|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?
|03 Jan 2004||Felicia the Great||Back From The Holidays
Hello Mouchette!!! Happy New Year!!!
To the rest of the folks still in hibernation, sleep away the cold months cuz February 2, will be here before you know it.
I'm surprized at the long posts written by budding writer's with wonderful amounts of talent. I was just looking in the bookstore one night sauntering through the Writer's 2004 booklet for publishing and inspired to write a long novel, later preparing it for mid-summer. I also encourage the other writer's to do the same. Use that talent to generate many returns--for heaven's sake--get paid for it!
Wish me luck folks and forgive my belly aching about the loud music. I know that it was not posted up for a good reason for fear of complaining critics. Since bomb mail has been an all time epidemic, I will spare my anger and put it forth to something more constuctive like bathing in a tub full of jello pudding while giving Rush Limbaugh an erection.
|31 Dec 2003||Chris||Resolution! Even the word I don't like. It sounds like revolution, which sneaks away with a measly ssss, like a traitorous lago and you a corrupted Othello once again. And, of course it's the opposite of revolution- it won't change anything. Sure, it'll make you feel like the hero of your own story, but isn't that a bit of a sad desire to start with?
Attach the word to New Year's, of course, and you've got a recipe for true cretinism. Is there still anyone over the age of 13 who makes New Year's resolutions? If I've learned anything from my years on this planet, it is that uttering the words "I'm never going to (insert vice here) again" make you look as real as Westlife lyrics. Yes, you will, and yes, despite all the resolutions I made not to lie, I still conceal my weight under clothes which make me look thinner. Resolutions of new years past will come back to haunt you, making you defeat all the more poignant, bringing the inevitable if unexpected discovery that self improvement is not so straightforward after all.
Yet, it is still hard not to get the resolution urge on New Year's Eve. There's that sense of renewal, of rebirth, and the guilty awareness that you ate your weight in chocolate during the holidays. Sure, last year's resolutions were already on the carpet with the last few tinsel and mince pie crumbs by the fifth of January, but hey, this year's going to be different, right? Right?
Not really. New Year Resolutions are the lion's share of this season's cheatings, as fad as the taped tinny carols echoing down the streets or the animosity and well wishes wrapped around every present that you got. Was any month ever so stuffed with the desire to change oneself, make oneself better in the Bridget-Jones style calibration of the things we do wrong, or too much or too little, on a daily basis? We're depressed, drowning in our own affluence and clawing about for an answer, an option on reinvention. Yet, we inevitably fail, year after year.
The proof of your annual failure is that after all these new years and thousands of resolutions, you're still some Lawrence of suburbia, living on the edge, smoking too much, reminding yourself that you are not a 6 year old any more and resolving to be grown-up. Despite your resolution to read more, you still watch crap TV with a soundtrack which seems as though it has been compiled by a drunken punter from a bar jukebox in the dirtiest bar on the darkest street. You still run hot baths, and while the bubbles burst, consider sensible eating options like not biting your nails and unconvincing yourself that a burger a day keeps the doctor away. As regards the gym, the membership card makes for a great beer coaster. After all, you are all for inner beauty, and a slick of lippy, a bit of eyeliner and a top-up deodorant are enough to face the brave new world.
At least, until the end of the year, when resolutions and their failings come full circle, reminding us that the compiling of New Year Resolutions is an essentially pointless exercise. Those of us who do make resolutions certainly do so in the full knowledge that we are unlikely to realise them, and will ultimately end up afflicted by a sense of guilt, by an increased awareness of our personal failings that we might have otherwise been spared. That in itself is an essential part of the whole resolution culture. So why do we persist?
Because we have been persisting for some 4,000 years since the custom was first introduced by the Babylonians, together with demon bowls and magic. The intention was to keep them humble and remind them to do things they might otherwise not. Apparently, the most common resolution doing the Babylonian rounds concerned the return of borrowed farm equipment to its rightful owners. This tradition was revived in Victorian times, albeit in different clothing. The Victorians took their rituals seriously, using them to ward off the burgeoning uncertainties of the fin de siecle years, nourish old roots and imply the presence of others that had never existed. The whole Christmas period, for instance was built up to help keep harsh modernity at bay, and each December 31 was seized on as an opportunity to reassure everyone that stability and cohesion came through ritual, and that, in spite of all the dark talk of decay and disintegration, there would still be growth and renewal in the new year.
