|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|06 Feb 2003||Anton Anomalovich||INVISIBLE INK. there comes a time when you swim or sink so i jumped in the drink because i could not make myself clear... maybe i wrote in invisible ink i've tried to think how i could have made it appear... but another illustration is wasted since the results are the same... i feel like a ghost who's trying to move your hands over some ouija board in the hopes i can spell out my name... what some take for magic at first glance is just sleight of hand depending on what you believe... something gets lost when you translate it's hard to keep straight perspective is everything... and i know now which is which and what angle i ought to look at it from... i suppose i should be happy to be misread... better be that than some of these other things i have become... and aside from that this chain of reaction is losing a link... though i'd hope you'd know what i tried to tell you... and if you don't i could draw you a picture with invisible ink. ~Aimee|
|06 Feb 2003||Anti Climaxicus||If conscience is deceived, does it finally take its toll? It is like the woman who offered to sell to Tarquin a collection of Divine Psychology books and when he would not give the sum demanded she burned one-third of them and demanded the same sum, and when again he declined the sum demanded she burned another third of them and demanded the same sum, until finally he gave the original sum for the final third... ~Judge William|
|05 Feb 2003||Jean-Paul Mackellar||DAS BOSHAFT HUND. If i tried to imagine the public as a particular person... i should perhaps think of one of the Roman emperors, a large well-fed figure, suffering from boredom, looking only for the sensual intoxication of laughter, since the Divine gift of wit is not earthly enough. And so for a change he wanders about, indolent rather than bad, but with a negative desire to dominate. Everyone who has read the classical authors knows how many things a Caesar would try out in order to kill time. (Those who perceive time as something to be killed, condemn themselves to die bit by bit.) In the same way the public keeps a dog to amuse itself. That dog is the sum of the literary world. If there is someone superior to the rest, perhaps even a great man, the dog is set loose upon him and then the fun begins. The dog goes for him, snapping and tearing at his Doc Martens, allowing itself every conceivable ill-mannered familiarity... until the public tires, and says it may as well stop. That is an example of how the public levels. Their betters and superiors in strength are mishandled and the dog remains a dog which even the public despises. The leveling is therefore done by a third party; a non-existent public leveling with the help of a third party which in its insignificance is less than nothing, being already more than levelled... The public is unrepentant, for it is not they who own the dog, they only subscribe. They neither set the dog on anyone, nor whistle it off-directly. If asked they would answer: the dog is not ours, it has no master. And if the dog had to be put down they would say: it was really a good thing that bad-tempered god was put down, everyone wanted it bumped-off... even the subscribers. ~Soren|
|04 Feb 2003||Newland Mackellar||ENNUI. The gods were bored, and so they created man. Adam was bored because he was so Alone, and so Eve was created. From that moment on boredom entered into the world, and increased in proportion to the increase of population. Adam was bored alone; then Adam+Eve were bored together; then Adam+Eve+Cain+Abel were bored en famille; then the population of the world increased, and the peoples were bored en masse. To divert themselves they conceived the idea of constructing a Tower high enough to reach the heavens. This idea is itself just as boring as the Tower was high, and constitutes a terrible proof of how boredom gained the upper hand. ~i desire no disciples; but if there happened to be someone present at my beloved Deathbed, and i was certain that the end had arrived, then i might in an attack of philanthropic delirium, whisper my theory in her ear... uncertain whether i had done her a service or not. ~Aybe|
|02 Feb 2003||Joel Podbereski||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL. 87 As the captive animal paces about its cage every day for the sake of movement or to measure the length of its chain, so i measure the length of my chain every day by turning to the thought of Death... for the sake of movement and in order to endure Living. ~Soren|
|01 Feb 2003||Michael Mackellar||DISTRESS. HELLOKELLY. DIE TUR IST ZU.
[You could live...]
"Of course. If we couldn't, we'd be classified as dead. That's the criterion which defines our hell: we can survive in ordinary society. Our deficiencies aren't overwhelming... and we can usually fake a lot of what's missing. Sometimes we can even convince ourselves that nothing's wrong. For a while."
[For a while? You have jobs, money, independence. What else does it take to function?]
[You mean sexual relationships?]
