|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?
|25 Sep 2003||RedAlice|| Let's try a little experiment. Turn and look at someone near you- a loved one, a friend, a co-worker, a stranger -- it doesn't really matter. Now, as you look at this person, consider this: he or she is a completely unique, never-before-in-the-history-of-the-universe-has-there-been-anyone-exactly-like-this-person... person. Reflect on the fact that you are gazing at an impossibly complex and totally original work of art which will never be duplicated. I'm sure you see where I'm going with this. We so easily lose sight of how truly magnificent we are. Which is something to keep in mind if you chose to look at a stranger for this exercise. Even though he's looking back at you with grinning, spittle-covered lips that are a miraculous construct of living tissue -- even though perverse thoughts of what he'd like to do to you are racing through a meat-based computer that no Pentium chip will ever approximate, he is a masterpiece. If he were hanging in a museum, a security guard would most likely tell you...
|25 Sep 2003||Johann||The best way to kill yourself when you're under thirteen is to be white and walk down to a ghetto playing rap music and talking smack|
|24 Sep 2003||Phil||I got a lovely surprise today. After typing my personality Lucy Cortina's name into the search engine, I was led to a tranny porn site. Yes ideedy, the "Lucy's dad is a tranny" story had made it onto a website of tranny pictures and stories.
I should be proud... but I feel sick.
|24 Sep 2003||Leanne2Will||You know, the main thing I hate about England is how hard it is to get hold of a gun... not actually ''get hold'' of it, but to purchase one. WILL, my lil pea in a pod, you've been away from this world for quite a while but your still surviving and you came back, do you take pride in that? For me it's a shame I'm still here.. it saddens me but it saddens me to give in. But to give in is to be free. The way I look at this whole thing, is I imagine Depression and Suicide is actually in the form of a human being and I'm constantly at battle with em'. If I let em' win, I lose, but does that mean that losing is defeat if I give in and take my life? Or if I keep fighting and still continue my exisitence being miserable, I'm losing and I'm still being defeated? I guess I'm screwed either way even if I do give in to the pain. This place is not like it used to be. I mean, it still has its attraction but where have the main contenders gone? i.e Just a Girl, Miss Lucy (I don't think I need to type her second name), Felicia, Naomi, Molly? These names will go down in history, I'm gonna make sure of it. C'mon ladies, we need you. For those of you who've been here since the dawn of time will know who I'm talking about. It's wonderful to see we have the other games' contenders here though,i.e Gay punk, WILL, Chris, oh and others who I can't recall right at this moment due to sleep deprivation. Mouchette, bring these girls back, even you must have noticed the 'zest' has left from here since their departures... we're all missin' them. That's all I ask of, today.' 'Until next time, take of yourselves, and each other!'' Cheerio peeps.|
|24 Sep 2003||Steve||I did a bit of reading and came to the unfortunate conclusion that trying to kill myself with painkillers (i.e. ibuprofen, acetamenophen) will not work well, because it tends to cause liver damage and you don't actually die until a few days after the overdose, and even if you do eventually die, you'd have to go through vomitting, dizziness, stomach pain, blurred vision and other side effects.
So now I'm wondering what method I should use. I could still use pain killers and alcohol to possibly reduce the pain of whatever method I use. I'd use carbon monoxide, but my car doesn't even fit in my garage because it's full of junk, and my parents would catch me anyway. I wouldn't know how to hang myself properly and I probably don't have a sturdy rope lying around anywhere. I could overdose on painkillers and then slit my wrists or something..... I guess I could do that, I'm just afraid it wouldn't work or I wouldn't slit my wrists properly or something. Any serious suggestions?
|24 Sep 2003||Carly||If you are desperate enough to actually carry the task out, make sure it's a smash hit and that it'll rate high on the shock factor. Something bloody. Very bloody. Perhaps inserting an IV tube up a major vein in your arm and some how hooking it up to an aquarium pump. As the pump does its job, you have the leisure of a few minutes before you black out to write a heart warming message in blood to your family and friends. When I figure it out how to hook the thing up, i'll post it. Oh, by the way, if you are feeling particularly nasty, let the blood drain away onto your parents' nice clean carpet. This should be a perfect way to kill yourself if you have fish.|
|23 Sep 2003||the gay||sorry phil. awww man i still can't accept that lucy's dead, phil. i'm gonna go start a religion where people worship the ms. cortina, and people slit themselves, and the men get naked.. uggh there's this fat kid (no offence to anyone) who's just harrassing me and threatening me just because i was gay, and since he's black i'm supposed to be afraid of him (no offence to black people either. fuck, am i going on in a prejudiced rampage?).
