybe...|
|11 Nov 2003||Leanne2Chris||I think about you too.
But things are getting hard. I've spent my days taking tablets (not attempts). Punishing myself for being unprepared. Unprepared at the fact I can't take it lying in bed wondering what the fuck is happening to Mauvais. When I thought she went, it was just like the time I thought Just A Girl went (and thank christ she's still here). It's also just like the time when Gay Punk and Will among others decided to disappear off the face of the earth.. I mean... WHERE ARE THEY?!
I figured 'Leanne, HELLO!- It's a fucking suicide site. Whether I like it or not, these things are going to happen. People will come and some will go.' I can't take it.
I cherish the fact you Chris are still here, and you Mauvais, but it also breaks my heart you guys and others want to fade away, in the same way I want to fade away... I almost did... if only I increased the dosage.
I'm losing the will, the energy and the love to live. I put pressure on Just A Girl when I told her how much I loved her entries. I'm not prepared to do that again to others. It puts pressure on me in turn.
I'm in a desperate search to restore my faith in myself. I wasn't strong before, but I'm even weaker now.
I'm trying Chris, but as you all know, it's hard all on your lonesome.
|09 Nov 2003||Chris||Rejoice, Mauvais is still with us. For a change I could remove a burden off my shoulders so I e-mailed at once but she never e-mailed back. What's wrong luv? I see you are asking us if you should try again. Can you just hang in there some more, we love you. How do you hang in there? er, just think stupid thoughts, read and memorise stupid information and do stupid things. Sounds complicated and stupid? I'll try to explain...
There are two types of mind, one which absorbs knowledge selecting it and sifting the incoming information, retaining the really useful stuff for later retrieval and appreciation in order to become wiser and more successful in life. And then there is brain-type two, which for no known reason does the opposite, dumping anything useful or worthwile but hanging onto other pieces of useless rubbish it encounters. The reason I will never drive a Jaguar, dress French expensive suits and take my holidays in the Bahamas is obvious... I have a type-two intellect, desperately clinging onto the useless while promptly losing any knowledge which could be translated into hard cash. For a while a few years ago, when the game Trivial Pursuit was launched, the fact that I could churn out useless information was quite handy and I enjoyed a brief period when the pursuit of the trivial seemed like an achievement, but sadly the craze soon died down. Recently the internet has played an increasingly big role in the lives of people like me. It is a bottomless pit of the most useless information imaginable, and rarely a day passes that doesn't see the influx of more absolutely useless information into my mailbox.
Here are some that arrived the other day. Read them and then ask yourself if you would like the type of brain that told you that they are worth committing to memory... The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time TV were Fred and Wilma Flinstone. It's impossible to lick your elbow. The first novel ever written on a typewriter was Tom Sawyer. If a statue in the park of a person on a horse has both front legs in the air, the person died in battle. If the horse has one front leg in the air the person died as a result of wounds received in battle. If the horse has all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes. In Shakespeare's time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase: "Goodnight, sleep tight".
It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4000 years ago that for a month after the wedding, the bride's father would supply his son-in-law with all the mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based this period was called the honey month. Today we use the phrase: 'honeymoon'. In English pubs, ale is ordered in pints and quarts. So in old England, when customers got unruly the bartender would yell at them to mind their own pints and quarts and settle down. It's where we get the phrase: mind your P's and Q's...
Still have not got it yet? Well it can take your mind off suicide for some time. Er, can't explain further! Just hang in there some more Mauvais and please tell me that you got my e-mail and if you want I told you how to get mine!
P.S Leanne, are you still there? You used to write often and it has just been some time since you last wrote. I think about you. xxxxxx
See ya great thinkers!
|09 Nov 2003||Chris age 12||Well ive bin considerin followin all this advice on haow to kill yourself and i wanted to put my own advice in!