Yet, at some point over the course of the past few years, the status of the New Year Resolution changed, and became an altogether darker affair. The resolution has evolved from a casual expression of our vague intention to do good by our neighbour's prototype plough, and become an open statement of our self-disgust, an affirmation of our continual pursuit to be anything better, anything but ourselves, the articulation of our personal dissatisfaction. Why can't we be less like us, and a little bit more like Kylie Minogue or Brad Pitt? Why can't we stop smoking and be thinner, fitter and kinder to animals? Why can't we plot against our individual failings and be better?
If you take such things seriously, the planning period of New Year's resolutions starts about now. For some, it might be a quick five-to-midnight mental scan, but I know others who spend hours designing the improved self, scheduled to arrive on new year's day. Chances are, even if you haven't acted out the New Year resolution mini ritual at some point over the last few days, you have been aware of the issue. Some small part of our psyche will have coughed politely, raised its finger and suggested that now might be a great time to curl up in a quiet corner with an appropriately pretty notebook, a fountain pen and a reverent air, and begin itemising the path to a better you. Or you simply think of every quality you don't like, draw up a wish list pf replacements, and at midnight the one would be exchanged for the other.
The list will include both physical and mental new ideas. Physically, we are hooked on the possibility that we could improve- be prettier, more groomed, more toned better dressed. Our economy depends upon it. Should we start believing that we can exist without a product that will combat the seven signs of ugliness, or a gym membership will rein in our flesh. All of this adds up to a general disenchantment that corresponds quite neatly with the annual resolve to do things better in 2004.
So while for most of the year, we think that a balanced diet consists of beer and hot dogs, slimming in the month of January becomes the world's favourite obsession. Maybe we should keep it so, since we have an obesity rate fit to make it to the Ritcher scale! For a few weeks, gyms are temporarily full of clients, horrified by what a post-festive step on the scales have revealed. For a few weeks, gyms are temporarily full of clients, fired by self improving zeal, sporting new trainers and learning the difference between a pec-deck and a bench-press.
It doesn't last. While for the first few weeks of January, the number of people who join gyms planning to do several times a week is high, the number still sticking with that months later is much lower, and many will have stopped going before January is over. As the initial enthusiasm and motivation disappear, people fall off the bench-press, stick to their beer and hot dogs diet, and let gyms grow fat on broken New Year's resolutions and promises and annual paid memberships.
So will drug companies who produce nicotine patches and gum. Each year, the production of these remedies doubles and so their marketing, since record number of smokers are always expected to try to kick the habit at the start of the new year. Everything starts the night before. You throw away everything to do with smoking- cigarettes, matches, ashtrays and the lot. Then before you go to bed, you run the cigarettes under the tap. Otherwise, you'll be delving in the bin, wiping baked beans off them in the morning. With a final flourish you start collecting all the money you would have saved in a jar thinking what a holiday you're going to buy. But like all resolutions it started with the bang of the ashtray on the floor and ended with a whimper of waking up groping for cigarettes near your bed and finding none. Then suddenly you see the light from heaven and you go out to buy cigarettes or at least you see the light of the open fridge!
Alas new year resolutions seldom make it past February! Why? Simply because most of us don't have a clue how to make a reasonable resolution, which is why most of us fail to keep the ones we make. So we either set up goals which are easy to keep such as sleeping as much as we can or breathing, or else stop making resolutions at all.
I just have decided that to give up smoking and getting up late in the mornings, or to clean my teeth with interdental brushes just wouldn't contribute to making the world a better place- so Fuck it! And anyway, I attribute most of my vices to the stress inflicted on me by others. I am their victim; and if they were to reform themselves, I would doubtless become a better person too.
Maybe we should make collective resolutions such as being more sophisticated as a country to celebrate diversity and start behaving like a tolerant country and relax. Together we should make an effort to be who we really are and not pretend to be others. Surely it makes more sense.
Yet maybe the only resolution we will keep in 2004 is to be good and dedicated bargain hunters and spend our leftover money in January, the month when many of us rush to the shops in search of that elusive must have item at a fraction of its usual price. We will crazily rummage the shelves, offering an arresting spectacle of consummerism at its nakedest while the bands play on. And again we will be a failed people, a failed nation and a failed, fucked up world!
But I live on (unfortunately) in hope. Happy New Year!
See ya all drunk, but again, Be ReaL!!!
|24 Dec 2003||Chris||I would say an optimist is one who walks down the street, finds no clothes to fit and flatter, and pronounces the death of fashion while asking that eternal question, "Does my mother look big in this?". Then the optimist will go for another lap around the shops and eventually finds something nice and very expensive. But what the fuck- everywhere Christmas lights are blazing and the message is 'Get spending now!'
