|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?
|13 Sep 2003||will||bye bye|
|13 Sep 2003||Phil||Well gosh, silly me, of course Mouchette.
Everyone knows Fernando Pessoa!
True to form, I am still here.
|13 Sep 2003||you are nuts!!!!!|
|12 Sep 2003||Mouchette Pessoa||Certainly Lucy you must have heard of Fernando Pessoa, right? If not, time to catch up.
|12 Sep 2003||black devil||Love is an illusion, that's what we learned today in philosophy, we are not loved for ourselves, but for our qualities, just because we are this or that, girls come around you, and they exchange their feelings, they talk all night.
But what could you say to someone who doesn't have any qualities, someone who is outside the circle, who has no one to talk to?
Sad vision, I think you must be crying, thinking of how sad you feel when you have no qualities to share with other people. Well that's my portrait. The portrait of a poor lonesome guy who ran away twice in order to find a better vision, a mirror where he could look at and say you are the one I have been looking for. That was just a dream, because all men have to follow their way, in hapiness or in sadness, have to face laughs or tears. My life has sunk deeper and deeper and now I cannot find hope
|12 Sep 2003||RedAlice||i've been told that we're only as sick as our secrets. i like the sound of that. It would make a particularly good bumper sticker here in Hades. With that in mind I'd like to engage in a little ineffectual therapy and reveal one of my deepest, darkest secrets. There've been times when the mere thought of this secret has nearly overwhelmed me with self-loathing. And yet, there've been other times when i actually took a perverse pride in it. So what is this personal bit of esoterica? i've got your attention now, don't i? You probably even skipped ahead to see if this is really juicy. Well, skip no further. My secret is this: i'm not that smart. Yup, there it is, dug up and thrown into the sunlight. Since i was a little kid i've known that (like it or not) there were an awful lot of people who had a lot more on the ball than i did. Oh, believe me, i've tried to suppress this awareness. i've tried to convince myself that i was special, that i was gifted. But i eventually learned that this secret could be my greatest asset. i learned that with enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. i like the sound of that. With enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. Someone ought to print that on a bumper sticker and slap it on Air Force One.|
|12 Sep 2003||Mouchette Mackellar||Once upon a time there was a wave. The name of the wave was, no surprise, Phil. Phil the wave. Phil was a big, powerful wave. His massive blue body surged across the surface of the ocean with great majesty and deceptive speed. Oh yes, Phil was quite a wave. From the moment he rose up from the ocean he felt special. He felt invincible. Ferocious storms battered him with wind and rain, great ships sliced through his very heart, and yet he rolled on. It was not for him to stop and consider the other waves. To stop was to die. Waves have to keep moving... or else. But then one day Phil saw a strange darkness on the horizon and, for the first time in his life, felt fear. What could it be? Was it connected to the laughing creature sliding across his face on a piece of wood? But before he could make sense of it all, he crashed down into the darkness. For a brief moment he felt a weird, splashing feeling, then oblivion. Phil was no more. He was now a part of the sea. And as we all know, the sea loves to make waves.|
|12 Sep 2003||ashley||if you're a guy perform your own circumcision with a butter knife|
|12 Sep 2003||Jamie Johnson||to poison myself.|
|11 Sep 2003||Lucy Cortina||Hi people! I'm back! Well, I'm gone.
Dear dear, the suicide kit has descended into chaos. Billy is back (my god! they actually released you from the psychiatric unit after your hands-up-Lucy's-knickers incident?)
Anyway. Here is me, a single person. I'm not part of the mass manufactured stories or fancy names that plague this site from jealous wannabes. I'm just me: bog-standard, big-breasted, Lucy Cortina. Or am I...?
Actually, I'm not. This confession may shock the whole of this world. More shocking than being bisexual or being a vegisexual (being plain old boring 'Gay' just isn't enough these days - no offence to you, Gay Punk).
So, who am I?
Hehe, this brings back memories. Those lazy days with Felicia in my living room, eating cornflakes, and me standing there holding a bottle of milk and saying "mooo", but Felicia still not knowing that I was being a cow.
Well, it may be a further shock to know that I have never even met Felicia. I'm not sure if she even exists. That is because, I, Lucy Cortina, do not exist myself.
Lucy Cortina, then what are you darling? The suspense is killing us! We are on the verge of swallowing our cocktails of paracetamol and Valium. Do hurry it up, darling.