1. Ride yor bike head on with a semi.
2. Bake Anti Freeze in your Christmas cokkies.
3. Spray Wasp Spray in a plastic bag and stick it over your head with an elastic bag.
|09 Nov 2003||amorvincensculpa||I have some trouble with words. Words of existence. 'Your' is a word of posession (sp?) nothing else; it means somebody else owns something, as in 'your life' not mine, not the government's, not my lover's, not a god's, yours and yours alone, to have or not to have. As you so choose. As I so choose. 'You're,' on the other hand, is a word of existence, meaning you are, and nothing else. It was Mauvais' choice. I respect that. It's my choice. Words can't touch what you are going through or what Mauvais is or was going though. I'm sorry, very sorry that happened. Between I and You, Chris? I know what that feels like--how horrible that is, when you have to trust that the other person won't saw you in half because they can. When they can give and you can give and somehow this other thing like light and common blood (even if there's no physical contact) happens.
I am sitting here and I realize that I can't tell whether that's the sound of the fan over my bed or the wind going through my soul, if I have one. He's at work, and I'm at home. I am alive because I don't want to hurt him, and I have somebody to hold, but beyond all reason with a knowing I can't explain, I must be dead. It feels like a waste of resources; I feel like it is my destiny to die by my own hand.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore-
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load
Or does it explode?
What do you think, Chris? I think I could kill myself the best just by being me. Either way I'm gone, or it's all gone, or you're gone, or we're gone, my question is: now or later? I don't know if I'm dead inside or not. Where did my dreams go?
ee cummings said dying is perfectly normal, reasonable, "but death, oh baby i wouldn't like death, if death were good."
Chris, you can't Do or Say anything to anyone that can really make them change their mind if they've decided to do something or say something or feel something. But I love regardless. I can't help it. I wish I could. I did die, physically and otherwise, once, by my own hand. It's not that hard, really, easier to do than you would think. When you stop thinking and feeling, that is. Or when you feel yourself into being dead. I think I can remember what happened. I just pressed a few buttons on my insulin pump, lost my mind, hallucinated, screamed over the phone at some poor guy I had met at a flea market, lost consciousness, went into seizures, and died. Someone found my body. I was brought back, somehow. Probably with glucagon--it's a hormone--anyway.
Edward Fitzgerald said, "The moving finger writes, and having written, moves on. Nor all your piety nor wit, can undo one line, or change a word of it." Timothy McVeigh said that, before he was put to death. Bill Clinton said that when he gave a press conference.
I will die soon. But matter can neither be created nor destroyed. That is the law of the universe. I choose DNR (look it up), but I'll always be a smear on somebody's back porch. Or a shadow in a cement apartment, dying alone, having planned it that way, among all my books and years' worth of matter. My question is, why do people who end their own lives have to die alone? Mauvais wasn't alone Chris--she had you with her. I would like someone with me when I go. I thought that was tonight. I feel like I'm being toyed with. But I don't want to go alone. I liked what you said, Chris. I'm sorry that Mauvais, or you, is hurting. The you chose to go, and the I chose to live. Or do we choose such things? The choice is ours. I don't think we choose to love. Love complicates things. My heart, as it is, is with you both. Take care in whatever you choose. To die by your own hand or to stay alive by your own hand, either way, you are living.
|04 Nov 2003||MauvaisSouhait||Chris, you'd be happy to know that what all those pills ended up doing to me is make me so sick i ended up throwing almost all of them up. Unfortunately i didn't die like i wished. But in those moments while i layed in my bed and prayed for the pills to take me quickly i thought of you and your caring towards me. After i'd thrown up a few times and there was nothing left in my stomach i fainted on the floor and im not sure for how long i was actually "out" but the moment i woke up i thought of you again chris and i was slightly glad to be alive because i want to be able to talk to you sometime. one on one. before i try again to kill myself. And about your dream. i would never make u leave, i would welcome u w/ open arms into my house and hope that you'd stay forever. I would never turn you away. I'd hope to be able to help you with w/e your problems were from now until our end. It is a shame tho that we didnt talk before i tried to kill myself just last week but maybe sometime soon before my next attempt. I love you chris and i'm glad for now that i didnt die. yet.