A pessimist, on the other hand, will go round the same shops, sees no traffic in street wear, and decides that it is one's body that has gone out of fashion. Then one goes home and imagines life as it should be, not as it is, how fashion in this world is something of a juvenile pursuit but one day someone Promethean will do something about it.
I am of the latter party pooper species. So it comes as no surprise that I don't see Christmas as the most wonderful time of the year. Rather, it's the most anxious, the most desperate, the most self-punishing. Each December we struggle to achieve perfection- the presents must be just right, the turkey dinner must be wonderful and your party dresses or suits must be enough to make everyone wail and flutter with envy.
Inevitably, we fail on all counts, and these silent nights become a time for problems. You need to arrive somewhere fast but no one would give you a lift. The Christmas tree has started shedding the needles all over the carpet. The shops have just closed and you've realised that the shawl you've bought for your mum is exactly like the one you gave her last year. There are odd noises coming out of the oven and in the news, five carol singers whom you have just treated to a warm coco, have been rushed to hospital. Your angina is playing up, and heavy winds, rain and a migraine are expected in the next five minutes. Friends, who have been making merry in the various water holes across the country, just puked up over the yellow and gold scatter cushions and your cousin is coming to stay for three days and threatening to bring her kids along too, thank you very much. Then a policeman turns up to inform you that the neighbours have reported a mushroom cloud over your house. The oven. Happy Christmas? You blind or what?
And this is only the night before Christmas. After Christmas, it would be nice to go on holiday, from this laborous quest for perfection, it would be nice to have rest from all that unrewarding striving. But instead, we follow it up with New Year's Eve, perhaps the most anxious and unpleasant evening of most people's calendar.
Christmas is not perfect, yet we imagine it to be, simply because it is a ritual, to be followed to the letter, weighed down with the memory of perfect Christmases past that are totally figments of a whisky or sherry-drunk imagination. This is why it feels so disastrously wrong if it does not work out and why we long so much for it to be just right. And why year after year, we assume that everyone is having fun during their Christmas holidays. And if not, some charity will do the trick.
Well, not quite everyone is as lucky as the happy ones always getting drunk. Many people have to earn their living on a Christmas Day and New Year. TV people for instance. And if they are not actually on the premises they are at the mercy of a cell phone. And if they are not at the mercy of a cell phone, they are on the premises churning out old time favourites and Christmas shows spiced up with flamenco dancing and charity shows. While most terrestrial TV stations will operate with a relatively skeletal staff over the festive period, the idea that the world's viewing lies in the hands of the few and the somnolent couldn't be further from the truth. Take the newsrooms for instance- they will be staffed just in case Martians were to arrive while the rest of us are passed out in a fag of seasonal bonhomie.
Bus drivers work, save a couple of hours to enjoy a Christmas lunch which will probably start a couple of hours late and will only give them time to slurp down the lasagna or turkey with a litre of wine and tinsel. Hospitals are fully staffed- obviously someone has to be on duty in case Santa gets stuck up the chimney and breaks his leg. The wards will still hold their sick for the night. Security guards and policemen, soldiers and waiters, barmen and taxi drivers, all will be on duty on shifts in order that we can carry on with our celebrations.
Not everyone will be at home, reeking of figgy pudding and getting carried away with the sweet scent of mincemeat. And if you had assumed that everyone will be happy and huddled with the family at this time of year, then wake up and smell your grandpa's cheap vermouth. A lot of people will be unhappy this season, thanks to the massive build-up towards the festive season. December is supposed to be a time to enjoy oneself, but for those on their own or who can't afford it, celebrations will just make them feel left out, sad and angry. We know this, but think that some millions of pounds in charity will make the poor and the homeless joyous, and leave us to enjoy our Christmas and New Year with a calmed conscience.
Yet charity is not enough, in a world where we spend eleven months in charitable hibernation, then splash out and start giving charity like mad (in hope that by some chance we might get something back for it). And there are people who are beyond charity, and who do not need money to spend a happy Christmas. Divorced or seperated couples for instance, rostering the time each will spend with their children. The elderly, who have been abandoned by their family, fearing loneliness and insecurity and dreaming of Christmases past- What good will charity be for them? Not to mention prisoners. Will they and their family be enjoying themselves like the rest of us? Well, probably prison is the safest place to be during Christmas, but certainly not the most joyful. For children in hospitals, and those separated from their parents and friends and staying in orphanages, Christmas will be a difficult time as well. Not all children will be writing their Christmas wish list and running in circles round the Christmas tree making themselves ill. Some of them are ill aready lying in a hospital bed. And what about the suicidals, who no matter what day of the year it is they just feel more suicidal and see no bright hope for the future- rather a worse year than the one that is just going to end!