And, another point worth inserting here, I really can't be arsed with trying very very very hard today to end up under Mouchette's favourites list. It once held appeal, when I was so bored and depressed and had nothing better to do. When I didn't have a life. I still don't have a life. But I will soon have death.
So, anyway, yes. It's me, Lucy. No fancy sub-names, just the regular depressed girl, not quite perfect, posting here on the spurr of the moment, without need for competing. But hang on! You aren't real Lucy!
That's right. I'm actually, what for it....
Ok, so I'm not Buddha. I'm a boy. I'm 17. I have known of this website for years, since 1999 at least. or is it 2000? I'm not sure. Anyway. I found this site on the first stages of my franctic search for the meaning of life. (Death, that is. Or for the technical wahlers, 'suicide').
I found this site, read the stoopid, yet intriguing, posts. Went away for a bit. Came back. Went away. Came back. Got an intense desperate urging lust to be in Mouchie's favourites list. Did it. Kept doing it. It got boring. When the "pretenders" popped up like all the little girly singers did when Britney Spears arrived, to steal Lucy's thunder (or even her breasts!), I decided that life was too short, and tried to get one (a life, that is).
I have Social Anxiety Disorder, and Depression, an eating disorder, and probably a whole list of other possible illnesses. I hate life. I have this past to deal with too. Everything's crap. My name is Phil.
Lucy Cortina is as fake as Britney Spears' whole music career. (Or her breasts).
Ok, maybe she isn't. Who knows. Maybe Lucy Cortina was my way of airing some of the crazy thoughts in this head of mine. Maybe she was the outlet for many things.
But, sorry people, I was never real.
My name is Phil. And I will soon be dead. No, I'm not just messing about like many people do. I have it planned to every detail. No one will stop me.
I just want to say, goodbye suicide kit. Goodbye Billy, Felicia, all the others. I don't know who you all are in real life, if you made up a persona like me, but thanks for the entertaining reads every day when I get into this room and switch on my PC, after another day of hell, another day of life. Another day of everyone talking about me, of people hating me (yes ok I admit it, I'm a teenager yapping on about my problems and will probably launch into a "poor me!" child abuse story here if someone doesn't stop me). So I will stop myself.
Umm, anyway, yeah. I will be dead soon. Lucy Cortina ends here. She had a nice and eventful life. I hope Mouchie keeps everything in small archived files in his cellar full of wine and cheese, so that one day the suicide kit will become a Hollywood production (you're aiming bit high there, Lucy!). I guess Lucy Cortina was the suicide kit slut. Sending pictures of naked ladies in underwear privately to Mouchette was the only reason I stayed Top Girl. Or was it? I'm not sure.
Anyhow, incase you are crying into your cocktails by now, or in the case of Billy, crying into your condoms, I love you all, and remember darlings, we are all going to somewhere better soon, that big breast factory in the sky. The purpose of this little community was only meant to be brief, as all here are suicidal (aren't we?). I never meant to live this long. Maybe it was you, Mouchette. Maybe it was someone else, in fact, I know it was- my Danny. But maybe I'm just an insane, gay, 17 year old teenager. Maybe Lucy Cortina was part of my mind personified. Yes, that will be it.
So, no breasts, no SSSS, no sister, none of all that nonsense. Still, it was fun, wasn't it?
Take care people. Good luck with your deaths. If you wanna contact me - not that you would - but I will be alive maybe a while yet (but Lucy ends here). Leave your email addresses, and I will email you.
RIP Lucy Cortina.
*Lucy leaves the room, leaving the occupants of the suicide kit free to release the farts or whatever else they were keeping in, in fear of upsetting Lucy during her important speech*
*Lucy enters room again, to an awful smell. She splutters out a few last words:
"Mouchette, I think you owe us all a small explanation. WHO, exactly, are you?"
...then leaves the room*
And everybody claps.
FINALLY, she has shut up whining, and gone!
|11 Sep 2003||Larius Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL.109
The nourishment of solitude is powerful and significant. Change is important to shake up complacency and again open your eyes. Someone once said to me that she "couldn't even SEE me" because i was too familiar and too often "there" in her daily life. When she started spending time away on a regular basis, she smiled at me one day and told me that being away had made her realize how much she sincerely appreciated my qualities as a person.
Do relationships become "stale" when you live with that person? Does a room become stale because it is so familiar to you that you don't even notice the beautiful paintings on the wall anymore? Has our world become stale???