"Not necessarily. But they are the most difficult. And the most... illuminating. Everyone- or almost everyone -instinctively attempts to understand other human beings. To guess what they are thinking. To anticipate their actions. To... know them. People build symbolic models of other people in their brains, both to act as coherent representations, tying together all the info which can actually be observed-speech, gestures, past actions-and to help make informed guesses about the aspects which can't be known directly-motives, intentions, emotions. In most people, all of this happens with little or no conscious effort: there is an innate ability to model other people. It's refined by use in childhood, and total isolation would cripple it's development... in the same way as total Darkness would cripple the visual centers. Short of that sort of extreme abuse, though, upbring isn't a factor. Our hell can only be brought about by congenital brain damage, or later physical injuries to the brain. There are genetic risk factors which involve susceptibility to viral infections in utero-but hell itself is not a simple hereditary disease. The brain structure involved occupies a small region in the left frontal lobe. The specific details describing individual people are scattered throughout the brain-like all memories-but this structure is the one place where those deails are automatically integrated and interpreted. If it's damaged, other people's actions can still be perceived and remembered-but they lose their special significance.They don't generate the same kind of obvious implications; they don't make the same sort of immediate sense. The structure in question probably began to evolve toward its modern humanAngel form in the primates, though it had precursors in earlier mammals. It was first identified and studied-in chimpanzees-by a neuroscientist called LaGronder, in 2014. The corresponding human version was mapped a few years later. Maybe the first crucial role for LaGronder's area was to help make deception possible-to learn how to hide your own true motives, by understanding how others perceive you. If you know how to appear to be servile or cooperative-whatever's really on your mind-you have a better chance of stealing food, or a quick fuck with someone else's partner. But then... natural selection would have upped the ante, and favored those who could see through the ruse. Once lying had been invented, there was no turning back. Development would have snowballed."
[So the fully-infernalized can't lie, or judge someone else to be lying. But the partially-infernalized...?]
"Some can, some can't. It depends on the specific damage. We're not all identical."
[Okay. But what about relationships?]
"Modeling other people successfully can aid cooperation, as well as deception. Empathy can act to improve social cohesion at every level. But as early humans evolved a greater degree of monogamy-at least, compared to their immediate ancestors-the whole cluster of mental processes involved in pair-bonding would have become entangled. Empathy for your breeding partner attained a special status: their life could be, in some circumstances, as crucial to the passing on of your genes as your own. Of course, most animals will instinctively protect their young, or their mates, at a cost to themselves; altruism is an ancient behavioral strategy. But how could 'instinctive-altruism' be made compatible with human self-awareness? Once there was a burgeoning ego, a growing sense of self in the foreground of every action, how was it prevented from overshadowing everything else?...
The answer is, evolution invented intimacy. Intimacy makes it possible to attach some, or all, of the compelling qualities associated with the ego-the model of the self-to models of other people. And not just possible- pleasurable. A pleasure reinforced by sex, but not restricted to the act, like orgasm. And not even restricted to sexual partners, in humans. Intimacy is just the belief-rewarded by the brain-that you 'know' the people you 'love' in almost the same fashion as you know yourself."
[And even partial-infernalization makes that impossible? Because you can't model anyone well enough to really know them at all?]
"Again, we're not all identical. Sometimes the modeling is accurate enough-as accurate as anything's-but it's not rewarded: the parts of LaGronder's area which make most people feel good about intimacy, and actively seek it out, are missing. Those people are considered cold, aloof. And sometimes the reverse is true: people are driven to seek intimacy, but their modeling is so poor that they can never hope to find it. They might lack the social skills to form lasting sexual relationships-or even if they're intelligent and resourceful enough to circumvent the social ineptness, the brain itself might judge the model to be faulty, and refuse to reward it. So the drive is never satisfied-because it's physically impossible for it to be satisfied."
[Sexual relationships are difficult for everyone. It has been suggested that you've merely invented a neurological syndrome which allows you to abdicate responsibility for problems which everyone faces, as a matter of course.]
"And we should just pull ourselves together, and try harder?"
[Either that or have brain-grafts to correct the damage.]
"Yes. Up to and including the complete excision of LaGronder's area."
"Again, that's a complicated question. Everyone has a different reason. For a start, i'd say that as a matter of principle, we should have the widest possible range of choices. Like transsexuals."
[The endpoint of either operation on transsexuals is a healthy woman or man. That's hardly the same as becoming...]
"But we do suffer a mismatch, just like transsexuals. Not between body and brain but between the drive for intimacy and the inability to attain it. No one-save a few religious fundamentalists-would be cruel enough to tell a transsexual that they'll just have to learn to live with what they are, and that medical intervention would be a wicked self-indulgence."
[But no one's stopping you from choosing medical intervention. The graft is legal. And success rates are sure to improve.]