And after Christmas... there is another year. And while Christmas is supposed to be about birth, the New Year seems to promise a fresh start. What shall we do tomorrow? We can start again, if not from year zero, then at least a nice round number, 2004. We shall (or at least try to) erase our pasts, purge ourselves of recent excesses, cast off the shameful parts of ourselves and walk backlit by the rising sun, through the streets filled with the wreckage of the previous year- broken glass and red eyed party goers coming down from that 2003 high. We shall make resolutions to be better, thinner, learn German or something, stand up straight, stop smoking, make only perfect souffles and a never ending litany which we will not succeed in. We shall be reborn into our own lives. It will be a miracle! We shall be a better men and women and be more charitable kind. We shall wave the old year good riddance.
This is indeed a salutary tie of year but not because it gives pause to reorientate ourselves, and change our goals. Rather because it brings sharp relief into what happens during the rest of the year, in which prisoners, orphans, children in hospital and suicidals are not in the news. It is only during these times that these people are given the warm shoulder. So while you and your family all over the world are getting together and reminding yourselves of all the reasons why you're not together for the rest of the year, just think about the ones who have no choice. Remind yourself of those who really count their blessings and who don't want a present this Christmas but to be present and to be given a chance of a good life. Mouchie, you're the only one giving the warm shoulder to everybody all year round. Congratulations and Merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you and all you people reading this!
P.S. Leanne, I read your post, 'Leanne about Chris' many times and I still cannot fully grasp if I should take it positively, negatively or neutrally. Sometimes it sounds as if you're accusing me of being here but not there for you, sometimes it sounds as if you're loving but you don't want to. Yeah, I know that cold, numb or only angry can feel good but only to a certain point. One day you look at someone and you feel something strange. You put your hand on your chest and feel a rhythm and you realise that you still have a warm heart that still beats and loves and that it was only the people who you loved that left and not the love itself. It was just covered with this cold, hard layer that was peeled off when you saw that someone. As the song says 'love hurts' and one day your heart will be covered in that cold layer again. But you will keep hoping that some day you will find that someone who will be worth loving and hurting for and you won't mind the pain. Good luck to you for finding that someone and sorry if I hurt you in some way. The closest I can get is by e-mailing you but as you never asked I never did for fear of being a pest of myself and considered junk mail. Whatever you say and think, I will still love you and I think I can understand you and I wish you all the best for this festive season, beyond it and forever! (What I wrote today about sad Christmases wasn't to spoil the fun but to make you think about reality!)
See ya all having fun (if you can manage it) and getting drunk but Be ReaL!!!
|22 Dec 2003||Joe Lee||Hi, My name is Joe
Please excuse mine English, I am from China. As you know, China is not like what used to be. The ancient rules and western ideologies is quite different. Many youth develop mental illness trying to cope with this fast pace changing society. Depression is one of the major cause for suicide here.
Pressure from school mostly, because we have so many people. It's very tough to get into a good school. We are very poor compare to you. You are very rich most likely.
We are hard workers, it's our nature to serve others. Our economy is rising because of our hard works. We do every thing you desire cheap.
Our company offer many painless ways to end your life. With good doctors and medicine. Chinese believe in life after death, so we do everything properly, customer satisfaction guarantee.
You will not feel pain, you will not feel fear, you will laugh your way into the yellow river.
We have many settings. You can choose to end your life in any style painlessly. One of the famous way to go here is to die like the King in Bejing. You can even choose to get buried with your own personal servant. Life don't cost as mush here as in your country. As you know, we are very poor.
You can also choose to die in Tibetan style of sky burial. Where you will be fully drugged and comfortable. We also carry travel insurance for any accidents.
We will like to welcome you to come and take the last visit of our beautiful country. If you are under 10 years old and have siblings, we do two of you for the price of one. Please prepare at least $15,999 USD. We had calls from many angry parents, so better save the money your own. Cash only.
We have most every killing methods knowing to man prepared here with following examples:
Wide selection of animals:
Dungeons with Dragon,
Classical pissing on you in the hole,
Emperor's last meal, (Cost vary depend on the dish)
Goku's Torment, (the historical story of the monky king)
Jeffery Dun Sin,
We can even make your death a natural cause:
Heart attack (So real, you won't believe you are only 13)
Real lighting strike,
*Suprise me* (customer's favored choice)
I can't list them all,
Contact me by email, phones and fax leaves too much evidence.