Do what you have to do to shake it up and breathe.
|11 Sep 2003||Thom Yorke||"Truth is not what you perceive with your senses, but what you feel in your heart."
"But there is such a thing as objective truth!" i cried. "Or don't you attach importance to that?"
He smiled tolerantly. "Not in the way you do, for its own sake. That is statistical truth. We are interested in that, yes, but only as a means of getting to the real truth underneath. For us there is very little visible truth in the world these days."
"Their Heads Are Green And Their Hands Are Blue. Scenes From The Non-Christian World."
|11 Sep 2003||Larius Mackellar|| "By striving with every facet of the imagination to conceive of chaos, one manages only to explore a little more carefully the terrain of order. To develop one's sensual characteristics, no matter how subtly, leaves one at the mercy of the physical world and its increasingly destructive onslaught. It takes an exceedingly insensitive person today to continue to be an artist. "
~ Paul Bowles
|11 Sep 2003||Michael Mackellar||Meticulously Cultivated Ignorance|
|11 Sep 2003||Fionuellia||In 3 words, how would you define the collective content of Mr. Mackellar's mind???|
|11 Sep 2003||Michael Mackellar||It's very easy to put your faith in other people because you see something in them that is Beautiful. It is probably something you want that they seem to have and that you do not think you have yourself. it's very easy to make a big deal out of what you think is wrong with other people and barely notice the positive things that come from love, genuine caring, thoughtfulness. One day you begin to notice that no matter how you are judged by another person, it does not matter one bit. One moment they smile at you; the next moment they yell at you. One day you stop being a slave. One day you find your center and realize that it is strong because it does not know everything.|
|11 Sep 2003||nomeD cilegnA||the body is damp. moisture fogs the mirror. the string quartet surges and recedes in a circular progression. the lips caress in dimly lit space. the microphone is dangerous in the bath. D minor A minor for days. never have i been so perfectly misunderstood. not even by myself. my apologies, Mr. Punk, for your comprehensive shortcomings.|
|11 Sep 2003||billy the freak (the one and only)||guess who's back? back again. billy's back tell a friend. guess who's back? guess who's back? da da da... do da da do da da do...
you act like you never seen a freaky person before, jaws all on the floor, like billy and lucy just burst in the door and i started wooping her ass worse than before mouchette.org. throwing me under furniture
it's the return of the... no wait! he didn't just say what i think he did. did he? and mouchette said... nothing you idiot mouchette's dead, she's locked in my basement. ha ha ha!!!chicka chicka chicka internet women love biily the freak, "i'm sick of him. thinking you know what, typing for you know who. yeah, but he's so cute though." yeah i might got a couple of screws up in my head loose, but no worse than what you download in your computer rooms. sometimes i want to get on the net and cut loose, i can't, but it's okay for lucy to talk about her boobs. "my tits are on your lips! my tits are on your lips! and if you're lucky you might give them a little kiss."
and this is the message we send to suicidal kids and expect them to know what the answer to life is...
no really guys, i'm back for at least a post or two, i got a few things i'm working on for you.
|11 Sep 2003||will||Quite right to, gay punk. anti gay people or homophobics make me sick.|
|10 Sep 2003||Chris||Suicidal people have the habit of frequenting certain places. For example some might go to a bar and drink themselves to oblivion to forget their problems. Others may go to a suicidal friend to get the courage to commit the suicide themselves and others may go to the church to pray, forget and hope for the future. The list goes on. In the following piece I remember when I once went to the church, or was it somewhere else? When I am feeling suicidal things have the tendency of getting muddled up so try to figure out for yourself...
"I feel lucky." I said to my friend Trevor and hurried to where a fat faced friar dressed in a white coat sold indulgences in a glass wall confessional box. "Two dollars of twenty cents please." And he obliged with a flourish of hands like a priest giving a blessing, pouring the coins into my hand from a plastic holder.
At the wall I chose a statue to worship before: A machine with four rollers and playing card symbols: Ace, Joker, King, Queen (Hail Mary, Queen of Hearts), Jack, ten and nine. This was the most unforgiving machine; I always played it like a gambler with an unconscious desire for damnation. I gave myself up to prayer and actually got a pay of five coins from the first pull-- then I noticed that Trevor had followed me.
"Don't tell me you are falling for those things." Trevor said, swaying behind me. "Ah, yes, your girlfriend told me you played them here one Saturday night all through the concert happening here. Bloody idiot. When you buy anything you do so with a match-box for a deposit and play pokies, no wonder you're in financial trouble. You were always in financial bother, all your short, bloody life."
