|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?
|11 Oct 2003||Chris||I've heard Leanne say that she doesn't eat, I've heard others here say that they eat too much. Suicide and food is a really complicated matter. Personally, I love indulging in something good when I'm depressed and bored.
For us, eating does not involve hunger. When you're bored, depressed and suicidal you'll poke around barefoot in the kitchen, eat a slice of cheese maybe, or nibble a tomato in the light of the open fridge. When you're tired, short-bread buiscuits drunked in coffee usually do the trick. Feeling a bit low? You let chocolate dissolve in your mouth, brainwashing your mind that it's too late to live fast and die young, so what's the point of giving up chocolate? On a morning when you're feeling sadistic because you're late again for school, a packet of crisps which has stood around for ages and tastes like an old and very lonely sock is a fair punishment. The smell of baking reassures you and a simmering pot consoles you. Snacks in bed are bliss, while you push your food around the plate when you are feeling agitated or guilty. When you're sad (most of the time!), you starve yourself, or indulge in sacrificial fattening.
Food is symbolic, and our relationship with it is complicated in both rich and disturbing ways, especially with women. While we men swallow our food too quickly to properly taste it, a woman intakes intensely and looks at her body, so food is not necessarily a need! But that's because men and women come from different planets. For instance, have you ever wondered that when women delay getting married, we call it "independence", but when men do it it's called "fear of commitment"? But beyond sexual generalisations, eating is not about eating. It's about emotions. It's about orders and disorders (and we seem to have a lot of disorders). That's why eating more or eating less is not about the quantity of food consumed, but about upbringing, personality, peer pressure, and a whole psychological babble which at a time or another someone from mouchette seems to have experienced! Or even about culture- ever wondered that obesity may be ingrained in our obsession not to leave anything on our plate?
You do not catch anorexia, or bulimia, from Vogue magazine. The pages of this and other fashion magazines do not carry some kind of bacteria that will make you anorexic. Nor does fashion TV emit radioactive waves. Eating disorders do not have anything to do with fashion, and they are not trendy zeitgest illnesses. Anorexia has existed in medical literature since 1968, so there is no point in trying to relate the cause of the illness to current pop-cultural issues. The truth is far more complicated.
The underlying causes of eating disorders are psychological, or even genetic. Far more complex, in other words, than the simple desire to fit into a size six. And like alcoholism and drug addiction, eating disorders can tear victims, family and friends apart. Yes, I know you like to see your family and 'friends' torn apart but is it worth it tearing yourself apart for it? To suggest that all this is caused by a jealousy of Kate Moss or Kylie Minogue is quite insulting.
So yes, the fashion industry can pat itself on the back- it is not from reading too many copies of a magazine that people decide to starve themselves to death. And yet, when models are becoming increasingly bony, when the ideal clothing size is diminishing each year, with the Academy Awards becoming simply an excuse for actresses to flop their hip bones and clavicles, when women who just about still need to wear a bra are called 'curvy', there is something very unhealthy going on.
So you ask: "Dear Chris, this is getting quite boring, where is this digging? And if you've just learned something about food disorders do you think we really give a fuck?" No friends, I'm not interested in stupid details about this thing but this goes to show how much misunderstood we are. People think that we are trying to copy a model but in fact we are only feeding our depression and desires and relying on food as a punishment or consolation prize. Once persons become severely anorexic or bulimic, they are usually too locked into their own little world to care about models and actresses. They are so involved with their special rules, permissions and punishments that operate inside their head that they are too busy to read glossies.
But when they try to recover, it is very difficult to shake off their beliefs and paranoia when every magazine cover seems to validate them and makes them seem normal. Models and actresses have become normally thin and have normally jutting bones. It is expected of them, the media expects it and we expect it. This then becomes a vicious circle, with such images of skinniness being seen as the image of a successful and fashionable woman. So dear anorexic girl who is trying or not trying to get out of your problem, either way you're fucked! Now, isn't that suicidal?
I talked a lot about women but it's not only them. Try looking for men's clothes with sizes 36 and over in the most fashionable houses and you'll know how impossible it is to find them. Agreed- models don't cause anorexia or bulimia, but that does not mean that the fashion and film industries are off the hook. We have to ask: why are women who weigh seven stones venerated as icons of beauty? Why do models and actresses have to be so thin and elongated that they look as if they have been taken through a distorting lens, transforming them into another species? Arms that knot into the shoulders, sinews showing, hip bones jutting, hollows in the buttocks, ribs climbing like a ladder up the body, a sculpted face, they look like a disappearing act. Aren't they meant to look great?
And if you think that film stars look great and you don't... it's only because that's the truth. Film stars have lots of free time, nannies and money. We don't! They look great all the time. We don't! But then, we're doing more important things than they are. (After all we're helping all the kids in the world from this site). We're not meant to be a nation of Bridget Joneses, obsessed about our body size and shape. So as you might have guessed I hate the super skinny look. Leanne, do this favour for me, keep healthy and don't hesitate to eat those chicken wings if you feel like it. I'm sure you and all the other girls on this site look better than Kate Moss. My suggestion is (if you're still reading and not bored)- do not read beauty magazines- they will only make you feel ugly, which you aren't. You do so many things which make you hate yourself, don't just hate yourself by looking in the mirror. And you'd better be on two diets since you won't get enough to eat with one.
P.S Leanne, first you sent me kisses, that was electrifying, now you say that there is something in me that turns you on, now that's really a blast! I've never heard a girl say something like that to me! And about your kisses being with me for eternity, it's not unfortunate at all, that would be lovely because you care and I know very few people who do that! Wonder if a photo of me would turn you on? Oh, I'm laughing my ass off!
See you at a restaurant indulging on some good food...
|10 Oct 2003||the gay punk||hey, anyone miss me?
(i see few hands)
how many don't miss me?
(i see few hands also)
how many don't give a shit?