Our New Year Special for group of eight is 200,000 USD. Where two lucky winner will be publicly excuted in TanAnMan square Bejing with official documents for espionage. You will be the youngest foreign spy on the news all over the world! This offer ends 2003!!
|22 Dec 2003||J Bush||I can't believe I found this disturbing web site. This shows me how messed up teenagers are now days. I will start a special suicide help center in Washington to help young Americans. No foreigners please, we have enough problem in our country right now. Contact by email with your phone and address, we should pick you up shortly.|
|21 Dec 2003||LeanneaboutChris||I'm back but not better. I've been busy thinking about trying not to think. Feeling too much or too little, I'd rather feel nothing. I used to feel numb, nothing, frozen and blank. Now, I'd actually like that back... too much emotion is a poison. I've gained bad times, and lost the good&distant ones. I have been longing and yearning for something, someone. A figment of my imagination perhaps? Somebody who can see the 'me' inside, who I wish was here but can't be. I lost touch, but keeping in touch just isn't enough.
I didn't forget about the one that mattered, and still does matter, just tried to erase him from my mind. Out of sight, out of mind? Been there, done that... doesn't work.
Festive season is amongst us yet again... don't be a stranger. Keep loving and most importantly keep living.
|20 Dec 2003||billy the freak||wow, i am very impressed with all of you, your writing of course. i finally got time to read some of the posts. mouchette, you're looking beautiful as always. chris, you are absolutely right. this is a safe place where you can express yourself, in many ways. some people come in here and just babble about nothing but they feel better when they're done, some people come in here and scream about how they want to hang their neck up and never come back. makes wonder if they might be hanging from a ceiling beam somewhere. you got people who want to give their best advice and hope they can save a life. then you got the ones who want to use it as a creative outlet like myself. i personally feel that's what makes this interesting. i was here from the beginning and right now this piece of art is taking a wonderful shape. be safe and have a happy holiday season.
lucy, have a wonderful christmas darling!!!
|20 Dec 2003||Chris||I know you've been waiting for a continuation of 9th December's post. So here it comes...
Anyway, the potatoes (yeah, you remember I was boiling potatoes) were done. I got off bed which juttted out of a double-doored closet and went into the coffin-sized kitchen, 'kitchenette' was the euphemism used on the For Rent sign. I grabbed the handle of the pan in a hot pad, held the lid loosely over the top and poured the hot water into the sink, devastating as I did a long column of ants marching over the porcelain on their way to the cupboard. Then I let the potatoes roll and bump out onto my plate, four dead boiled potatoes. I took them into the other room and sat down on the edge of the bed to eat.
There was one window in the room and the raspberry-coloured walls added to the gloom. As I put forkfuls of potato in my mouth and they formed a metallic-tasting mucilage, I told myself I had to learn to cook. I was a long way from the quite good food you eat in average restaurants, let alone the posh ones. Maybe I could check out a cookbook from the library. I had lots of time to learn to cook...
I began to have the idea I didn't know what I was. It seemed I had, once, but apparently I had thought I was what I was doing. That had been all right when I had been a boy who was always happy, a dreamer who dreamed about love and changing the world into a better place, a good boy who studied and worked hard at school, a boy who made people laugh with him instead of at him and a boy who had an enthusiasm for life in general, California style bon vivant. But to apply the same standard now to the 'all dreams shattered', loveless, non-enthusiastic approach, miserable creature lying on a bed at noon in a cheap room, lunching on boiled potatoes, that called for a conclusion about myself that I didn't want to make.
Trying to see myself from the point of view of other people didn't help. I barely know other people and they all seem stupidly the same. And still I couldn't feel the guilt of anything I've done in life and I still couldn't understand why people always laugh at me or say stupid things about me in hushed tones. None of the things I thought of helped. I could really only concentrate on what lay immediately before me, the problems of studying and eating. However memory helped by hurting. Memory brought pain which obscured necessity. Love hadn't left me, only the people I had loved had. So my friends and my imaginary girlfriend remained to dart into my thoughts when I was at my most unprotected, remained to confuse my focus on survival.
It worked the other way round too, the need of surviving distorted my love. As now, lying back on the bed with my hand over my eyes, disgusted, depressed, breathing only because I had no choice, my imagination gave me my imaginary girlfriend and then mocked what I had been given. With the image of this 'girlfriend' came the thought that I had ommitted a noise in my catalogue of sounds, the trickling toilet in the bathroom. And as if that wasn't enough it had to be degraded even more. A girlfriend, and longing for a girlfriend, and a popular tune, a trickling toilet, a tune twisted into a parody for self-humiliation, the connections rushed into my mind, I had to admit the thought belonged to me, 'a trickling toilet in the next apartment, those stumbling words...' couldn't be what my heart meant!