he's all just like, "have you ever had a black guy fuck up your face," and i'm like, "leave me alone you asshole, stop eating chicken wings so you won't get fat," what an idiot.
|23 Sep 2003||thom||play tug of war with the other end of the rope in a wood chipper.|
|23 Sep 2003||Chris||People just love intruding on each other's lives. They want to know what happened to the person living next door, they want to know that people have bigger problems than theirs so that they can feel better and they want to have others to gossip on. They also want to know that they aren't the only suicidal people. So you can imagine that my part of my secret diary (which I published two posts ago on 10th September 2003), 'which I write like a man with a hidden vice', was found interesting by lots of people. So I decided to publish another bit. I believe that this part happened soon after the pokies incident...
When I went out of the casino I found the railway station. Outside the railway station, I turned left and walked along the side of the dark road. Judging by the rural surroundings and the poppet heads of coal mines, I had reached far beyond the outskirts of the city but, always lacking a sense of direction, could not tell whether I was walking towards or away from it. What the hell? I didn't know where I was going; didn't care where I had come from. (Life is shit anywhere after all).
I began to signal passing vehicles, remembering what my friend Trevor used to say about big new cars never giving you a lift, only old cars or trucks. They all left me standing, old, new, big, small, trucks and cars alike, until self-disgust made its final statement: having utterly decided to kill myself beyond any possibility of changing my mind, I had stranded myself in a strange mining village without tablets or any other means of consummating the deed. The wind suction of a passing truck almost pulled me off my feet. I had always had a phobia about falling: looking down from a high balcony, an almost irresistible urge to jump or fall would grip me; the same urge to jump or fall under a moving train always led me to step well back when one entered a platform, even at the risk of missing a seat. Simple really; all I had to do was fall or jump under a passing vehicle; stand close so the urge would grip me. Or better still step right to the middle of the road and stand hypnotised by the headlamps like a kangaroo on a bush track.
A truck- judging by the height of and space between the bright lights- the lights growing larger, drawing me into their path. Pain? No, the falling body and the depressed soul obliterated on impact. 'Unknown man killed by truck'. I imagined the headline! An accident beyond all danger of being labelled suicide. But that kind of death could add no meaning to my life. The body still twirling slowly down from the death throes, head to one side, the mouth agape like a strangled bird, blood pouring from the nose and ears, turning the white shirt the colour of crashed raspberries: that is the kind of death. But I could never hang myself; and lynchings happened only in my dreams.
The screeching brakes; the lurching, plunging truck and I am lying by the roadside breathless but unhurt, scrambling to my feet, picking up the fallen brief-case, the truck coming back. "Could you give me a lift, mate?" I asked, affecting an air of unconcern. "A lift?" he shouted. "Listen, you just went close to getting a lift to eternity. You stepped... I overlapped him: "I tried to signal and got dazzled by the lights". He peered at me in an accusing tone and sked: "Where are you going?" I asked back: "Where are you going?". He named a place which I cannot remember the name of but he named a highway so I said: "The highway? That will do for me, if it wouldn't be too much trouble". He still seemed unconvinced but shrugged and said: "No trouble".
I scrambled into the truck beside him, having struggled to open the high door. In the reflected light of the cabin, he appeared to be a man with some Maori or perhaps Thursday Island blood: an ambivalent man, with a flat secretive face and sly ironic eyes. He wore dungarees, a singlet, a tattered wollen jacket and a raffishly angled cap.
"What, you running away from your mother or something?" he asked, looking in the rear vision mirror outside his door as we drove off. "Nothing like that. Had too much beer at a club and got on the wrong train." I managed a casual smile. "Where will you come out on the highway?". He again mentioned someplace and I told him: "Know it, that's where I'm going."
This coincidence seemed to quiet his suspicions but I wanted to divert the conversation away from my nocturnal journey. I picked up a book which had lain on the dash board, I could make out the title in the dim light: 'Live and Let Die'. "Do a bit of reading I see". "Not much: spend most of my time at the wheel or asleep: generally carry a book to read at roadside cafes." He braked suddenly as the driver in front signalled a right turn at a road junction but changed her mind and went straight on. "Women drivers!" he exclaimed and swung the huge semi-trailer right as if it were a sports car. The book still lay in my hands: 'Live and Let Die'.