(i see few hands, i shoot owner of those fucking hands, they die and don't need to off themselves anymore)
i'm back, well sort of. i'm still the fucked up person i am. thinking about it, trying on it, not succeding. if god existed he must be a fucking sadist dominatrix coz he's giving me a shit of a time.
i have a boyfriend now too, but doesn't know i want to kill myself
that's it, folks, and die happily, as you want to
p.s. um to those people who don't know me, don't ask, the people who know me might be dead by now
|04 Oct 2003||molli||I have no clue if anyone will remember me at all because well the last time I visited this site it was well Agust 9th it has almost been two months since I came here and well i hit a turn around.. I am safe, I made it I don't want to die and well I don't but this is my good-bye and thank you to u all .. if it weren't for u .. I would have never made it and I wanted to let u all know u made a great difference in my life... I love u all!|
|03 Oct 2003||Leanne2Chris||Yes Chris, unfortunately those kisses were infact intended all for you. I'm afraid you're stuck with them for all eternity...
You see peeps, I'm one of those who love affection. I'm the kind to relish long hugs and cuddles that last for minutes, the kind to love tender sweet kisses that manage to find and grab onto my soul. But I'm also the kind who rarely receives any of this meaningful compassion. I can give it, no probs there, I'm just not so good at the receiving bit.
I take a lot of shit from people. When a 'friend' gets dumped, there I appear with open arms, a shoulder to cry on and a king-size chocolate bar handy. Or when another 'dear friend' has lost her 'gang', there I appear, as a substitute in the playground until she spots them. I also take any opportunity to defend my 'mates' when being bitched about in the girls' toilets. "Got a couple of quid you can lend me, Lea?" "Yeah, sure." I reply. It's never 'NO'. I don't have the guts to even pretend I don't have any money on me. I do this for two reasons 1)I never eat lunch and 2)Even fake friends are better than none at all.Or is it?
I was lying in bed this dull afternoon, remembering of a time years ago, thinking back to when suicide and depression were unheard of in my dictionary. This dates back to when I was 11. How funny I used to be, what a lively soul, what a zest for life, waking up every morning knowing I wanted to live through the next 24hrs, unlike how it is now. I was hilarious back in the day, making my friends laugh, my family crack up, the teachers too. When somebody asked "and how is Leanne today?" I even managed to turn that into a joke of some sort. I was the wild, cray and wacky girl. I guess I still am, except no longer in that adorable positive sense. I made them laugh with my jokes, but things have changed. They no longer laugh WITH me, because now I am the fucking joke. I've forgotten the sound of my own laugh. When I fake one it makes me cringe. I'm not sure the muscles around my mouth are strong enough now to perform such a painful task as a smile. They've grown weak, for I have grown weak. But one thing's for sure, one thing I never did for friends.. (this one's for you Chris)... I never left kisses in their Christmas cards. For every year I'd purchase a box of '200 cards for £1.99'. I'd hand them out and each person would say "Oh, um Leanne, I've um, forgotten yours at home." They said the same thing for the last five christmases.
Chris, I beg you, do me a favour, get your stuff published, please. The way you write is a turn on. I wanna walk in a bookshop and see your name in the 'Bestsellers' section. I need your writings like a vehicle needs fuel. These are for you ..Mwah Mwah xx
|02 Oct 2003||Chris||I hear those who read the first two parts of my diary on 10th and 23rd September ask me: "What happened after the truck driver dropped you off?" So I decided to post another part of my diary. Read on...
After the truck driver dropped me off I walked a little until I saw a sign saying- RedRock Hotel- 1/2 mile- Meals And Accomodation- and all I wanted to do was climb out of my wet clothes and into a warm bed.
Old fashioned shops with peeling verandah posts- hardware, paints and wallpapers. An air of decay. The town square wide and dark. A stone house dimly visible, grim and grey with three archways in front of it, at the centre of the square a quaint stone edifice with a drinking fountain and clocktower. A sign on the right indicated Rifle Club- Cemetry. Once a friend had proposed to me to go to a rifle club to ease my anger and excercise it on something by shooting. Now that I had found the road to a rifle club it also led to the cemetry.
Nearly midnight; the time brought me back to reality. Only eight hours since I left home and so much had happened. To me those eight hours seemed like an epoch. The new highway bypassed the small village and left it to die. I had chosen it as the place where I should transcend myself. Or perhaps it had chosen me?
RedRock Hotel. A double-storied building on the left. Coach lamps retained as decorations, and wrought iron around the upstairs balcony. The windows were in darkness but the Private Entrance Door was open. My rain-soaked trousers clung uncomfartably to my skin. The toe of my right shoe counted the steps. The umbrella became snagged in the jamb so I lowered it. I could make up a hatstand and hall cupboard to the right and the under-belly of a stairway beyond; the gloom was relieved by a line of light ruled across the carpet to the left. I felt for the wall with my left hand, edged along it and, after hesitating to compose a story, knocked with the knuckle of my index finger.
Soon, the door opened and I started back at the sight of a thick-set man of doubtful age wearing a polo-necked jumper of doubtful colour. He also seemed startled and no wonder; I must have been a strange sight for his sly, shrewd eyes standing there with dishevelled hair, drenched trousers, dripping umbrella and only a brief-case for luggage. "What do you want?" he asked. "A room for the night." "That's all the luggage you got?" "A truck driver who was giving me a lift and when he felt like it just kicked me out because he was drunk!" "Where?" "On the highway".
He seemed unconvinced but stepped past me, threw a switch in the hall to reveal a sign Office beyond the foot of the stairs. He walked ahead of me and passed through a flap in the office counter. "You were lucky to find me up and I don't get out of bed for travellers who stray in from the night." He had opened the tattered guest register. "What's your name?" I found my friend's name Trevor on the tip of my toung; 'Trevor...' I swallowed it and instead gave a fictitious name made up of my own initials and a fictitious address. The publican gazed searchingly and asked: 'Occupation?" "Student who likes to travel around." His manner became ingratiating, the better, I suspected to probe me, seeking satisfaction for his curiosity: "Dirty night to be stranded. How do you travel?" "Mainly hitch hikes, buses, trains, anything really". "Bed and breakfast, room eight."
I paid him, thinking, just as well I got that bloody jackpot at the casino, and took the key. "How's life?" he asked, then added with mock solicitousness: "You're soaked. When you put your pyjgamas on bring your clothes down to dry by the warmth of the fire." Of course, I had no pyjgamas and smiled wryly at the thought of coming downstairs in short underpants carrying a wet suit, then grimly when I thought: 'I might get a cold or influenza or pneumonia (a man who worries about getting sick when he is planning to kill himself within twenty-four hours can't be all mad).