I fixed my eyes on the raspberry ceiling. It was too ugly a hue to create an atmosphere of sentimentality, and the light bulb with its flowered cloth skirt had its own dime-store harshness. With a kind of relief I managed to fasten my mind on these things. The blotchy paint, the forty-watt bulb, and the skirt, handmade with a dirty, rough touch to it. These things told me where I was, told me I was Chris in a cheap room with lots of shit to study and work at and no better idea of what to do than lie on my back on a metal bed and examine the ceiling. I reached for a newspaper lying nearby and stared to read an article before I realised I had made a decision to stop wasting my time and work. But what could I do? How could I catch up with the rest? How was I to be as good as, or even better than the rest of the people who have been working their nuts off all year round? But then I realised, it didn't really matter what it was, I just knew that I had to do something, to move on in life, so maybe one day I could earn some proper money, to prove myself that I could do that much (because even if painfully, school and work are the only things going for me in life, so if I even fail in that, I'm pretty fucked!) So from today, I swear I'm gonna do more than just stare around and waste my time!
See ya slavin' your nuts off!
|16 Dec 2003||billy the freak||:hey there looking at me, what it is you see. what is it about you that i adore? try to find some words i can use. don't got the courage to come up to you. my chances are looking a bit grey. i'm staring across the room. are you leaving soon? i just need a little time. oh no it happened again walked away with her boyfriend maybe we'll meet again someday... someday...
i found myself in a bar room with my best friend searching for something. cigarette smoke loomed in air and made everyone look fuzzy through its transparent wisps of death. the smell of alcohol was bitter, the taste was sweet. i found it.
she was dancing by the juke box. the light shining off her soft milky skin made her look heavenly... like some sort of fallen angel. i imagined two bloody stumps where her wing should have been and was insanely aroused. when i felt the twitch below my belt i decided to order another drink.
"bartender... a double of rum and a beer to chase them down." he assured me that he got my order by repeating it back to me using different words.
"a twin pirate boiler maker coming right up." i gave him a quick nod and pat my friend's shoulder to get his attention.
"hey, look over there by the juke box... my angel." he looked over by the juke box then back at me.
"she's alright... i guess." i was outraged by his response.
"she's alright... you guess." i mocked him in a unpleasent tone. "man, she looks like heather gram."
"yeah, a skinny heather gram" he said, matter of factly.
"dude, she's not skinny!" i snapped at him.
"you're right, she's not skinny." he said with with a smile. "she's anorexic."
"fuck you asshole, you don't know what your talking about. she is beautiful and i'm going to go talk to her" i said, just about spitting in his face.
"alright man, you know i was just goofing around". my buddy jay always has jokes, and he knows me better then anyone. that's why i love him. "if you're going to go over there, you need to calm down and think of something to say, or you're just going to choke up again."
he was absolutely right. what was i going to say? i have a bad problem with my words slipping out my mouth and falling to the floor. it is embarrassing when i got to pick them up. i shot down my rum and drank my beer, then it hit me. i will simply tell her she looks like heather gram.
i got up and took off in the direction of the juke box. my heart started thumping. i passed the pool tables. my head started spinning and instead of going straight i turned left and headed right into the bathroom into the stall onto my knees and puked. i insantly felt better and figured i would relieve my bladder while i was in there.
i walked over to the sink and looked in the mirror. i looked horrible. i washed my face and rinced out my mouth the best i could. i choked and this time i didn't even get to talk to her. i felt pathetic. i looked in the mirror one last time. i siked myself up the best i could, because i wasn't going down without a fight. i told myself... i told myself i could do this.
i came out the bathroom with my head high and my intentions set, but something was wrong. i couldn't find my angel. i walked over to the bar where my friend was.
"I saw your little detour there partner."he said with his glass held to his mouth.
"where did she go?" i asked him in a low embarassed tone.
"her old man came in and told her it was time to go. you wouldn't have got her anyway."
i sat down, ordered a drink and blew air from the deepest part of my lungs. when jay said. "let's get a burger."
