|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?
|06 Oct 2003||it doesn't matter because of existence||It's a good thing that absolutely nothing matters. We are all made of some fondamental fabric of existence, we all exist, that is the only truth there is. Most human terms are "descriptions" that we use for things, but they are vague and don't mean much, for instance, there is no such thing as dying, or living, furthermore most of what i am writing really means very little. God i love this universe don't you? Most of our emotions come from one basic "program line" that defines life, a strive for existence.|
|06 Oct 2003||notme||Strap a bomb to your belly that will go off one second after you say the word "Immediately". Run into a filled restaurant and scream "I HAVE EATEN A VERY BAD BURRITO AND WILL EXPLODE IMMEDIATELY!", do this while you're holding a lamp in one hand, and a power drill in the other. Ohh and stuff walnuts in your buttcrack. (this will really baffle the investigators)|
|06 Oct 2003||Steve||help, help
get me out of here
|05 Oct 2003||gael||aller dans une scierie et se faire passer pour un jeune arbre en racontant qu'on aime les averses d'été et qu'on connait pas la mousse.|
|05 Oct 2003||josh||i am 13 and if u have ever seen the virgin suicides then jump off ur house put ur head in a stove take too many pills go into ur garage turn on the car and sit there well hope this was usefull|
|04 Oct 2003||shuriken||i being alone but i like being dead so i tried slashing my radial, carotid, brachial pulse but it suck damn me i'm still alive.... try it yourself but use a surgical blade but if you don't have some try a blade'''''
and if doesn't work e-mail me (www.hellzhere.com.)
|04 Oct 2003||shuriken||the best way is to jump from the tallest building in your place, yeah!!! that's right because before you die at least you have felt the feeling of flying like a bird and when you hit the ground the crowd will stare at your lifeless ass!!!!!|
|04 Oct 2003||molli||I have no clue if anyone will remember me at all because well the last time I visited this site it was well Agust 9th it has almost been two months since I came here and well i hit a turn around.. I am safe, I made it I don't want to die and well I don't but this is my good-bye and thank you to u all .. if it weren't for u .. I would have never made it and I wanted to let u all know u made a great difference in my life... I love u all!|
|04 Oct 2003||Kate||You can take a million Asprin! That should do the trick.|
|03 Oct 2003||Leanne2Chris||Yes Chris, unfortunately those kisses were infact intended all for you. I'm afraid you're stuck with them for all eternity...
You see peeps, I'm one of those who love affection. I'm the kind to relish long hugs and cuddles that last for minutes, the kind to love tender sweet kisses that manage to find and grab onto my soul. But I'm also the kind who rarely receives any of this meaningful compassion. I can give it, no probs there, I'm just not so good at the receiving bit.
I take a lot of shit from people. When a 'friend' gets dumped, there I appear with open arms, a shoulder to cry on and a king-size chocolate bar handy. Or when another 'dear friend' has lost her 'gang', there I appear, as a substitute in the playground until she spots them. I also take any opportunity to defend my 'mates' when being bitched about in the girls' toilets. "Got a couple of quid you can lend me, Lea?" "Yeah, sure." I reply. It's never 'NO'. I don't have the guts to even pretend I don't have any money on me. I do this for two reasons 1)I never eat lunch and 2)Even fake friends are better than none at all.Or is it?
I was lying in bed this dull afternoon, remembering of a time years ago, thinking back to when suicide and depression were unheard of in my dictionary. This dates back to when I was 11. How funny I used to be, what a lively soul, what a zest for life, waking up every morning knowing I wanted to live through the next 24hrs, unlike how it is now. I was hilarious back in the day, making my friends laugh, my family crack up, the teachers too. When somebody asked "and how is Leanne today?" I even managed to turn that into a joke of some sort. I was the wild, cray and wacky girl. I guess I still am, except no longer in that adorable positive sense. I made them laugh with my jokes, but things have changed. They no longer laugh WITH me, because now I am the fucking joke. I've forgotten the sound of my own laugh. When I fake one it makes me cringe. I'm not sure the muscles around my mouth are strong enough now to perform such a painful task as a smile. They've grown weak, for I have grown weak. But one thing's for sure, one thing I never did for friends.. (this one's for you Chris)... I never left kisses in their Christmas cards. For every year I'd purchase a box of '200 cards for £1.99'. I'd hand them out and each person would say "Oh, um Leanne, I've um, forgotten yours at home." They said the same thing for the last five christmases.