It reminded me of a book I had borrowed about suicide, death and afterlife which had entered my house by stealth, like a lecher smuggled into a nunnery by a novice. The question was where to hide it because I didn't want my mother to find it and learn about my intentions. It was a paperback printed on cheap paper and I carried it by day forced into my hip-pocket, and slept with it under my pillow at night. At first I didn't even dare to read a page for fear of being discovered, like a child with a forbidden comic.
Then, one day in the secrecy of the toilet, I took it out with trembling hands. On the back cover was a photo of the author, with a high forhead, a near beard and a jovial expression. His twinkling eyes seemed to seek recognition for his wit and knowledge. They showed that for him the subject wasn't depressing but a relief. Someone tried to open the toilet door. I slammed my feet against it and said sorry. As I shot the bolt, the book dropped to the floor. The title printed in red letters seemed to glow like a neon light. Like a criminal destroying evidence in fear that the police will arrive, I tore the cover off and, later ripping it into small pieces, threw it into the toilet bowl and pulled the chain. Some pieces did not flush. I scooped up the soggy craps from the water and wrapped them in a handcherkief. Then, after a long wait, the plunge of the cistern sounded like a surging waterfall as it sucked the incriminating pieces down. But bit by bit, in the secrecy of the toilet I read it all and got more obsessed by suicide.
Back to the truck. The truck coasted on a straight stretch of road and the driver glanced sidelong at me. "I always pick up a hitch-hiker; know why?" he asked. "For the company?" "No, because I'm curious about strangers". He turned his head slyly, at the same time inquisitive and sceptical. "Take yourself: I'm driving along in the rain in the middle of nowhere when into my light beam jumps a well dressed bloke with an umbrella and brief-case who says he has got on the wrong train." "Truth is stranger than fiction." "Yeah, and he just happens to be going where I'm going." I began to see the truck driver as a challenge to my ability to hide my real thoughts and identity behind my conversation. I felt a curious elation like an actor ready to move in a difficult role. "That's how it is with life" I began. "If I were to put in a novel some things that have happened to me- people would think I was a nut."
He was distracted, however, by the demands of the road, which now began to wind through a mountainous rain forest, and he leaned over the wheel with concentraed skill. The lights picked up now high tension wires to the left; now the sheer cliff to the right; now a bridge beneath which a cascading stream tumbled over sandstone. The forest was tropically lush, a dark tangle of ferns and vines, palms and gum trees, seen through the swishing rain, like a jungle where wild animals might lurk and morbid fungus flourish.
My thoughts moved in spirals as if they were a memory circling, waiting to land. Was there a beginning- if God made the world, who made God?- could something infinite exist outside the finite material world? This old conundrum had been poised above my brain-box like a guillotine ever since I started embracing the truth in the books of science, art and mathematics. Later, I had formed the habit of posing this question in school classes and private conversation and always answering it in the negative. More recently, I had left it suspended in the air like a flying saucer, controversial and obtuse. And on thinking about the beginning I also thought about the end, and I wished that the truck would crash into a dark spot killing both me and the driver, to be found years later, forgotten by everyone. But the end naver came... and so I keep on living this fucked up, sorrowful life!
P.S. To anyone who called me a samaritan, first read all my posts. You might change your opinion! And those few, rare days when I try to be positive and help both me and you get on, don't spoil them.
See ya all in hell!
|23 Sep 2003||jean||la mejor manera hermano, no la tiene nadie.|
|21 Sep 2003||will||well LEANNE, id willingly buy a gun off you. i would have pleasure in pulling that trigger. and yeah, the walls would be splattered with blood and fragments of my brain. cool eh! dont judge others!!!|
|21 Sep 2003||Steve||I like to sit in my room all day and listen to Nine Inch Nails. There's nothing better for my depressed, suicidal mind.|
|20 Sep 2003||damon||Male: cut off your sexual organ and swallow it making sure not to chew.