"yeah" i said, "a hamburger sounds good right now."
|13 Dec 2003||Chris||Justin, I'm sorry too for you are TOTALLY wrong. Some facts: I am NOT married, I am still a teen myself, I DO NOT have any kids. I think you are confusing me with the Chris who wrote on 26th November 2003 (The name Chris who's not me has cropped up some other times and I had warned that it wasn't me, I thought there wasn't need to warn again)! And I doubt if you read that carefully. He didn't say he has two kids but he has: "a beautiful 2 year old daughter". In his post he also says that after watching some documentary he: "searched and stumbled on this site" which clearly shows he was the first time here (and I am far from a first timer! He also left his e-mail address which I never do (I think that's proof enough that I'm not trying to "get action" from here) and over all what he wrote is not my kind of writing! And from all those really "gross pleas from female names" I can only remember two who have talked directly to me regularly in their posts; Leanne and Mauvais! Surely it's not that much. And I still respect and love them a lot. I have e-mailed Mauvais, but only on her request and I can swear I'm not playing up. And Justin, you haven't got the WHOLE point of mouchette.org. For us long timers here, the What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13? is just a rhetoric question that can build up a train of thought. Yes, I've written about suicide but suicide is not all there is. As long as we're still alive things that make us either happy or sad are happening all the time and one would want to share his/her experiences. Mouchette.org is our home. You are also wrong about the etiquette of this site. Anything, anyone posts is shown to everybody because everyone can have his say or opinion, even personal attacks, although they might hurt. You also said "offering help to people". I never directly did that. I need help myself (but then it was the other Chris who offered it directly too). You also call the Chris you're talking about a "gentleman" and then you imply that he's probably a: "sick man on this board hoping to find young, impressionable and depressed teens for some action)! I wouldn't call that kind of man a 'gentleman'! I think I have dissected all your message and proved you wrong all the way. Before you talk, read all evidence carefully, think and do your homework. Your post was a shabby piece made on lots of bits and pieces which are untrue (and can be easily seen as untrue)!
Looking at it more positively, I can make two points. Fist is that it's good to talk/criticise if you feel something is not right or not fully understandable, and maybe request an answer for some particular post. Second point is that sick people on this site should IMMEDIATELY move out. I hate peadophiles and peadophelia. If anyone thinks this is a joke or a game, fuck off. If anyone is playing around, he/she is a really sick, perverted player!
Can I prove that what I said is the holy truth? No, you just have to trust me! But then, I trust you that you are not a sick player yourself, that you are who you say you are. (The action is easier for you as people can actually contact you because you left your e-mail) and I trust you that all your mistakes were genuine and not to try and fuck me up!
Anyways, enough of that! For those who've been dying for the continuation of last time's post... wait some more, because I have ran out of time!
P.S Thanks Mauvais for that post. Couldn't have said it better myself but I just wanted to enforce the point!
See ya soon...
|11 Dec 2003||MauvaisSouhait||Justin, i'm sorry to inform you but Chris is not a bad guy at all. Maybe the Chris you were thinking of is perhaps someone different. This Chris, my Chris is a unique person. Not married, younger than you in fact. He's caring, sweet and wouldn't be on here to just "get action" seeing as how he does not leave his e-mail. This chat is not for just talking about how to kill urself if you are under 13. That is just something to get you to think. If you look at my comments you can tell, we don't talk about this much. The people who have been here for a while understand. It's alright to write about things other than that, to write how you feel, whatever it is you desire. This is a place to be yourself. I hope you understand.|
|09 Dec 2003||Chris||I ended up for a week in a rented room. It was supposed to be with friends but I always was alone while my 'friends' were out. While I was alone I began to notice noises. Maybe before I had never noticed it but now it seemed to me that noise surrounded, almost overwhelmed, my life. I woke up to noise and was aware of a crescendo until about one o'clock when there was a lull. Then the volume and variety grew even more slowly until between four-thirty and six-thirty came the fantastic din. The city shaking every noisemaker it possessed. Then another lull before evening had its own rumbling and, last of all, only a few lonely cars speeding down the streets long after midnight.
Now I was near the peak of the noon crescendo and lying on my bed one small rich sound, which it seemed odd I could hear at all, emphasised the rest of the din. I heard a bell, from a church or public building. In one pitch it struck four stately quarter-hours and then changed to a deeper voice for the long business of tolling twelve o'clock noon. It sounded beautiful. On its behalf I began to list its competition.
Traffic contibuted most of the clangor, a grotesque choir of unharmonised horns, whining differentials, outraged transmissions, suffocated screaming engines, frightened brakes. Then there were airplanes, whooshing or droning overhead, and, never long between them, sirens wailing human catastrophe. Voices joined in, gobbbling like turkeys, shrieking, shouting, laughing, pouting, humming monotonously some lyric to their thoughts, and voices and music from radios, telling the news, selling, giving, protesting, promising, lying by the hundreds of violins, agitating with the hoarse moan of saxophone.
My own room more humbly did its share. The window chattered in its old putty to a truck's throb in the alley, footsteps walked over a thin carpet to knock at or unlock a door, the floor always quivered from the surge of an automatic washer or dryer in a room on the street floor below; dishes and pans clattered and sometimes crashed in sinks, the bedsprings beneath me gave cricket cries when I moved and from the hotplate the salted water boiled softly among some potatoes I was cooking.