Chris, I beg you, do me a favour, get your stuff published, please. The way you write is a turn on. I wanna walk in a bookshop and see your name in the 'Bestsellers' section. I need your writings like a vehicle needs fuel. These are for you ..Mwah Mwah xx
|03 Oct 2003||irena||throw yourself through balcony in front your parents|
|02 Oct 2003||East Side Trader dont fuck with me||Listen up i want one of you kids to talk to me about this really i do. trust me i know how it is, my parents kicked me out at 12yrs old, i lived on the streets, i do to many drugs but i shotup, joined a gang, and i got the great feeling of taking anothers life. you may have an idea what its like not to have anyone care about you except, that your a hook up. i tried killing myself with 23 muscle relaxers and somehow i pulled through. when i woke up (on the street curb just as lonely as i had started) i realized all life is, its all about 2nd chances ok .man today i still do alot of drugs and im in a gang. now you kids might think your parents dont care.. i was kicked out with nothing but pants and a knife .well i took it for years having no one care about me but other members and to this day thats the only family i have .see you all think that noone cares and all this, but listen i know how it is not to fit in. i found somewhere to fit in, i know its not the best place but with all the shit i do, with what ive done, im still greatful to be alive nowadays. i have ppl that want to kill me and no doubt they will but thats how it goes your life will end but you cant be the one to do it ... listen you kids that " hate" your parents and all that. i know how that is but i wish i still had mine... see i was the one that ended my parents lives when i was merely 16yrs of age i took some bars a lil coc, loaded my 38 special, walked into what was once my home and shot them both in cold blood. if you all think you have bad things on you mind because some girl doesnt like you or you get picked on at skool always remember there are always people out there alot worse off and will always be .. for you kids who have to run the streets like me ... sorry|
|02 Oct 2003||Chris||I hear those who read the first two parts of my diary on 10th and 23rd September ask me: "What happened after the truck driver dropped you off?" So I decided to post another part of my diary. Read on...
After the truck driver dropped me off I walked a little until I saw a sign saying- RedRock Hotel- 1/2 mile- Meals And Accomodation- and all I wanted to do was climb out of my wet clothes and into a warm bed.
Old fashioned shops with peeling verandah posts- hardware, paints and wallpapers. An air of decay. The town square wide and dark. A stone house dimly visible, grim and grey with three archways in front of it, at the centre of the square a quaint stone edifice with a drinking fountain and clocktower. A sign on the right indicated Rifle Club- Cemetry. Once a friend had proposed to me to go to a rifle club to ease my anger and excercise it on something by shooting. Now that I had found the road to a rifle club it also led to the cemetry.
Nearly midnight; the time brought me back to reality. Only eight hours since I left home and so much had happened. To me those eight hours seemed like an epoch. The new highway bypassed the small village and left it to die. I had chosen it as the place where I should transcend myself. Or perhaps it had chosen me?
RedRock Hotel. A double-storied building on the left. Coach lamps retained as decorations, and wrought iron around the upstairs balcony. The windows were in darkness but the Private Entrance Door was open. My rain-soaked trousers clung uncomfartably to my skin. The toe of my right shoe counted the steps. The umbrella became snagged in the jamb so I lowered it. I could make up a hatstand and hall cupboard to the right and the under-belly of a stairway beyond; the gloom was relieved by a line of light ruled across the carpet to the left. I felt for the wall with my left hand, edged along it and, after hesitating to compose a story, knocked with the knuckle of my index finger.