"I'll be all right, mate" I said. But I'd like to warm myself by the fire for a while, if you don't mind. Sorry to be a nuisance." The lounge room was as crowded as a second-hand furniture shop with tables, chairs, sofas all bulky and old-fashioned. The walls were defaced with smoke-stained paintings of landscapes, flowers, and horses with curved necks. We sat in huge leather chairs on either side of the hearth. I took my shoes off and placed my legs close to the open fire until steam began to rise.
He threw a log on the fire, jabbed it with a poker and sat, legs out-stetched, chin in fists. From time to time, he asked a well-chosen question about my studies, and he even recommended from where I could easily get a lift for home in the morning. But he eventually feigned a yawn and announced that it was past his bedtime. "Put the screen around the fire before you go up," he said, convinced or at least resigned. "Breakfast is from seven until eight-thirty. Turn left at the top of the stairs: room eight is on the left at the end of the corridor." I stood and turned my back to the fire to dry the other side of my trousers and socks, and when its glow had faded, put my shoes back on, screened the fire and groped my way up the stairs and found room eight. Unlocking the door with difficulty, I entered and found the light switch on the right.
So it had come to this. An isolated hotel room, pokey and small, (about twelve feet by eight)- cold, and in the middle of nowhere. Floral curtains over a small window in front of me. I shut the window and tried to lock it. The latch didn't work and it rattled against the wind. To the left of the window a small curved wash basin with a waste paper basket underneath it. The skirting board was white. The high walls were painted pale mauve up to seven feet then white to the roof which was made of diagonal wooden strips about four inches wide. To the right, beside the window, an old oak wardrobe with a mirror. I inspected my reflection: it might have been that of my friend Trevor, perhaps because my hair was wet and so closer to my head than usual.
I walked across the faded floral carpet square and put the umbrella on the chest of drawers near the door. I leaned close to the mirror above it and inspected my face and I saw a depressed face. I smiled to wipe the whimpering weakness from my eyes but could not erase the torment in my eyes.
The strange room impeded the automatic ritual of getting ready for bed: I found a towel on the rail behind the door but could find no soap and no hot water. I dabbed my face and the cold water on my very small beard stubble set my nerves on edge. I found a glass on the blue linen cover of the chest of drawers and filled it with water, to take a sleeping tablet- but I had none. I recaptured a fugitive laugh; I needed not one but fifty tablets; well, thirty at least, because twenty had not done the trick last time. A story to be told to a doctor in the morning would not compose itself. Acting by reflex, I reached above the wash basin in the position where a plastic mug contained my tooth-brush at home and became agitated: I'd forgotten to buy a toothbrush and paste and the furry discomfort of mouth assumed incongrous importance. I finger-tipped the centre of the blue bedspread. The bed sagged. Fear that I would not be able to sleep without a tablet on a tired wire mattress joined absurdly with the bad taste in my mouth to make me anxious until the tension surged to my legs as if poison had been injected into my veins. The tension was psychosomatic, I knew that: anxious or depressed thoughts inflamed the nerves of the blood vessels. It could be controlled by modifying the state of mind so I shook my head to clear the anxiety away, took the newspaper from the brief-case and put it on the glass-topped table beside the bed. At least there was a bed lamp, so a man could read himself to sleep with an ounce of luck. I switched it on.
After taking off my shoes and socks and sliding my coat over a hanger behind the door, I unfolded the floral eiderdown, drew back the sheets and got into bed. The sheets were cold and the legs of my trousers were still damp enough to be uncomfortable. I got up, took off the offending trousers and climbed between the sheets again. The bed sloped under my rump so my legs were tilted upwards and the tension in them seemed to increase. I lay on my back looking at the strip of flourescent light and the wooden slats on the roof, concious of the cold sheets, the hard pillow, the tingling pain in my legs and the rhytmic rattle of the window. My mind could not disengage itself from my body, so I could neither think nor sleep.
And I'd forgotten to take a leak! I'll wake up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet and never get back to sleep again. I picked up the newspaper and read an article about a woman who committed suicide over the death of her cat. I had never even considered any other method than tablets during my planning of the two earlier attempts. But they were merely cries for help and not fully-fledged suicide determination. This time it was to be genuinely suicidal: a man beyond help except in death. Why should I consider only pills this time? Why not a gas oven!? Just walk into the hotel kitchen in the morning, excuse myself to the cook and stick my head in the oven. Or a razor blade? Buy some in the morning and slash my wrists or my throat; for liberty lies in every vein of the body. And hangs from every tree- and every stable beam. Or a bullet? Or a leap from a great height? I remembered my fear of pain, and heights- and laughed distraughtly. Or poison? Many were the ways given to man to shuffle off this mortal coil but, for the time being, I had to face a decision of greater pith and moment: I'd have to get up and find a toilet; either that or do it in the wash basin. I got up and groped around but there was no toilet adjoining the room. 'God, this place was fuckin old!'
Next to eating pies and drinking beer, the great Australian habit is pissing in wash basins (or I hear them say). My memory conjured up one of Trevor's bawdy stories. The origin of this exotic national custom is the traditinal lack of toilets in hotel bedrooms. When daylight begins to filter through the curtains, male guests arise, turn on the tap of their hand basins and indulge in one of the few remaining pleasures in life: a good long morning piss. A habit rendered the more pleasurable by its illegality and the indelicacy of depositing it in a receptacle set aside for another purpose. The Australian takes a secret delight in adopting anti-social habits because he is usually descended from convict forebars...
I went to the basin and took my cock out. The lip of the basin was too high so I had to stand on my toes. Like a patient trying to urinate in a bottle for a doctor, the impulse from my brain would not activate my bladder and I was prey to a vague feeling of guilt and embarassment. But hey, after all I'm not Australian.
At last, deciding to try to find the Gents toilet, I put on my trousers, shoes and coat and let myself out. The hotel was as black as a priest's coat except for a distant glow at the end of the corridor to my right. I edged cautiously towards the light like a child afraid of the night. The strip of light came from under a door labelled Gents' Toilet and Bathroom. I opened the door cautiously. I started back and the hairs of my head froze like dry ice: a hunchback stood in the doorway of one of the toilet cubicles. He turned towards me bent forward from the waist. He had two large yellow teeth. He held a mop in claw-like hands.