|04 Nov 2003||Chris||Shit just piles up, it's stinking and I'm deep in it. I just did another major fuck up. I promised Mauvais that we would talk and that I would e-mail and I never fucking did it. It was hard to find what to say to this girl. I really loved her and I really cared and I assumed (wrongly) that she wouldn't go before we would have talked. After all she came here fairly recently and most of us who have been talking about suicide for much longer have still not done it. But, alas, what can I do now except wish her luck? Like a priest who prays on someone who's dead or dying I'm going to try and make our last (exclusively mouchette.org, suicidal) 'prayer', 'words', call them what you like...
'Suicide is a person's attempt to give final human meaning to a life which has become humanly meaningless... Love does not cling to the I in such a way as to have the You only for its 'content', its object; but love is between I and You. The person who does not know this, with his very being know this, does not know love; even though he ascribes to it the feelings he lives through, experiences, enjoys and expresses. Love ranges in its effect through the whole world. In the eyes of him who takes his stand in love, and gazes out of it, men are cut free from their entangelment in bustling activity. Good people and evil, wise and foolish, beautiful and ugly, become successively real to him; that is, set free they step forth in their singleness and confront him as You.
Suicide is an act of communication from the dead to the living. It is man's only means, at this early stage of his development, to establish the telepathic communion which will eventually end his loneliness and crash through the barriers of pain he has created between the living and the dying. Only those who have chosen to die can unite the living and those living must try to achieve what others achieved in death. (That is why a hunger strike or threatining to kill yourself in some other way is the most powerful weapon of a persecuted minority). Confrontation with the dreadful truth that a person might wisely choose death is (or I hope will be in your case) an experience more productive of pity and terror and more purifying than the cathartic experience in tragedy.'
Well, where did that put me? Back to square one, I'm still standing in deep shit and I will have to carry this burden (piled up on all the others) through the rest of my life. And despite of all this shit I don't seem to have the balls to commit suicide. I know that there are some (and I mean very few) people who will be hurt and I just keep hoping (wrongly) that I would manage to get a new life. I feel I'm really stuck in a rut but suicide will hurt myself too. How can I do it? Will Mauvais ever forgive me? I think she shouldn't! Well, I wish her best luck, wherever she is and whatever she's doing, and I believe (and hope) that she would be wishing us best luck too.
B.I.H Chris (I think that's more appropriate than R.I.P) For those who haven't got it it's Burn In Hell!
P.S. I wish Mauvais was still around just to read this at least! Bye luv xxxxxxxxx
See ya all in hell!
|01 Nov 2003||MauvaisSouhait||oh mouchette, thankyou for being here and giving me a place to put my messages it was sweet, but now might be my end, i cant really feel too much right now, im only going to miss Chris, he was sweet tho i never knew him, and he never e-mailed me.. he was nice... i cared... i think im gonna be sick, i have to go now.
|31 Oct 2003||MauvaisSouhait||I finally did it... i just downed 3 bottles of advil and im home alone for the weekend. noone here to find me or to take me to the hospital. not that they'd care. Chris, i love u, thanks so much for being there, even w/out being here.|
|30 Oct 2003||Leanne||Chris, I was deeply offended. Offended by the fact I rejected you and ran away. When in this life, you're the only one I'd run towards.