Soon, the door opened and I started back at the sight of a thick-set man of doubtful age wearing a polo-necked jumper of doubtful colour. He also seemed startled and no wonder; I must have been a strange sight for his sly, shrewd eyes standing there with dishevelled hair, drenched trousers, dripping umbrella and only a brief-case for luggage. "What do you want?" he asked. "A room for the night." "That's all the luggage you got?" "A truck driver who was giving me a lift and when he felt like it just kicked me out because he was drunk!" "Where?" "On the highway".
He seemed unconvinced but stepped past me, threw a switch in the hall to reveal a sign Office beyond the foot of the stairs. He walked ahead of me and passed through a flap in the office counter. "You were lucky to find me up and I don't get out of bed for travellers who stray in from the night." He had opened the tattered guest register. "What's your name?" I found my friend's name Trevor on the tip of my toung; 'Trevor...' I swallowed it and instead gave a fictitious name made up of my own initials and a fictitious address. The publican gazed searchingly and asked: 'Occupation?" "Student who likes to travel around." His manner became ingratiating, the better, I suspected to probe me, seeking satisfaction for his curiosity: "Dirty night to be stranded. How do you travel?" "Mainly hitch hikes, buses, trains, anything really". "Bed and breakfast, room eight."
I paid him, thinking, just as well I got that bloody jackpot at the casino, and took the key. "How's life?" he asked, then added with mock solicitousness: "You're soaked. When you put your pyjgamas on bring your clothes down to dry by the warmth of the fire." Of course, I had no pyjgamas and smiled wryly at the thought of coming downstairs in short underpants carrying a wet suit, then grimly when I thought: 'I might get a cold or influenza or pneumonia (a man who worries about getting sick when he is planning to kill himself within twenty-four hours can't be all mad).
"I'll be all right, mate" I said. But I'd like to warm myself by the fire for a while, if you don't mind. Sorry to be a nuisance." The lounge room was as crowded as a second-hand furniture shop with tables, chairs, sofas all bulky and old-fashioned. The walls were defaced with smoke-stained paintings of landscapes, flowers, and horses with curved necks. We sat in huge leather chairs on either side of the hearth. I took my shoes off and placed my legs close to the open fire until steam began to rise.
He threw a log on the fire, jabbed it with a poker and sat, legs out-stetched, chin in fists. From time to time, he asked a well-chosen question about my studies, and he even recommended from where I could easily get a lift for home in the morning. But he eventually feigned a yawn and announced that it was past his bedtime. "Put the screen around the fire before you go up," he said, convinced or at least resigned. "Breakfast is from seven until eight-thirty. Turn left at the top of the stairs: room eight is on the left at the end of the corridor." I stood and turned my back to the fire to dry the other side of my trousers and socks, and when its glow had faded, put my shoes back on, screened the fire and groped my way up the stairs and found room eight. Unlocking the door with difficulty, I entered and found the light switch on the right.
So it had come to this. An isolated hotel room, pokey and small, (about twelve feet by eight)- cold, and in the middle of nowhere. Floral curtains over a small window in front of me. I shut the window and tried to lock it. The latch didn't work and it rattled against the wind. To the left of the window a small curved wash basin with a waste paper basket underneath it. The skirting board was white. The high walls were painted pale mauve up to seven feet then white to the roof which was made of diagonal wooden strips about four inches wide. To the right, beside the window, an old oak wardrobe with a mirror. I inspected my reflection: it might have been that of my friend Trevor, perhaps because my hair was wet and so closer to my head than usual.
I walked across the faded floral carpet square and put the umbrella on the chest of drawers near the door. I leaned close to the mirror above it and inspected my face and I saw a depressed face. I smiled to wipe the whimpering weakness from my eyes but could not erase the torment in my eyes.