"Did I give you a fright?" he asked. "No need to be frightened of Old Sam. Just cleaning the toilets to save time in the morning." "Didn't expect to find anyone up." I managed to say, looking at my watch. "It's after one o'clock." "Oh, sleep doesn't worry Old Sam." I locked myself in the next cubicle and listened tensely while he went on with his work, but could not relieve myself until he had departed. Returning along the corridor, my heart pounded and I expected the hunchback to leap upon me from a doorway. One of my childhood fears had been of a hunchback who used to push a hand-cart around the town. My kid neighbour had called him bottle arse and laughed at him but I was afraid and sometimes imagined him breathing deeply outside my window at night (when I was a kid). My nightmares had sometimes featured him- until a sealed door replaced him as a symbol of fear and anxiety.
I locked the door of room eight behind me, undressed down to my shirt and underpants and returned back to the cold bed. I lay awake listening for the hunchback to creep to my door. I acted out the fantasy of hearing his breathing, then all I could hear was the beating of my own heart- and finally only the rattling of the window, which dragged me again from bed. I folded a page of the newspaper and jammed it into the sash then lay daring the window to rattle again. Warmth slowly seeped into me, driving before it like flocks of sheep the tension from my legs and the anxiety from my mind, until my thoughts floated pleasantly in widening circles.
Yet, deep in my subconcious a question mark: something I still had to remember? 'Man found in hotel room; no foul play suspected. The unidentified body... natural causes'. But it must be suicide and be seen to be suicide. And my thoughts raced further and thought about my lover which I would like to have. But that is only part of my Utopian dream. In politics, I had dreamed of the just city where men could live as brothers- and the reality was George Bush, Tony Blair, Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein; in love I dreamed of the ideal, loving tender woman, and the reality was my girlfriend and she had been ideal, loving and tender, to give her her due (but that was for not more than 2 weeks), until the long winter of disenchantment set in. (Actually I should never call her a girlfriend, she was never really and that means that I was always single). The Utopian city was only a phantom to which I had aspired in my dream and I would dream that dream again, given my time over. Given my time over I would do many things: say to mother, 'you must not dominate me and smother me in your breasted love'; say to my 'girlfriend' 'do not castrate me (not that I am castrated, I can assure you!) and do not permit me to manipulate you'; say to the world 'I have joined a free association of like minded-people (called mouchette.org) we began with depression and suicide but we have some faith, hope and charity and we are convinced that one day we will win'; say to my friend Trevor, 'we are friends, comrades, mates, let us then speak of our innermost anxieties and depressions, reserving nothing that might transcend ourselves by each helping erase the other's blemishes'; to my brothers, 'please do not over-love me as a symptom of your unconscious rejection of your half-sibling and leave me prey to anxiety reacting to threat'; and to my father, 'let us be humane to each other and talk like father and son could'. But in reality this is all shit as I hate them all!
I had floated into the half world between sleep and awake where dreams are as real as reality itself (or where nothing conscious is real and nothing real is concious) and I could see a little boy running, prancing down a path between strawberries and flowers to meet his best friend in the stables to go for a ride on their horse. And the boy coming to the open door of the stables, oh, no wish-fulfilment, friend, in the second attempt and no one handy to save you but your only friend petrified with fear at the sight of the body writhing and spinning, the knees bending up and down then falling still so the toes dangled, the eyes (once serene with kindness) staring with a threat to leap from their sockets and blood pouring from the ears and nose turning the shirt-front the colour of crushed raspberries. Screaming and running back to the house, "mother, come here quick, my friend has been murdered!"
Suddenly awake, I found myself crying out, not wishfulfilment! And sweating profusely. And then calm like a bereaved person suffering delayed shock. And I thought, well, it is out now, remembered in all its horror: my friend had killed himself and left me a victim of depression reacting to the loss of his love, with the hallmarks of the neurotic personality: repressed childhood memories and a lifelong fixation on an infantile pattern of relationships, doomed to translate everything from the real world into the language of childhood, doomed to act out fantasies, redeemable only in death.
The unveiling of my last headstone to a dead repression brought a relaxation of body and serenity of mind, the like of which had never before blessed me. A fleeting fear that the metabolism would change the purpose of my tomorrow tried to resist the sleep which was creeping over the bed, softly like a mother's bosom over a baby's face. And I slept and woke again in the morning, pissed in the washbasin, didn't give a fuck, shouted out "Fuck you all!", invented a story to tell mother for spending the night out, thought about home and mouchette and decided to live another day...
P.S. Leanne, were those things that I saw at the end of your note to me real kisses?! (or maybe you didn't want to write Leanne2Chris after all but some other name...) All the same, it was nice, thank you. I cannot remember when I was last kissed and hugged lovingly by a girl. It's just my mother and father pecking a kiss when they are like 'hi darling', 'bye darling' and I'm like 'fuck you parents, I don't need your fucking, bloody stinking kisses.' And all the time 'friends' who are uglier and more stupid than me seem to be getting kisses for no apparent reason. But then, the world is unjust, isn't it!? Hope I will make it to the paradise island to put 'a name to a face and a face to a name'. And these are for you: xxxxx If I don't make it...
See ya all in hell!
|30 Sep 2003||RedAlice|| Some days Michael would wake up crying. His first thoughts would be of God and the emptiness he felt without Her. Those were the darkest days. The days when the pain of Her rejection reached back and formed an alliance with his earliest childhood memories. The God who couldn't love him now and the God who couldn't love him then, working together like a Sino-Soviet monolith lumbering toward total Michael domination. So, bright boy that he was, he worked hard, drank hard, and chased soft women. Anything to forget. Anything to kill the pain. Until his dream came true. Until that amazing day when God came to him and said She had been wrong, that Michael was indeed the man for Her and She wanted them to be together always. Which is when Michael suddenly realized that God was nuttier than rat crap in a pistachio warehouse.