BONG and silence and whether anyone had listened or not it was definitely twelve o'clock. Hearing the bell it occurred to me that I didn't really need my watch. In my room I always seemed to hear the bells and on the streets many stores had clocks. I took my hand from under the pillow and looked at my watch, a good one, from my parents given to me on a Christmas many moons ago. I thought of giving it back to them and telling them that it only brings bad memories to me (although they will not understand) and the act seemed too childish. It took me a few seconds to realise that the watch didn't read noon but a quarter after, and when I took it off to reset it I saw that the gold was wearing thin here and there, that the face had darkened unevenly; and a watch which ran fast was more expensive to fix than one which ran slow (this watch had become like a reflection of my life, so shitty and weary). I could get some money if I could find anyone who would buy it. And ten minutes more for my boiled potatoes to be ready.
I heard my next door neighbour, a woman, come in for lunch. Betweem the time she slammed her door shut and I heard her opening kitchen cupboards was never more than a minute. Quick and efficient on her lunch hour. I didn't know what she looked like. I had planned to be coming down the hall at noon but I didn't care that much. The worst thing that happened since I was being left all the time alone was that I didn't want to see anyone more than ever. She turned on the radio and now and then when there was something she knew she sang, just a patch of it and then humming or silence as her hands became busy. It was impossible to tell her age from her voice.
I thought, for a kind of self-justification, that the morning had been a waste of time- but of course it hadn't. I had lay down on my bed observing and appreciating sounds and noises. So when you think you're alone, hear the sounds, noises and voices around you and you realise with the presence of life around you. The sounds are not gonna cheer you up but it may be better than the sound of silence creeping in on you like death, freaking you out and making you think more about suicide until you do it...
To be continued...
P.S. Leanne, that was really kool of you. You may feel so shitty with no enthusiasm to write here also but it's nice to pop in from time to time; say hello or say fuck off, anything, as long as I know you're still there. You helped me a lot although I will not tell you to write or not to write, to commmit suicide or not to commit suicide but until you're still here might as well say something. Love you always! xxxxxxx
So until the continuation.... See ya!
|08 Dec 2003||Felicia The Great||Dear Billy,
I choked on an artichoke salad this morning. Does that count for assisted suicide?
Going postal is too old. Try working as an airport screener instead; that way you can flabbergast the passengers by saying one of them had a gun in their can of hairspray, and everyone will think youre a hero.
|30 Nov 2003||Chris||I spend a disproportionate amount of my money on clothes. From that statement you might be forgiven for coming to the conclusion that I am more than a little vain, however the truth is quite opposite. I have no doubt that I, like most of the population, look considerably better dressed in my birthday suit. In fact it comes as nothing if not a pleasure and delight when winter comes and I can stop exposing my plump, pink flesh to the public gaze. So what has brought this clothes or no clothes subject to the front of my cluttered mind? The fact is, I seem to encounter yet another group of decidedly unattractive people ripping their kit off, (in the name of charity), every time I open a newspaper or switch on the television. The latest was a choir in England who, before a smutty imagination can run away with you, is a cathedral ensemble made up of an astounding range of middle-aged shapes and sizes. This, of course, hot on the heels of yet another English fire brigade baring it all for a Christmas calendar and the news that an artist in New York managed to talk about seven thousand people to pose nude in Grand Central Station. Of course, the really big one (in more ways than one) is the pin-up calendar of well past their 'best before date' Women's Institute ladies in the UK. These ladies of a certain age even went on to have their nude exploits turned into a movie!
I know it's all in the name of charity but take a look around you as you read this and tell me honestly that most people would raise more money by charging a fee to keep their togs on. I may be wrong and just at this moment there is a super photo shoot taking place of a group in the raw... now you can let your imagination take wings and try to picture leading politicians in the buffs or perhaps a collection of naked taxi drivers would encourage you to donate to charity or maybe your favourite journalist or tv presenter will persuade eleven fellow journalists/presenters into baring it all.
Well, if you are one who keeps up with the trends and want to help someone (by charity or otherwise), before committing that crucial suicide, going naked is the thing to do. But don't go betting that I will actually donate or help if I see you naked. Well, maybe I will, if you promise that I can leave my clothes on!
See ya naked!
|24 Nov 2003||billy the one and only||it has gotten to the point... where i believe that the only way to fix my problem, is not to kill myself, but to kill every one else. i have a all or nothing attitude... and personally i want it all.|
|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....
|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...
|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||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||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!