I had this good dream once, this wonderful dream. It's short and sweet. I was back in the playground of my primary school. And whilst I'm there I notice that it's not the first time my dreams have took place here. Anyway, I'm in this corner where me&my imaginary friends always loved to hang out. I'm sitting down, my head in my hands and I hear people coming towards me (a rare thing, i must say). I look up and see people from my Highschool, together as ususal, smiling, laughing joking. I get up, dust the grit off my school uniform dress and I say in my quiet voice "Hey, you want a sweet?" "Sure." They reply in a unison. I grab the little box of sweets, flick the lid and offer them as much as they want. "No, we changed our minds, we don't want your sweets, you can keep em'." I look down and in my small 8yr old hand, I'm grasping a box of tic tacs. Only there were no tic tacs in there, but panadol tablets (paracetomol). "What's wrong with my sweets? Bunch of spoiled shitheads!" I yell to their backs. "Oh well, more for me!"
Unfortunatly, this is where I wake up. Back to this place, to my cluttered and dark room, back to my sanctuary. Short and very sweet.
Chris, we knew that was'nt you, a few days ago. 1) You dont have an email address and 2)... It just wasn't you! It wasn't the Chris we all know and love.
a still-very-offended Leanne xx
|29 Oct 2003||Chris||Unfortunately I didn't go on a permanent vacation Leanne. Well, at least there's someone who to live for (you). As I am still here I am going to relate this strange dream of mine. I let all the dream interpreters make what they want out of it...
I finally had gone on that permanent vacation. A body and it is my own body, arms folded across the chest in a coffin coming through a trap door into the dark boiler room of a crematorium where two fires glow behind grated doors. A man is taking the lid off the coffin and slinging the body across his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Then laying it on a moving platform like a baggage rack in an airport. The man is a hunch-back. As the body moves he picks up a heavy mallet. My body disappears into a huge tubular tunnel with lobster-backed rubber walls, and becomes jammed in the head of the tube. The hunch-back is crawling along the tube and bashing the body with the mallet to force it through the fire beyond. I seem to be standing in the boiler room yelling into the tube opening and the words echo back at me like a voice in a canyon: 'Don't burn me, bury me alive!'
And the hunch-back swinging the mallet trying to force my poor body and turning towards me, eyes wide and frothing mouth full of yellow teeth, and running headlong towards me brandishing the mallet but stumbling because he is running against the pull of the conveyor belt. And I must flee him. Running through the large boiler room past shovels and ashes to ashes, dust to dust and lime and coffins and flowers, orange flowers, ineffectual flowers, red flowers, cheap flowers, drooping flowers, black flowers, guilty flowers, ritual flowers strewn everywhere so that the dead may be forgotten and their bodies burned. The door is sealed but this is not the sealed door dream, no seal, only a handle and pulling it down desperately and the door opening.
Slamming the door and running but with graceful steps like a ballet dancer miming flight, leaping and pirouetting, gesturing to the fates across the paths and lawns 'I never promised you a rose garden as obscene as poppies in a war field fertilized by the brass plaques and the ashes of the dead and smoke rising from the windowed tower deceiving the victims like an Auschwitz bath-house.' And running through the roses, legs crashing painfully against the stakes towards the wall of memories, green and brown, Panel 69- Chris- In Loving Memory, and beyond the headstones and crosses and angels and the hunch-back is stumbling behind and falling into an open grave. In loving memory to the sweetest thoughts and treasured remembrance of my dear friend, Leanne and she is ahead of me now and I am pleading I want to make love to you, don't reject me but she is running away shouting 'mother-fucker you don't want me, you want your mother' and I am shouting 'goddamn my mother'.
Running across the unkempt graves and crashing into angels and a voice singing and I am dead as dead I may well be, come and find the place where I am lying and kneel and say an Ave there for me. In fond memory of mother sitting beside the headstone and it is mother sitting there crooning to a little boy whose head is buried in her warm bosom. Oh, Chris, I love you so but you don't love me. Please go away, you don't love me.
Running through the city in grief and despair to where there is a bronze statue of a horseman and the statue seems to move and I am fleeing with the shadow of the horseman behind and the rain pelts the window panes and the wind howls and the trees sway ominously and storm clouds sweep across the skyline and blacknight falls. The pounding hooves are behind me still and I am running up the street now past a man with the snow draping his shoulders. And the horse thunders closer but it is not a bronze horse. It is a grey horse and father is driving the horse standing up whip in one hand flaying the flanks of the foaming horse and a tomahawk raised in the other hand: 'Your mother is a bubble and you would never be sorry if I die.'