...Michael still wakes up crying.
|28 Sep 2003||Kutzow|| When Krisha figured out that the universe truly was an illusion, she was quite dumbfounded at the simplicity of the insight. Unless some sort of awareness exists to perceive the whole shabang, the whole shabang effectively does not exist. It could be an infinite space filled with stars and planets, or a plaid snot rag wrapped around a bottle of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride. Or, to put it another way, when a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, there is no sound. For a sound to be a sound, there must be some sort of ear hooked to some sort of intelligence that says something like, "What was that?" Otherwise the sound might as well be a plaid snot rag wrapped around a bottle of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride. So now Krisha understood that energy and mass only exist because of awareness, which means they have no inherent existence.
Of course she had this insight while fighting a bad head cold, so that might have had something to do with it.
|28 Sep 2003||Leanne2Chris||"See you 'disturbingly'..." Oh no Chris, it'd be an honour to come across you and all you other suicidal arses. Let us retreat on a deserted island, get to know each other, put a face to a name and a name to a face. Hear those voices you speak silently with here, see and feel your tired hands of endless typing from a time of dispair and longing. Let us finally breathe non-suicidal&toxic air, take a break&have a Kit-Kat. that is of course, after the Primary/Highschool Hell-on-Earth experience. After the routine stock up on stationary (which in 2 weeks will only get nicked anyway, when your asshole 'friend' needs to borrow a pen). After you've purchased file paper which will only be doodled on, after the uniform the Mother buys which is twice your size 'to grow into' she says, whilst you're getting lost in it. And after you throw away the sandwiches Mother prepared. Most importantly after.. we all get ditched for the more popular and genuinely fab kind, as peoples' dark side finally surfaces when adolesence strikes. Girls hips get bigger as their appetites conveniently get smaller. The boys unbutton their shirts in the summer in an attempt to show off their non-existent masculinity. And yes, Chris... after the dreaded reunion, where old 'friends' make you feel important, welcoming you with open arms.. (that is, after they apologise, after mistaking you for someone else). Where you grab the nearest alcoholic beverage to ease the pain of the upcoming events later on. Gulp,gulp gulp.. (Aarrrgggghhh-too much blood in my alcohol stream!!!!!!!) Hours of standing in the corner, ignored by the crowds........ hhmmmm... we've been here before, nice to see things don't change. Standing awkwardly in that dark abandoned corner, looking down at the floor, conforming to your role as 'the kid nobody wants to play with'. You remind yourself one more time of your own pathetic existence.. feeling yourself being torn to shreads by some invisible force. You hit rock bottom inside coming to the realisation ''yes, they did approach me only for my lunch money, yes, that was me that paper ball was aimed at every morning, no, nobody did notice I hadn't attended the Highschool prom, no my face did not appear in the year book. '' Well there's only one thing left to do... leave this place over-loaded with bad memories. Go home, pack my bags, call you all up, get on that plane and retreat to this paradise... If you can make it, I'll see you all there. xxx
|27 Sep 2003||Chris||Where does a 13 year old spend most of his/her time? Basically it's either at school or at home. So we ask can a child be suicidal about school? Of course he can! It's just that the 'child' only realises years and years later that his school days were not the best days of his life as we are incorrectly normally led to believe!
It all begins when you start assuming that your old school mates want to see you again. The fact that at school you were irrelevant and might have been forgotten doesn't enter your head. Meanwhile, you start lingering over the stationery and pleated trousers, take out your primary school excercise books and the old tie signed by all your back bench companions and scribbled with old cliches like "Keep in touch" and "We'll never forget you."
Two days later the nostalgia gets worse, so you send a tentative e-mail to a 'girl' you went to school with, wondering whatever happened to her and all those school friends you lost touch with. You immediately demand all the contact details of everyone and start firing 1,000-word epics across the country. "How about having a school reunion", you say. "Come on, it'll be fun". Of course, you're wagging your tail all over this school reunion business. After all, weren't you drop-dead popular at school, carried upon the shoulders of young lads with shining eyes and flushed cheeks? Didn't girls queue up after school skipping on their toes for just one glimpse of tousled hair hero you? Weren't you the up and always coming star of the football team?
Oh no, that was your friends. Suddenly like a rush of bad breath it all comes back to you. You were only there when it happened to them. And after all the inspired brain storming involved in the choosing of the bar and restaurant, after you send the last e-mail and hang up the last caller, realisation comes upon you that planning the school reunion was a very big, big mistake.
At school-leaving, you set controls for the heart of the sun. Years later, you have either taken the whole solar system with you or been frazzled to a crisp by the sun. And you find yourself at your school reunion, the one you planned, looking more like facing a job interview than someone on a fun night out, nervously chatting over your drinks (yes, you need a lot), balding heads and wrinkling faces. This wasn't what you had in mind when you started plotting on a Shakespearean scale. You hardly envisaged that you need strength for school reunions, because you need to be fairly secure to lay your life open to the scrutiny of your earliest critics. After all no one likes to admit to failing to become an astronaut or a rock star. And what if you turn up and everyone is richer, thinner, 'better' somehow than you?
School reunions are false hope. School reunions are unkind, all the more so since certain people may have stumbled on hard times, lost their jobs, looks, marriage or hair. School reunions are cruel reminders that you have been forgotten by all your companions, and when you return home, generally sad and with all dignity lost, you question not only the night out but the whole first part of your education and ponder- Are primary and secondary school days really the best days of our lives that our faith in history leads us to believe?
We start off with kindergarten and primary school, those seasons of cartoon character satchels and new pencil cases. For mothers, there's a clucking flurry of last-minute shopping for school clothes, sport shoes, colour coded plastic covers and stationery. For fathers, it's filling up the petrol tank for taxing children to school prior to a day at the office (but they are glad that they are going to get rid of you and your whaling, "at least for school time"). Children are excited, anxious, even terrified at the prospect of a whole new year- new teachers to know, new subjects and new expectations to wrestle with (yes, you're so stupid that you like the idea of work and challenges!). Some will be indifferent and envisage endless SMS tournaments on their mobile phones. Most of them are mourning the end of summer holidays, when there was more time for eating and playing, for laughter and silliness and sleeping to the max.