"And as i've said, Voluntary Hellists don't oppose that. For some people, it's the right choice."
[But how can it ever be the wrong choice?]
"Many fully afflicted people suffer additional brain damage, and various kinds of mental retardation. In general, we don't. Whatever damage we've suffered to LaGronder's area, most of us are intelligent enough to understand our own condition. We 'know' that non-afflicted people are capable of believing that they've acheived intimacy. But in Voluntary Hell, we've decided that we'd be better off without that talent."
[Why better off?]
"Because it's a talent for self-deception."
[If your Hell is a lack of understanding of others... and healing the lesion would grant you that lost understanding...]
"But how much IS understanding- and how much is a delusion of understanding? Is intimacy a form of knowledge, or is it just a comforting false belief? Evolution isn't interested in whether or not we grasp the truth, except in the most pragmatic sense. And there can be equally pragmatic falsehoods. If the brain needs to grant us an exaggerated sense of our capacity for knowing each other, to make pair-bonding compatible with self-awareness, it will lie, shamelessly, as much as it has to, in order to make the strategy succeed."
[Hell is a... tragic, disabling disease. How can you romanticize it into nothing more than some kind of... viable alternative lifestyle?]
"i'm not doing any such thing. i've met over a hundred fully-afflicted people, and their families. i know how much pain is involved. If i could banish the condition tomorrow, i'd do it. But we have our own histories, our own problems, our own aspirations. We're NOT fully-afflicted... and excision of LaGronder's area, in adulthood, won't render us the same as someone who was born that way. Most of us have learned to compensate by modeling people consciously, explicitly- it takes far more effort than innate skill, but when we lose what little we have of that, we won't be left helpless. Or selfish, or merciless, or incapable of compassion... or any of the other things the murdochs like to claim. And being granted the surgery we've asked for won't mean loss of employment, let alone the need for institutional care. So there'll be no cost to the community"
[Cost is the least of the issues! You're talking about deliberately-surgically-ridding yourself of something... fundamental to Humanity!!]
"...Exactly. And we've lived for decades with a 'fundamental' truth about human relationships, which we choose not to surrender to the comforting effects of a brain-graft. All we want to do now is make that choice complete. To stop being punished for our refusal to be deceived."
|31 Jan 2003||Michael Mackellar||[insoc] _don't be afraid_ KURT HARLAND crawl across the floor if it feels like something you know. curl up in a ball if it feels like home. sleep as much as you can. if you can't sleep then lay there. pick at yourself until you feel pure. something's pulling you to the floor. like a long-time friend. someone's banging your head on the wall. as the means to an end. empty. filling up with... sick. like evil-horde slime in your lungs. sucking yellow fog around your skull. this must be the end of you. but you know this will never stop. you can't hear anything anymore. just the hammer in your soul. walk on through the growing noise of your inescapable past. walk willingly into the dark. nothing can touch you now. once you were a child. fear rang through the halls. but you won't think about that now. just some warmth and a home. and an end to the task. your doors are standing wide open. but it's too late for you now...|
|31 Jan 2003||Lucy Cortina||(in olden days before christ)
"Oh yes" screamed the girl, "stick it in!!!" The handsome prince was busy with his ravishment of cinderella. Or was it sleeping beauty? Anyway, she was a princess. The angels of darkness, the dark riders and Lord Saaron himself were in pursuit of the 2 lovers. They had found thongs and g-strings strewn about the landscape of Mordor in their pursuit of the pair. No, not Lucy's breasts, THE RUNAWAYS! They searched far and wide, and among the scattered tampons - and even an erotic toy - they found a ring. The ring. What a ring it was! It would lead them to the couple.
But alas! using her super strong bras, Lucy and the prince had made catapults and were flinging dildo missiles at the crew following them. Saaron and his crew were dead in seconds...
(2003, UK, A Psychiatric unit)
As the prince and the lady embraced at their survival against Saaron back in the olden days, in 2003 a girl named Lucy lay in her bed in an in-patient unit as the doctors cured her of her schizophrenia. Slowly her visions were no more, and the tales of Mordor and breasts were nothing more than a fleeting memory of the past. No more breasts, no more Willy's, no more sisters.
Just Lucy again.
|31 Jan 2003||Leonardius Mackellar||HOMARD?