The strange room impeded the automatic ritual of getting ready for bed: I found a towel on the rail behind the door but could find no soap and no hot water. I dabbed my face and the cold water on my very small beard stubble set my nerves on edge. I found a glass on the blue linen cover of the chest of drawers and filled it with water, to take a sleeping tablet- but I had none. I recaptured a fugitive laugh; I needed not one but fifty tablets; well, thirty at least, because twenty had not done the trick last time. A story to be told to a doctor in the morning would not compose itself. Acting by reflex, I reached above the wash basin in the position where a plastic mug contained my tooth-brush at home and became agitated: I'd forgotten to buy a toothbrush and paste and the furry discomfort of mouth assumed incongrous importance. I finger-tipped the centre of the blue bedspread. The bed sagged. Fear that I would not be able to sleep without a tablet on a tired wire mattress joined absurdly with the bad taste in my mouth to make me anxious until the tension surged to my legs as if poison had been injected into my veins. The tension was psychosomatic, I knew that: anxious or depressed thoughts inflamed the nerves of the blood vessels. It could be controlled by modifying the state of mind so I shook my head to clear the anxiety away, took the newspaper from the brief-case and put it on the glass-topped table beside the bed. At least there was a bed lamp, so a man could read himself to sleep with an ounce of luck. I switched it on.
After taking off my shoes and socks and sliding my coat over a hanger behind the door, I unfolded the floral eiderdown, drew back the sheets and got into bed. The sheets were cold and the legs of my trousers were still damp enough to be uncomfortable. I got up, took off the offending trousers and climbed between the sheets again. The bed sloped under my rump so my legs were tilted upwards and the tension in them seemed to increase. I lay on my back looking at the strip of flourescent light and the wooden slats on the roof, concious of the cold sheets, the hard pillow, the tingling pain in my legs and the rhytmic rattle of the window. My mind could not disengage itself from my body, so I could neither think nor sleep.
And I'd forgotten to take a leak! I'll wake up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet and never get back to sleep again. I picked up the newspaper and read an article about a woman who committed suicide over the death of her cat. I had never even considered any other method than tablets during my planning of the two earlier attempts. But they were merely cries for help and not fully-fledged suicide determination. This time it was to be genuinely suicidal: a man beyond help except in death. Why should I consider only pills this time? Why not a gas oven!? Just walk into the hotel kitchen in the morning, excuse myself to the cook and stick my head in the oven. Or a razor blade? Buy some in the morning and slash my wrists or my throat; for liberty lies in every vein of the body. And hangs from every tree- and every stable beam. Or a bullet? Or a leap from a great height? I remembered my fear of pain, and heights- and laughed distraughtly. Or poison? Many were the ways given to man to shuffle off this mortal coil but, for the time being, I had to face a decision of greater pith and moment: I'd have to get up and find a toilet; either that or do it in the wash basin. I got up and groped around but there was no toilet adjoining the room. 'God, this place was fuckin old!'
Next to eating pies and drinking beer, the great Australian habit is pissing in wash basins (or I hear them say). My memory conjured up one of Trevor's bawdy stories. The origin of this exotic national custom is the traditinal lack of toilets in hotel bedrooms. When daylight begins to filter through the curtains, male guests arise, turn on the tap of their hand basins and indulge in one of the few remaining pleasures in life: a good long morning piss. A habit rendered the more pleasurable by its illegality and the indelicacy of depositing it in a receptacle set aside for another purpose. The Australian takes a secret delight in adopting anti-social habits because he is usually descended from convict forebars...
I went to the basin and took my cock out. The lip of the basin was too high so I had to stand on my toes. Like a patient trying to urinate in a bottle for a doctor, the impulse from my brain would not activate my bladder and I was prey to a vague feeling of guilt and embarassment. But hey, after all I'm not Australian.
At last, deciding to try to find the Gents toilet, I put on my trousers, shoes and coat and let myself out. The hotel was as black as a priest's coat except for a distant glow at the end of the corridor to my right. I edged cautiously towards the light like a child afraid of the night. The strip of light came from under a door labelled Gents' Toilet and Bathroom. I opened the door cautiously. I started back and the hairs of my head froze like dry ice: a hunchback stood in the doorway of one of the toilet cubicles. He turned towards me bent forward from the waist. He had two large yellow teeth. He held a mop in claw-like hands.