Female: take a tampon and tie the string to your tongue, swallow, and drink some water
|20 Sep 2003||Steve||I don't have a life. And soon that may be true in a literal sense as well.|
|20 Sep 2003||leanne to steven||Oh,Steven,we can be losers together. i'm a minority in every place i go, even at times when i may not look like one, i sure feel like one inside. when i walk the streets (a rare thing) and i see people smiling... it makes me sad, i want to smile, so sometimes i fake one, but it hurts,it fades, so i dont bother. im starting college on monday, im dreading it... enrolement day was dissapointing... i was surrounded by sheep... people who dress the same, act the same, walk&talk the same. these were exactly the kinda assholes i was hoping to escape from at high-school which was the whole point of leaving, but it seems the 'clone syndrome' is spreading more rapidly than i thought. i think what this place needs is a little less of the normal, acceptable & ordinary and more people like us. we need to spice things up a little with more nut-cases ,loonatics, freaks, mental-head-cases. i'd feel more at home then. im a goth/grunge girl myself, everyone stares and my family ask why i dress in black, well its coz i feel like im in darkness 24/7. its like everybody else radiates with health, their colourful inner-selves shines on the outside and im like the background of a painting... or a dull shadow or a grim wall. im noticed and i stand out but i feel invisible and get ignored. im like the side dish at the restaurant that nobody orders so it just gets pushed to the corner of the table, or it gets sent away.
i was doing a bit of thinking one sleepless night, and i thought.... hmmm, if we get 100 depressed suicidals and give them a gun, i wonder how many would actually pull the trigger? i admit i'd hesitate. i wanna die so much but still i find myslef hanging around for something.. i dunno... maybe waiting for my package of happiness to be delivered, but still it hasn't arrived. i dont think it will, so why am i still lurking around? i feel pathetic most of the time saying to myself, 'oh just stop wallowing in self pity for fuck sake, accept that life equals loss, stop embracing and indulging in all your flaws and imperfections!'' why isnt it that easy? i wish it were. i wish i could take my brilliant mate's advice and 'lighten up' 'smile' or 'cheer up.'
this is coming from a 17 year old who first attempted to retreat on a permanent vaccation at the age of 13... im crap at this suicide thing... useless at living and hopeless at dying. is there anything i'll ever get right?!
|20 Sep 2003||Steve||Bye, will. I think I must die soon as well.
|20 Sep 2003||jane 0388||I need help i dont no what to do anymor. whenever ig out i ither get terrorised, get started on or people ask me for money. im having boy troubles to. i no all girls get depressed about boys but i really cant put up with it. if you were me you would fee like shit. my mum and dad hate me, my mum locks me in my room my dad gets violent and so does my boyfriend sooner or later i wont need to kill myself, sum1 will do it for me. the other night i ran out infront of a car it stopped to early i want a painful death, my skin splitting apart, my body gettin run over or sum1 stabbing me. anything to get me out of here so i can feel myself gettin hurt, punished slowly for the shity person that i am.|
|20 Sep 2003||ronwelthy||hey steve what a good philosophy. Thinking everything is planned and that because you think about something worse it will always happened. It's like what I think there are the happy people who can make choices and the other who always end doing things they don't want to or things they are obliged to do because there are no more solutions.
Well that's a good idea but please Steve tell me what exactly Tylenol is because it could be useful in my case too
|20 Sep 2003||Phil||Why am I still here Steve? Well, why is anyone still here, posting on the suicide kit?
I have my reasons for being alive still, and they are nothing to do with this website at all. I do have a life, even if it's not much of one. I have been suicidal for a while and soon, let's just say soon, I may be dead. I think it's ok for me to post here still in my days before my demise. Lucy Cortina is dead, at least in name. I have to go now cos Beyonce is on the TV, shaking her...um....
Yes Steve, I'm gay, but have some strange obsession with breasts. I don't actually understand the point of them - they're so soft and gooshy and just lie there, doing nothing.
And yes gay punk, I may have been posting as someone before, lets just say. My boyfriend has changed his name now though, so don't worry about that ;)
And Naomi, we do care, more than you could imagine.
|20 Sep 2003||Steve||Wow, I was just having some intense thought and reflecting on things and for the first time I actually accepted the fact that "I have to commit suicide". Deep down I'm reluctant and I'd prefer not to die of my own doing. However, it's becoming more clear that perhaps there's no way for me to appreciate life in its current form... and my urge to commit suicide seems to have a mind of its own. I can try to stop it, but it keeps on coming.
Still, I don't know when or if I'll end up doing it. Tomorrow? Next month? Three years from now? It's not something I can predict, but from experience, whenever my mind becomes set on something serious, I usually end up doing it soon after and with little preparation, so I'm prepared to go at any time. I don't know what the afterlife will be like..... assuming there even is one, but I sure hope it wouldn't be something I'd be made to regret entering. As for my prospective weapon, I think I'll use various pills, mainly Tylenol #3's with a strong alcoholic beverage.... if that'll even work.
I should still be around for a while at least (well, possibly)... but I'm afraid my fate may be sealed. I hope not, but it's not something I can control.