Something wonderful has happened to me. i was caught up in 7th heaven. There sat all the gods in assembly. By special grace i was granted the privilege of making a wish. "Wilt thou," said Mercury, "have youth or beauty or power or a long life or the most beautiful maiden... or any of the other glories we have in the chest? Choose, but only one thing." For a moment i was at loss. Then i addressed myself to the gods as follows: "Most honorable contemporaries, i choose this one thing, that i may always have the laugh on my side." Not one of the gods said a word; on the contrary, they all began to laugh. From this i concluded that my wish was granted, and found that the gods knew how to express themselves with taste; for it would hardly have been suitable for them to have answered gravely: "Thy wish is granted." ~Soren
|29 Jan 2003||Fionuellia Mackellar||OGANACH. My sorrow is my baronial castle, which lies like an eagle's nest high upon the mountain peak among the clouds. No one can take it by storm. From it i swoop down into actuality and snatch my prey, but i do not stay there. i bring my prize home, and this prize is a picture i weave into the tapestries at my castle. Then i live as one already dead. Everything i have experienced i immerse in a baptism of oblivion unto an eternity of recollection. Everything temporal or fortuitous is forgotten and blotted out. Then i sit like an old grey-haired man, pensive, and explain the pictures in a soft voice, almost whispering, and beside me sits a child, listening, although She remembers everything before i speak it. ~Soren|
|29 Jan 2003||Daniel Day-Mackellar||DORCHADAS. In addition to my other numerous acquaintances, i have one more intimate confidant... my depression. In the midst of my joy, in the midst of my work, She beckons to me, calls me aside, even though physically i remain on the spot. My depression is the most faithful mistress i have known... No wonder, then, that i return the Love. ~Soren|
|28 Jan 2003||Darius Mackellar||FORUNDERING. Imagine somewhere a great and splendid hall where everything is done to produce nothing but joy and merriment... but the entrance to this room is a nasty, muddy, humble stairway and it is impossible to pass without getting disgustingly soiled, and admission is paid by prostituting oneself, and when day dawns the merriment is over and all ends with one's being kicked out again... but the whole night through is done to keep up and inflame the merriment and pleasure! What is reflection? Simply to reflect on these two questons: How did i get into this and how do i get out of it again, how does it End? What is Thoughtlessness? To muster everything in order to drown all this about entrance and exist in forgetfulness, to muster everything to re-explain and explain away entrance and exit, simply lost in the interval between the birth-cry and the repetition of this cry when the one who is born expires within the Death struggle.
Many folks are afraid of Eternity. If we can only endure Time, certainly we can cope with Eternity. Therefore when one hears the Lovers swear mutual Love for all Eternity, it does not mean nearly as much as when they pledge Love for Time, because one who pledges Love for Eternity can always answer: You shall have to excuse me this Time... ~Soren
|28 Jan 2003||Michael Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL. 319 When Philip threatened to lay siege to the city of Corinth, and all its inhabitants hastily bestirred themselves in defense, some polishing weapons, some gathering stones, some repairing the walls, some overdosing on cloxazolam... Diogenes seeing all this hurriedly folded his mantle about him and began to roll his tub zealously back and forth through the streets. When he was asked why he did such a thing he replied that he wished to be busy like all the rest, and rolled his tub lest he should be the only idler among so many industrious citizens. ~Soren|
|24 Jan 2003||Lucy Cortina||Life at my in-patient unit this week was a blast again!!
I was unleashed from the unit for a day beside the seaside. The first thing I heard when I arrived was one of those escapologist-guys (they dress in chains and then break free. Just another form of S & M). He exlaimed: "My pole isa stiff no more!!" His Popeye lookalikey mate said "It must be the smell of the fish!" Well, it was a seaside town :)
Anyway I walked along the promenade past fish & chip shops, amusement arcades and the odd dungeon. I almost thought I heard Billy's cries of frustration from one, but put it down to my new medication. Anyway, as I turned a corner, plop! on my head it was! A seagull had pooped on me. Fantabbytastic! Poopy Cortina. I had spent ages perfecting my hair into a bun too!
Anyway, outside a gift shop I spotted one of those buggies that old people use to speed around in. I decided it would be nice to try it out, see if it can go faster than me. Well, boy was it fast! It shot forwards like Billy's cock!! 15 mile an hour those things can go. They're lethal, I'm sure I could have mown down a few tourists while I was there (A lot of Aussies were there too. One even said: "G'day Lucy, yie 'ad 'yer titties on the barbie?"). Anyway I was off, speeding around town on my buggy. Until the police caught up with me. Revealing my cleavage couldn't save me this time - the police guy escorted me back to my in-patient unit.