"Did I give you a fright?" he asked. "No need to be frightened of Old Sam. Just cleaning the toilets to save time in the morning." "Didn't expect to find anyone up." I managed to say, looking at my watch. "It's after one o'clock." "Oh, sleep doesn't worry Old Sam." I locked myself in the next cubicle and listened tensely while he went on with his work, but could not relieve myself until he had departed. Returning along the corridor, my heart pounded and I expected the hunchback to leap upon me from a doorway. One of my childhood fears had been of a hunchback who used to push a hand-cart around the town. My kid neighbour had called him bottle arse and laughed at him but I was afraid and sometimes imagined him breathing deeply outside my window at night (when I was a kid). My nightmares had sometimes featured him- until a sealed door replaced him as a symbol of fear and anxiety.
I locked the door of room eight behind me, undressed down to my shirt and underpants and returned back to the cold bed. I lay awake listening for the hunchback to creep to my door. I acted out the fantasy of hearing his breathing, then all I could hear was the beating of my own heart- and finally only the rattling of the window, which dragged me again from bed. I folded a page of the newspaper and jammed it into the sash then lay daring the window to rattle again. Warmth slowly seeped into me, driving before it like flocks of sheep the tension from my legs and the anxiety from my mind, until my thoughts floated pleasantly in widening circles.
Yet, deep in my subconcious a question mark: something I still had to remember? 'Man found in hotel room; no foul play suspected. The unidentified body... natural causes'. But it must be suicide and be seen to be suicide. And my thoughts raced further and thought about my lover which I would like to have. But that is only part of my Utopian dream. In politics, I had dreamed of the just city where men could live as brothers- and the reality was George Bush, Tony Blair, Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein; in love I dreamed of the ideal, loving tender woman, and the reality was my girlfriend and she had been ideal, loving and tender, to give her her due (but that was for not more than 2 weeks), until the long winter of disenchantment set in. (Actually I should never call her a girlfriend, she was never really and that means that I was always single). The Utopian city was only a phantom to which I had aspired in my dream and I would dream that dream again, given my time over. Given my time over I would do many things: say to mother, 'you must not dominate me and smother me in your breasted love'; say to my 'girlfriend' 'do not castrate me (not that I am castrated, I can assure you!) and do not permit me to manipulate you'; say to the world 'I have joined a free association of like minded-people (called mouchette.org) we began with depression and suicide but we have some faith, hope and charity and we are convinced that one day we will win'; say to my friend Trevor, 'we are friends, comrades, mates, let us then speak of our innermost anxieties and depressions, reserving nothing that might transcend ourselves by each helping erase the other's blemishes'; to my brothers, 'please do not over-love me as a symptom of your unconscious rejection of your half-sibling and leave me prey to anxiety reacting to threat'; and to my father, 'let us be humane to each other and talk like father and son could'. But in reality this is all shit as I hate them all!
I had floated into the half world between sleep and awake where dreams are as real as reality itself (or where nothing conscious is real and nothing real is concious) and I could see a little boy running, prancing down a path between strawberries and flowers to meet his best friend in the stables to go for a ride on their horse. And the boy coming to the open door of the stables, oh, no wish-fulfilment, friend, in the second attempt and no one handy to save you but your only friend petrified with fear at the sight of the body writhing and spinning, the knees bending up and down then falling still so the toes dangled, the eyes (once serene with kindness) staring with a threat to leap from their sockets and blood pouring from the ears and nose turning the shirt-front the colour of crushed raspberries. Screaming and running back to the house, "mother, come here quick, my friend has been murdered!"
Suddenly awake, I found myself crying out, not wishfulfilment! And sweating profusely. And then calm like a bereaved person suffering delayed shock. And I thought, well, it is out now, remembered in all its horror: my friend had killed himself and left me a victim of depression reacting to the loss of his love, with the hallmarks of the neurotic personality: repressed childhood memories and a lifelong fixation on an infantile pattern of relationships, doomed to translate everything from the real world into the language of childhood, doomed to act out fantasies, redeemable only in death.
The unveiling of my last headstone to a dead repression brought a relaxation of body and serenity of mind, the like of which had never before blessed me. A fleeting fear that the metabolism would change the purpose of my tomorrow tried to resist the sleep which was creeping over the bed, softly like a mother's bosom over a baby's face. And I slept and woke again in the morning, pissed in the washbasin, didn't give a fuck, shouted out "Fuck you all!", invented a story to tell mother for spending the night out, thought about home and mouchette and decided to live another day...