Rushing into the faded archway into a courtyard as dark as a prison cellar the horse thunders on the cobblestones. Fumbling with frantic fingers to show a policeman my passport or some other type of identifiction and asking him to help me I was ignored and the police kept escorting a man with covered eyes and gagged mouth. I arrived at a stairs. Bounding up the stairs shouting Mauvais Souhait's name to a flat on the right and it has twin holes (like it has been shot at) drilled in the door and a door jamb through which a thick wire is threaded and clamped with red seal and I am clawing at the seal and calling 'Mauvais, Mauvais'.
The door seems to loosen and rattle when I drag on the seal and suddenly it opens and a young woman with a bloodless face in black and white gown and slipppers saying that she's got work to do. From the doorway I can see a child maybe three years old (maybe Mauvais' sister) and the woman running to and fro like a magpie trying to keep up with all life and kids bring, throwing objects into the cot: butter, buscuits, a fountain pen, bread, socks, a doll which lies on its back and cries and a real live baby in another cot cries with it and the world is a baby's cry that has no end and nothing exists outside it. The woman comes to the door again and says: 'you must go now for we are enemies of all the people in the world now and if they find us they will kill us both!'. She slams the door and it reseals itself and I claw at the seal until my fingers bleed. The door rattles but the seal will not come off...
It was only a dream and I woke up in bed my fingers bleeding around dirty nails, scratching at the framework of the bed and the sheets and pillow were soaked in blood, sweat and tears and all of sudden it was just a normal, dull night which I was living, or rather existing, pitifully through and I knew that next day was going to be a normal boring love-less routine day, fucked up as usual...
P.S I hope that neither Mouvais Souhait and neither Leanne were offended. It's just a crazy dream to read and I still love you both more than ever. Very big thanks Leanne for the shoulder to cry on, for loving to sit near me on the bus, etc. xxxxxxx
VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: THE MAN WHO WROTE USING MY NAME AND TOLD YOU SOME SHIT TO JUMP OUT OF THE WINDOW IS NOT ME. I DON'T WRITE THAT SORT OF CRAP! AND SENDING E-MAILS TO THAT GUY WILL NOT ARRIVE TO THE ORIGINAL CHRIS! PROBABLY YOU GUESSED BUT I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE! SHOULD I TELL THIS GUY AND HIS CRAP IDEAS TO FUCK OFF? I WILL NOT AS I TRY TO RESPECT EVERYONE AND EVRYONE'S IDEAS BUT I DO KINDLY ASK HIM TO USE A DIFFERENT NAME IN THE FUTURE AND I THANK HIM FOR HIS COOPERATION! I GUESS CHRIS IS JUST SO MUCH A COMMON NAME (ALL THE BETTER FOR ME TO BE LOST AND FORGOTTEN FOREVER, NOT THAT A STRANGE NAME WOULD HAVE ME REMEMBERED BY ANYONE) Sigh!
See ya all in Hell!
|26 Oct 2003||Gary||Hello Leanne, Chris, all of you, I feel like I wandered into the right wrong room, imagine you all here like chicks in the nest, mouths wide singing distress, eyes shut. Pretty scary I can tell you. There are no answers are there, at least it means something to not feel quite such a freak. I've had some dark times and never feel so bad when I realise it's more common than I thought.
I've never thought that it's true that the devil has the best tunes, it's the ones suffering from depression who have the best tunes. Happiness, mostly, begets nothing, depression takes you to the depths and pops you back up like a cork. My only solace is making art about the journey and from what I've read here alot of you are doing the same. It's a real pleasure to hear people so eloquent in their distress, and no, I'm not trying to be facetious. Good luck to you all and how come I don't meet people like you in real life?