Which is when I opened my bottle of "fart spray" and sprayed it on the doorhandle to the doctor's office. The doctor once said to me: "I like your pig, Lucy. It looks very professional" (I once made a pig out of clay in an Art Group at the unit). Now it's even more professional, and she will soon find out!
Ooh I'm evil!
|24 Jan 2003||Jeanie||There is a serial killer in my neighborhood. I've been walking two hours a night since I found out about him. You think this dumb ass would have found me by now... FRESH MEAT! For someone that has killed dozens of people... he sure is off his game.|
|21 Jan 2003||Felicia||I was just walking by the in-patient unit to drop by a basketful of purple, pink, and yellow daisies to Lucy. There she was on the phone talking to a tampon company, complaining that the Procter & Gamble establishment was cutting off her lifetime supply of "weaved cotton, stop-leak protection". Procter & Gamble, were filing for Chapter 7 Bankruptcy, and willing to charge their faithful customers, promising discounts on free samples, to make extra cash. The profit margin didn't look great in Wallstreet. Dow Jones decided that supply and demand was at an all time low for tampon companies. Recently, most of their customers got spayed at the nearest animal clinic to cut the costs of hospital bills. But not Lucy, she kept all her equipment and cherished her wondrous bosoms. The Christina Aquilera sound-alike on the phone for Procter & Gamble customer service, was a ditzy blonde look-alike with a Britney Spears mentality and the ass the size of Kylie Minogue's or was it J.Lo? Oh gosh! My memory is going dead! Anyways, Lucy, it was rumored that Procter & Gamble was indeed a behind the scenes gypsy "cult" and their only Oracle is an Ouija board. My dear friend, stay away from these people, because they will scam you for every penny that you have.|
|18 Jan 2003||Lucy Cortina||Life at my inpatient unit is SUCH a blast. It's more like a youth hostel rather than a psychiatric unit.
Spying on a vegie-lezbo "doing her bits" in the bathroom alone excites me to an almost orgasmic state.
It may be unhealthy for a teenage, deeply curved, busty girl to develop obsessions with nurses, but hey-ho! I'm Lucy, I do as I please!
One of the nurses has a "third tit" - a yukky mole on her face. She's such a sad old bag. I tried to take a pic of the third tit as evidence, but couldnt bear the thought of being exposed to a bra-less tit on a face as cratered as Mars.
Anyway, from tits to 'down belows' - the only UK Tampax factory is closing down! (makers of English tampons). I was on the phone for over 2 hours today, waiting to complain. It was an automated phone service.
"To speak to an operator who is very nice, but no help at all, press 1.
To be cut off for no apparant reason, press 2.
To speak to an over-enthusiastic office girl, press 3..."
and so on, and so on. When I finally got through to complain, a voice - eerily similar to Christina Aguilera's - said in a sweet tone: "I'm sorry, we no longer produce tampons. Good day to you".
So I'm here all alone and tampon-less. Thanks to Christina Aguilera. She insists that people get "Dirrty".
Bang goes my chances with Billy...
|17 Jan 2003||Larius Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN CATASTROPHES. VOL.1 What is a poet? An unhappy soul who in her heart harbors a deep anguish, but whose lips are so fashioned that the moans and cries which pass over them are transformed into ravishing music. Her fate is like that of the unfortunate victims whom the tyrant Phalaris imprisoned in a brazen bull, and slowly tortured over a steady fire; their cries could not reach the tyrant's ears so as to strike terror into his heart; when they reached his ears they sounded like sweet music. And the masses crowd about the poet and say to her, "Sing for us soon again" -which is as much to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul, but may your lips be fashioned as before; for the cries would only distress us, but the music... the music is delightful." And the critics lurch forward to say, "That is perfectly done-just as it should be, according to the rules of aesthetics."
Now it is understood that a critic matches a poet to a hair; he only lacks the anguish in his heart and the music upon his lips. I tell you, i would rather be a swineherd, understood by the swine, than a poet misunderstood by the masses. ~Soren
|17 Jan 2003||John Coulter||For how much longer must i howl into this wind? For how much longer must i cry like this? A thousand wasted hours a day...just to feel my heart for a second. A thousand hours just thrown away...just to watch this shell decay. ~Bob Smithers|
|16 Jan 2003||Felicia||Est-ce que vous m' ecrirez, Mademoiselle Lucy Cortina? Je parle un peu le francais. Comprenez-vous? S'il vous plait comprends, Je suis American. Comment dit-on "fake boobs" en francais? Je ne peux rien manger de cuisine au pickled durs l'oeuf.|