For thousands of children, school marks the start of that endless, boring to hell routine- up at seven, off to school 45 minutes later, home at two with homework, television, piano practice, television, some kind of evening class (religious, ballet or something), football training, television, supper, and another hour of blurred television screen before mum gets up and heaves them to bed at a reasonable hour. Next morning it's same thing, day in, day out until summer dawns again and thankfully it's the time when nothing much happens. Compared to summer holidays the other breaks are insignificant. The Christmas break is full of anxiety: too much money spent and family tensions rise to boiling temperatures. Easter may be a celebration of spring, but it's usually spent in swotting for the upcoming exams and too much chocolate eating. Summer, though is the season of sun, sea and sleeping to the max. It's blue sky, ice-creams, yellow sand and suntanned faces for three whole months.
But as all good things go, summer holidays get shorter. Year after year, parents start becoming pushy bores, and children find themselves in that awkward age marked by a new deep voice, hairy hands and limbs (not to mention the pubic area) and voila, they are suddenly ready to go to secondary school, going on 13 and already bored with life. One minute they are children, the next they are considering the mysteries of shaving and opposite sex and thinking that maybe they should have enjoyed their childhood more and not have started school at three and took the risk of being sucked into schooling too early. Maybe they shouldn't have taken a million ballet, piano, football and private lessons. Another bicycle ride would have been nice, while that first kiss should have been followed by a second and a third. And young Lucy would have made a nice girlfriend and Lara's special Sunday leftover shouldn't have gone unstolen. But then, it's not the children who decide what is best for them.
So off to secondary school the children go with a daily grunt. They wallow like treacle in bus stages, easily distinguishable in their colour-coded uniforms. The private school children speak poshly, and have neat hair matching expensive sports gear. They cringe and pucker up their faces at everyone including state secondary school students staring at them. They are all navigators of uncharted territory.
On leaving primary school, children are not just one year older, but embarking on a whole phase of life, which least to say is more depressing. Starting secondary school feels like the official opening to the small adolescent's games (knowing in your heart that you were never a good athlete).
Fascinating phenomena appear, like pimples and the discovery, in single sex groups and far from the madding teachers, of the mythical other sex. New friends (which years later you realise were no friends at all) are made and innovative disciplinary methods like after school hours tried and frequently tested. There are new subjects like history and languages. Boring ones like sports, for those like me who never saw the point of running unless you're being chased. Mysterious ones like geography, that ability to trace maps and a capacity to rote learn the names of such fixed and ambigous places as rivers, cities, deserts and oceans. Yes you might find it amazing as you are still too stupid to realise how worthless it is.
Secondary school years are for children like the seven years of worry (they do sometimes repeat). Some fret about whether they'll make the basketball team. Others feel the heavy breath of the nearing O level exams down their neck. "Homework", screams the teacher. "Home", orders mum, "straight after school and no lingering with your friends". "Work", disciplines dad, witholding promises of a new computer, which is only supposed to be used to help with the homework (the naughty boys and girls end up searching suicide websites...). "Help", children shout in the direction of guidance teachers and counsellors (this is done only to distract the teachers and parents and manage to get away with not doing the work, after all, real help is only found on good suicide websites). Secondary school is a time where bullies appear on the school yard horizon, like the Beano Bash Street Kids, promising violent fights and riots, dark revenge in obscure corners of the school ground, cruel and puerile, but let's face it, these are the only real exciting things about school. And while all this is taking place, 'friends' always seem to be running outside having a good time.
So you think that your schooldays are the best days of your life? Think again and you realise how depressing and suicidal they are. But come the end of summer and me and all the other students have to go back unfortunately, though I've passed my primary and secondary years thankfully.
Moral: If you survive and you're still alive years after school is finished don't ever organise or attend a school reunion! It'll completely break you down.
P.S. I have to say something on everyone's comments about this site changing. Yeah, this site has changed but it just has got better. My story of this site reflects the story of the site itself. First time I came in I just had a sight, put in a cruel, stupid joke and left, second time I did the same. Third time I realised that this site wasn't so stupid so I decided to write something a little more tasteful and I started messing around with poetry. I ended up in Mouchie's favourites and kept doing poetry for some time. Then I wrote some stupid shit, tried to forget about the site but came back fairly recently and anyone who reads my stuff knows what I write today. I have come to realise the potential of this site and today it means much more to me. This site helps you unlike the all the other sites that tell you that you should contact their counselors for help. That's all shit. Sometimes this site may look as some 'blind leading the blind', or rather 'suicidal leading suicidal' idea but you know? It works. The reflection in the site's story is here. In the beginning people used to come in, write stupid jokes and probably never come back, then things got better and people used to log on more than once and they were writing more serious stuff. Today anyone who logs in for the first time is hooked because the site is much more mature and entertaining. Occasionally you still find some bullshit. Even Mouchie's tastes have also changed. Leaf through the 'favourite' pages and you'll notice the difference between blasted suicide ideas (which I admit still make me laugh), and better, more mature stories and ideas building gradually through the years. Not that I will ever complain of Lucy's stories. And for all those crying their hearts out on Lucy, now that I know that she's not real I can do without any more Lucy stories because now they will sound stale. I am gonna get criticised for what I said but I suggest another thing, maybe Lucy or Phil or who the fuck it is may log on with a new name and give us other delightful stories. And for those crying on Felicia and Billy, they are with us and they have written only recently. So shut the fuck up (no offence to anyone! That's just my aggressive manner of speaking) and be proud that you make part of this excellent, or should we say classic site, as it is supposed to go down in history, which just gets better every day.
And Leanne if you are not fed up of my speech by now and still reading, thanks for naming me. At least I know that I'm not talking alone. I'm saying this as in my history here (which is getting quite long now) I remember only three times were there was a reference to me or my writing! Thank you, maybe somebody does care after all!
See you disgustingly at school, college, university or where the fuck you're going! Unfortunately I'm gonna be there...
|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...
|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.
|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!
|19 Sep 2003||Felicia, The Full Monty||Malicious violence in this world is much too common. Angry people run amok and there is no way to stop them. I believe mouchette.org is for the common folk that want to find out the true meaning of life before ending it. Please, my dear people, ease on my friend "Lucy Cortina". "She's" the best that ever is and did save my life at one time. Folks, whether or not you believe that she is unreal, so be it. Her (or His) infectious humor has made the mouchette.org world laugh even if he or she tries not to be funny.