Poised with my right hand on the knob of the machine's arm and my left thumb on a coin in its slot, I glanced at Trevor over my shoulder and wondered how much he remembered about my past. And I acknowledged that he remembered everything as others remembered everything about other episodes in my life when my blemished self had betrayed my ideal self. Perhaps if I could ever have accepted that others remembered my moments of weakness I might not be here on this journey to the grave, I thought. And suddenly I realized that I could not sustain the idea of taking my own life simply to quiet the cry of self-disgust within me. To have meaning, my death must have some effect on those who increasingly saw me in terms of my weaknesses-- on Trevor, my girlfriend and the rest.
"Your girlfriend is a bitch but you forgave her in the past and you've forgiven her ever since because you've got no guts." Trevor said. I freed the coin and pulled the handle but neither the whirr of the rollers, the drone of Trevor's voice nor the clink of the two coins in the tray could drown the inner voice that cautioned: don't conjure up the repressed memories of the past. But the past was impinged as if on a screen above the machine like a distant town seen through a mirage and shimmering heat.
The past where my girlfriend betrayed me time and again, where my parents hated me, where I was put through extreme pressure at school (though I never managed to do extremely well), where I was abused physically and mentally by the teachers and the authorities in society that are supposed to help people in need and the whole past where I never had a bloody penny in my pocket. But my ideal self kept giving me this message: 'Fuck it, struggle, struggle despite all the corrupt people in the world. A better world is being hewn out by decent people.' And I tried to believe this message and therefore forgave, hoping for a better future and a better life.
"What can't you remember?" Trevor was saying, swaying but persistent like a lavatory door banging in a gale. "I remember everything." I replied, turning to focus his face and the garish room. "Listen, you've been pouring money into that machine and talking to yourself like a lunatic." "Don't tell me I've lost all my money!" I drew the wallet from inside my pocket and opened it. No, I put it under Trevor's nose. "Not to worry, mate, I've got this money set aside for a special, very important purpose, but I'll buy you a drink."
I bought two glasses of beer and we sat at a table aside. Something I had remembered when playing the poker machine- I could not now recall what it was- had led me to believe that my death must be some kind of transforming message from the dead to the living, to Trevor even. My ideal self accompanied me. His air of arrogant superiority confronted Trevor.
"Do you agree with my statement about the moral issues we have to face." I said, "about the need to confront the past?" The situation was so choicely ironic- like a fanatic from Women's Liberation advocating abortion to a nun- that I regretted I would not have the opportunity to tell all my friends about it because I was planning suicide, probably that night.
Trevor sat down, rolling back and forth in the chair until he got his balance, eyeing me malevolently. "Some people ought to talk about confronting the past. With your past, you shouldn't use that term. "How do you mean?" I said shocked. Trevor replied: "I've known you a long time. I was with you almost all your life. Sometimes, I can believe that you don't even remember your personal pasts." 'Don't let him divert you, my ideal self urged.' Of course I remembered my past but suddenly I was getting muddled up, mixing the past, present and the few hopes for the future, in this world or not. And suddenly my only problem was money. I asked Trevor to lend me but he told me that he wouldn't because I was spending them on pokies and because me and my girlfriend were the talk of the town, and he didn't want to mess up with me. So I said, no more pokies, no more drinks and no more life...
(Having transcribed this story, I sit holding the faded original in my diary- the Arafura sea scrolls, so to speak- and wondering why I wrote it and the other pieces about my past, secretly, like a man with a hidden vice. They were obviously written at different times over the years, perhaps as an excercise in self-analysis. Through them I might have sought to reconstruct myself and develop powers with which I could suppress my weaknesses. They also reveal a changing attitude towards myself, now self-deprecation, now self-heroising, and usually projecting an image of a tragic victim of circumstances. Through them, I sought to create a dialogue with myself about the private psychological life. In direct human relations I remained inacapable of revealing my inner life; I channeled my emotions into the world of ideas and politics that I believed in and lived them out there instead of with my family, girlfriend and friends. There is also a sense in which my secret writing symbolises my unconscious mind where I buried my repressed memories: most of my stories portray some agonized or shameful event which leaves a negative picture of me which I may never be able to revise because of their complexity).
So I rest my case. It is either suicide or a continuation of this fucked up, sorrowful life...
See ya all in hell!