P.S. Leanne, were those things that I saw at the end of your note to me real kisses?! (or maybe you didn't want to write Leanne2Chris after all but some other name...) All the same, it was nice, thank you. I cannot remember when I was last kissed and hugged lovingly by a girl. It's just my mother and father pecking a kiss when they are like 'hi darling', 'bye darling' and I'm like 'fuck you parents, I don't need your fucking, bloody stinking kisses.' And all the time 'friends' who are uglier and more stupid than me seem to be getting kisses for no apparent reason. But then, the world is unjust, isn't it!? Hope I will make it to the paradise island to put 'a name to a face and a face to a name'. And these are for you: xxxxx If I don't make it...
See ya all in hell!
|30 Sep 2003||Helen||Stop eating
Stabb yourself with a kitchen-knife
Run under a car
Blow up your school (if your father is a terrorist that should be no problem)
Take daddys gun, kill your family, then kill yourself, now no one will miss you
Eat your teddy and choke to death
Make your toast in the shower
Burn up a house with you in it
There's so many ways!
|30 Sep 2003||RedAlice|| Some days Michael would wake up crying. His first thoughts would be of God and the emptiness he felt without Her. Those were the darkest days. The days when the pain of Her rejection reached back and formed an alliance with his earliest childhood memories. The God who couldn't love him now and the God who couldn't love him then, working together like a Sino-Soviet monolith lumbering toward total Michael domination. So, bright boy that he was, he worked hard, drank hard, and chased soft women. Anything to forget. Anything to kill the pain. Until his dream came true. Until that amazing day when God came to him and said She had been wrong, that Michael was indeed the man for Her and She wanted them to be together always. Which is when Michael suddenly realized that God was nuttier than rat crap in a pistachio warehouse.
...Michael still wakes up crying.
|30 Sep 2003||Felicia in Paradox||Theres writers popping out everywhere. It's all beginning to make sense to me now. They (the people of this website mind you) should name Mouchette.org a different name. Apparently, this site kind of reminds me of high school "Shakespearean" times, when minds were fresh, the young were experimental, and contemplating suicide was only a recreational hobby.|
|30 Sep 2003||Will2Leanne||Thanks. sorry, I cant get here often now, cos someone kindly disconnected my internet. they dont like me talking to any one :( Thanks for your message. Im at a library. Well, I gotta go. Take care folks :)|
|30 Sep 2003||joe blow||i dont know . but i do know that my time has come. i have no choice now but to end it all.. i have nothing left in this world.. i have made my mind up it was a hard choice but now it is made.. goodbye world ..ill never see my mother again or all the things in this world.. the navy hates me and wants me dead too ..so.. be it..|
|29 Sep 2003||We recently remembered the tragedy of the twin towers. On such occasions the world stands still.
This is what worries me- when a few thousand rich westerners die, the world stands still.
In Africa, Asia and Latin America just as many children die for want of a few dollars, food and health-care and the world does not stand still. It is business as usual. We are not talking of thousands every year, we are talking of thousands every hour. So as I have said so before fuck you Bush, Blair and all the governments for not doing anything.
We may come to a conclusion that the terrorists did something wrong (I doubt it with us Mouchette people) but everyone can surely understand what drove the terrorists to do it. Maybe the towers would have favoured their cause more had they painted them red rather than destroying them. (I like this idea. Imagine America waking up to red twin towers...).
Unfortunately, if the children are to be saved, they need the help of rich people. And, as the old saying goes, you do not bite the hand that feed you...
|29 Sep 2003||Steve||You're right, Chris. I received a letter from my former high school that I graduated from last year asking me to stop by and pick up my year book in a couple of weeks because they're having a sort of brief get-together for all of last year's students while we pick up our yearbooks. I was pretty much set on not going, and after reading your message, I know that I definitely won't go, because nothing good can come of it. I figure the last thing I need is additional emotional trauma when I'm already suicidal.|