And "Lucy", no matter how tiring it is to be a true comedian, you are in fact a true original. (MAKE NOTE OF IT!) Don't change and keep those boob and Kylie Minogue jokes intact.
For Billy The Freak, my burly haired man, I want you to bring on the fun like you used to and make the world smile as always. I know who you are, and will keep it a secret between you and me, as far as my breasts are concerned (No kidding, the last time I looked, they were real!)
Anyways, Thanks Lucy for the "Boob implants!"
|18 Sep 2003||Phil||Steve, darling, don't talk pap. I found this site in the same way as yourself, but soon realised that, on closer inspection, the suicide kit was in fact a crazy, everything-allowed, um... story.
Look up "suicide kit" in your dictionary of choice, and hey presto, what do you find? Nothing! There is no definition to it.
I think that may be the whole point of it...?
|17 Sep 2003||Phil||Vive le faggots, lol :)
I'm glad there is still some sanity left in the suicide kit, and my dear friends are all still here.
If I die, wish me luck. If I don't, well, wish me luck too!
|17 Sep 2003||Felicia Helping You With Your Troubles||If "Life" Is a "Movie", "Be" the "Star"
There I was, sitting in a dark room contemplating suicide. I couldn't breathe right; neither did I have the power to eat because I felt that life was too overwhelming. Because I was afraid to enjoy life and its unfair existence, I felt that I was no longer a part of this world. On days, I watched the sun shine, the birds sing, groups of kids going to and fro school laughing together, people riding by on horseback, and lovers walking together hand in hand. Having been withdrawn from the world with its turmoils in my head like Anne Frank in the "Diary of Ann Frank", I failed to experience how wonderful life would be in the outside.
Then one day I just had to let go of my wallowing self-pity to get on with enjoying life. I didn't want to be the girl not trying out for the cheerleading squad and watching the girls auditioning in the sidelines. I tried my darnest to get involve in school play auditions and felt so afraid in not getting the lead role, but I was trying. Even if I had to be a Tree Stump or the back of a Donkey's ass I would consider it and later add some limerick in the script and be the life of the show, Success and failure are so entwined with life that in order to experience one, you will inevitable experience the other.
Today, instead of watching life like an audience at a movie playing the leading role, dive in and be the star. If you're too afraid of failure and keep contemplating suicide, you'll never allow yourself to succeed.
The best revenge in life is to succeed. Though I am not going to tell you to gloat either. Save it for the prudes that befuddle you with fruits and tomatoes, get a net or ball shooter and aim it right back at them.
For all you know you can conjure up some "Catsup" recipe and be famous.
|16 Sep 2003||Chris||It's mid-September and its been a long, hot, hot summer, and everyone seems to be complaining about how totally unconfortable and suicidal they are, including me. I came across this study the other day that served, for a short while at least, to put our discomfort into perspective. Read on...
The study had this idea. If we could shrink the earth's population to a village of precisely 100 people, with all the existing human ratios remaining the same, it would look something like the following.
There would be 57 Asians, 21 Europeans, 14 from the Western Hemisphere, both North and South, 8 Africans, 52 would be female, 48 would be male, 70 would be non-white, 30 would be white, 70 would be non-Christian, 30 would be Christian, 89 would be heterosexual, 11 would be homosexual, 6 people would possess 59% of the entire world's wealth and all 6 would be from the United States, 80 would live in substandard housing, 70 would be unable to read, 50 would suffer from malnutrition, 1 would be near death, 1 would be near birth, 1 (yes, only 1) would have a college education and 1 would own a computer.
When one considers our world from such a compressed perspective, the need for acceptance, understanding and education becomes glaringly apparent. The following is also something to ponder: If you woke up this morning with more health than illness, you are more blessed than the million people who will not survive the week. If you have never experienced the danger of battle, the loneliness of imprisonment, the agony of torture, or the pang of starvation... you are ahead of 500 million people in the world. If you can attend a chhurch meeting without fear of harassment, arrest or torture, or death, you are more blessed than three billion people in the world. If you have food in the refrigerator, clothes on your back, a roof overhead and a place to sleep, you are richer than 75% of the world. If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish someplace, you are among the top 8% of the world's wealthy. If your parents are still alive, and still married, you are very rare, even in the United States and Canada. If you can read this message you have a double blessing in that someone is thinking of you (me) and furthermore, you are more blessed than over two billion people in the world that cannot read at all.
Someone once said: "Whatever goes around comes around. Work like you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like somebody's watching. Sing like nobody's listening. Live like it's Heaven on Earth." And to that I add "Fuck like there's no tomorrow!". Something good to make you feel good. For one moment put a smile on your face and stop thinking about suicide (There are far more people in a worse situation than you). I'm trying!
See ya, hopefully with a smile on your face...
|13 Sep 2003||RedAlice||SYMPARANECROMENIAN CATASTROPHES. VOL.68
i don't know about you, but my fundamental character flaws are so deeply embedded in my consciousness, it actually feels as if they're intertwined with the strands of my DNA. Lately i like to imagine that as a child i was a sort of brand new, meat-based computer that had an operating system installed with big, whopping design problems. The result is that when my scanning mechanisms bring in data from my environment, i invariably process that data in ways that do not reflect reality.
Example: i walk into a room that contains people. They are speaking amongst themselves and laughing. My immediate computational response is summed up by a voice in my head which says, "They're laughing at me. Why are they laughing at me? i hate them." Or: i see, hear or read about someone who has achieved great success in my field. My organic computer processes this info and spits out, "Danger! Danger! Survival is threatened!" Are these fundamental character flaws? You focking bet! Taken to an extreme this sort of thinking can cause a lot of suffering -- and not just to me. In my rare moments of mental and emotional clarity i've come to realize that this is an unavoidable part of who i am. The trick now is to overcome or at least soften my flaws before i'm sent back to the factory as damaged goods. Example: When i wrongly think i'm the center of the universe and my problems take precedence over the problems of others, i pause and say to myself, "Error. You are useless, ugly, spotty, unutterably stenchful and unworthy of being loved." At which point i say, "Why should i listen to you? A broken computer can't repair a broken computer." At which point i put myself into sleep mode before the whole system crashes.
Hang in there Phil.
Help is on the way...
|12 Sep 2003||RedAlice||i've been told that we're only as sick as our secrets. i like the sound of that. It would make a particularly good bumper sticker here in Hades. With that in mind I'd like to engage in a little ineffectual therapy and reveal one of my deepest, darkest secrets. There've been times when the mere thought of this secret has nearly overwhelmed me with self-loathing. And yet, there've been other times when i actually took a perverse pride in it. So what is this personal bit of esoterica? i've got your attention now, don't i? You probably even skipped ahead to see if this is really juicy. Well, skip no further. My secret is this: i'm not that smart. Yup, there it is, dug up and thrown into the sunlight. Since i was a little kid i've known that (like it or not) there were an awful lot of people who had a lot more on the ball than i did. Oh, believe me, i've tried to suppress this awareness. i've tried to convince myself that i was special, that i was gifted. But i eventually learned that this secret could be my greatest asset. i learned that with enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. i like the sound of that. With enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. Someone ought to print that on a bumper sticker and slap it on Air Force One.|
|11 Sep 2003||Lucy Cortina||Hi people! I'm back! Well, I'm gone.
Dear dear, the suicide kit has descended into chaos. Billy is back (my god! they actually released you from the psychiatric unit after your hands-up-Lucy's-knickers incident?)
Anyway. Here is me, a single person. I'm not part of the mass manufactured stories or fancy names that plague this site from jealous wannabes. I'm just me: bog-standard, big-breasted, Lucy Cortina. Or am I...?
Actually, I'm not. This confession may shock the whole of this world. More shocking than being bisexual or being a vegisexual (being plain old boring 'Gay' just isn't enough these days - no offence to you, Gay Punk).
So, who am I?
Hehe, this brings back memories. Those lazy days with Felicia in my living room, eating cornflakes, and me standing there holding a bottle of milk and saying "mooo", but Felicia still not knowing that I was being a cow.
Well, it may be a further shock to know that I have never even met Felicia. I'm not sure if she even exists. That is because, I, Lucy Cortina, do not exist myself.
Lucy Cortina, then what are you darling? The suspense is killing us! We are on the verge of swallowing our cocktails of paracetamol and Valium. Do hurry it up, darling.
And, another point worth inserting here, I really can't be arsed with trying very very very hard today to end up under Mouchette's favourites list. It once held appeal, when I was so bored and depressed and had nothing better to do. When I didn't have a life. I still don't have a life. But I will soon have death.
So, anyway, yes. It's me, Lucy. No fancy sub-names, just the regular depressed girl, not quite perfect, posting here on the spurr of the moment, without need for competing. But hang on! You aren't real Lucy!
That's right. I'm actually, what for it....
Ok, so I'm not Buddha. I'm a boy. I'm 17. I have known of this website for years, since 1999 at least. or is it 2000? I'm not sure. Anyway. I found this site on the first stages of my franctic search for the meaning of life. (Death, that is. Or for the technical wahlers, 'suicide').
I found this site, read the stoopid, yet intriguing, posts. Went away for a bit. Came back. Went away. Came back. Got an intense desperate urging lust to be in Mouchie's favourites list. Did it. Kept doing it. It got boring. When the "pretenders" popped up like all the little girly singers did when Britney Spears arrived, to steal Lucy's thunder (or even her breasts!), I decided that life was too short, and tried to get one (a life, that is).
I have Social Anxiety Disorder, and Depression, an eating disorder, and probably a whole list of other possible illnesses. I hate life. I have this past to deal with too. Everything's crap. My name is Phil.
Lucy Cortina is as fake as Britney Spears' whole music career. (Or her breasts).
Ok, maybe she isn't. Who knows. Maybe Lucy Cortina was my way of airing some of the crazy thoughts in this head of mine. Maybe she was the outlet for many things.
But, sorry people, I was never real.
My name is Phil. And I will soon be dead. No, I'm not just messing about like many people do. I have it planned to every detail. No one will stop me.
I just want to say, goodbye suicide kit. Goodbye Billy, Felicia, all the others. I don't know who you all are in real life, if you made up a persona like me, but thanks for the entertaining reads every day when I get into this room and switch on my PC, after another day of hell, another day of life. Another day of everyone talking about me, of people hating me (yes ok I admit it, I'm a teenager yapping on about my problems and will probably launch into a "poor me!" child abuse story here if someone doesn't stop me). So I will stop myself.
Umm, anyway, yeah. I will be dead soon. Lucy Cortina ends here. She had a nice and eventful life. I hope Mouchie keeps everything in small archived files in his cellar full of wine and cheese, so that one day the suicide kit will become a Hollywood production (you're aiming bit high there, Lucy!). I guess Lucy Cortina was the suicide kit slut. Sending pictures of naked ladies in underwear privately to Mouchette was the only reason I stayed Top Girl. Or was it? I'm not sure.
Anyhow, incase you are crying into your cocktails by now, or in the case of Billy, crying into your condoms, I love you all, and remember darlings, we are all going to somewhere better soon, that big breast factory in the sky. The purpose of this little community was only meant to be brief, as all here are suicidal (aren't we?). I never meant to live this long. Maybe it was you, Mouchette. Maybe it was someone else, in fact, I know it was- my Danny. But maybe I'm just an insane, gay, 17 year old teenager. Maybe Lucy Cortina was part of my mind personified. Yes, that will be it.
So, no breasts, no SSSS, no sister, none of all that nonsense. Still, it was fun, wasn't it?
Take care people. Good luck with your deaths. If you wanna contact me - not that you would - but I will be alive maybe a while yet (but Lucy ends here). Leave your email addresses, and I will email you.
RIP Lucy Cortina.
*Lucy leaves the room, leaving the occupants of the suicide kit free to release the farts or whatever else they were keeping in, in fear of upsetting Lucy during her important speech*
*Lucy enters room again, to an awful smell. She splutters out a few last words:
"Mouchette, I think you owe us all a small explanation. WHO, exactly, are you?"
...then leaves the room*
And everybody claps.
FINALLY, she has shut up whining, and gone!