|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?
|17 Jan 2011||Billy the freak||Death on the Wind
People kill things everyday
From love to idle time
And somethings die anyway
From life to idle time
It couldn't really hurt to die
No more than it hurts to live
The people left always cry
When there is nothing left to give
Death is just the final sleep
From dust to dirt we go
In little piles, that dirt we sweep
And the wind outsid e still blows
The wind kills time itself
It eats away this earth
Everything once known as wealth
The wind will turn to dirt
To know death is to know the wind
That whispers through the trees
For death is just another friend
Blowing on the breeze
billy the freak
|08 Jan 2011||Noname||Slit your wrists and laugh|
|07 Nov 2010||friendly circle band aid||old thinking haunts new syllables|
|11 Oct 2010||Enzyme||My dear, lilting, eviscerated, death-rabbits
Too long have we been apart. Yes, it is indeed I, Enzyme. Back with hands of fire. Back to stir the cauldron of woe.
Mouchette! My lovable lil antichrist! Let me kiss your pale, evil feet.
Today we shall cross the river styx and look at that pernicious vortex: Loneliness.
It is a cry many of you adorable death-rabbits espouse. I know. I know what its like. You sit on the bus, a gargantuan, plastic maggot carting you to and from work. Or maybe in your car. Or maybe on foot. The transitions of life are the most wretched for the lonely peon. Its the going to and from. When life grinds you down to the knuckle. Thats when loneliness cracks your skull and pours her syphilitic powder into your cerebral cortex. You think Wasted time. Who could ever want me? Im too complex to love or understand. Look at these worn faces. Theyre avoiding my gaze. I could spit up blood in front of them, speak in tongues, summon Achilles and they wouldnt bat an eye. Nothing changes. Nothing ever, fucking, changes.
Perhaps once you werent lonely. You cast your spirit back there. To that basement in Brooklyn. That skinned wheat-field. That wide, acrid beach. Existence seemed endless then. Full of rare, ratified adventures. And now?
I know, little mice. I know. But what IS this thing called loneliness? We use it freely to describe our maudlin state but what does it truly imply? To be lonely means you dont like being alone. But thats not true, is it? Like all good creatures of darkness, Im sure we all love our lairs, no matter how pathetic and venial. Ahhh the late hours of the night, up in my tower, playing David Bowie, watching Twin Peaks, reading 19th century French literature. Im at peace. In my smoking jacket. Eating smores. You all love your solo time, am I right? Thats why God created Mozart and masturbation. Great combo, by the way.
So if being lonely is not really about hating to be alone, what, pray tell, is it about? Perhaps it is a need to be WITH another human being? To talk and converse, to suck on their genitals, to hold them and cry. Yes? Maybe THATs what we want? More people.
But lets be honest, my little zombie tap-dancers you dont really LIKE most people, do you? I mean, most humans are rather boorish, dull, witless, and uptight. I mean, if MOST of the population was teleported into your cage and demanded to be your constant companion you would cringe in horror. You??? In my lair? Messing with my collection of Zap comix? Get thee gone!
Alright, so maybe being lonely is about wanting to be with the RIGHT person. The right person who would that be? Well unkempt hair and yes, a love of film noir. Weird teeth and a rye, pithy sense of humor adventurous simultaneously hi-brow and low-brow a fascination with evil but a tender, romantic creature at heart with a love of Cole Porter, punk rock, and good white wine. My god its me! Yes, you probably crave yourself, as an attractive member of whatever sex you wanna put it to.
But wait! You already have yourself not as another person, true but you do have what you want. As you. And maybe if you squint your eyes in the mirror, youre not really all THAT hideous.
So WHY do we crave another human being to love who is basically ourselves but more attractive?
The answer, little death-rabbits, is obvious.
We want to fully appreciate who we are we want to fuck ourselves, and adore ourselves, and vindicate our misery, and lovingly molest that beautiful, perfect, innocent creature we are somewhere deep in the recesses of our being and say: I love you, for the fucked up, adorable miscreant you are. I hate the monsters who did you wrong. I forgive you for your suffering. Im on your side. Youre not alone.
So loneliness is really the desire to truly love ourselves. And forgive ourselves. And really . You dont need to go through the awkward hell of internet dating to do that.
Free severed angel hands for everyone!
Enzyme of the petrified forest.
|03 Oct 2010||you are on top of a tall building basking in the light of a beautiful spring morning. birds chirp peacefully along with the horns of angry cars down below in the busy streets. you are getting a little hot in your inflatable pig costume, and a little weighed down from the pounds of chocolate, candy, money and confetti you have filled it with. you sit on the ledge while you slowly down a bottle of jagermeister. you enjoy the view, the last morning you will ever see. as the streets become busier, this is your time. blow kisses to the horizon. take a bow. breathe in. breathe out. and fall. in an explosion of plastic, candy, money and limbs. there are screams. but someone picks up a snickers and says, "god i was dying for one of these all morning."|
|21 Sep 2010||juniata||tahw did uoy od htiw ym luos?|
|18 Sep 2010||the blue juniata||I thguoht ni eht ytiugibma fo eht bew I dluoc ebb enoemos, tub uoy evah edam em a ekoj. Uoy evah nekat neve taht yawa morf em. Eht eulb atainuj|
|02 Jun 2010||nicki||Your 13, I'm 38...all of these people giving you good advice. My children are 15, 18 and 19 a couple of years ago their father, my husband committed suicide. Things are never that un fixable, I've had similar thoughts since as I've been depressed so if you want to get help go and speak to your parents or a teacher or even contact a councillor yourself..
You may not realise it but just putting your question on here you have asked for help....I love my children as I'm sure you love your parents, It doesn't matter how desperate you or I feel sweetie but it breaks my heart of the thought of putting them through any more pain...so I'll make you a deal, we won't..and we'll get help...xx
|17 May 2010||Seyra||Why are we so sad? I am becaus I feel alone and I imagine that is why you do too. I mean if we didn't feel alone would we not be happy or at the very least satisfied? Sadness drives people mad; it makes us do and think of things we wouldn't under normal circumstances. We don't think rationally. We figure that our sadness is a great pain that no one knows and only few have and the only way to end it is to die. A lie, a lie. A few years ago, my mother sat down and talked to me about life when I told her I wished I could die. She said to me, "Everyone has sadness and pains -its apart of life dear. You are not the only one struggling in the world. What makes life worth the while -why we continue obstacle after obstacle- is the love and happiness that comes and refreshes our spirit." She continued and told me that she and dad loved me and that my friends did too. Finally, she ended with some strong advice that I strive to live by still today "You can't shake the hand of happiness if you are too busy holding on to your sadness." Let go. Of all the social expectations, of all the mean names or rumors, of all the dirty looks and rude gestures, of the neglect and not right. Of your wants for things and lusts for people. Just let go. Doing so will clear your head and there will be no more thoughts of suicide. It wasn't easy at first, but it worked and now I feel better. Now, there are still times I feel sad of course and still tiems when I wish to not live. But, I just remind myself that if I don't let go, the love will pass me by and things will only get worse. I hope this has helped a little as it has helped me. I wish that you all will feel better and that we can all be happy again very soon. With Love, Seyra.|
|21 Apr 2010||Ava||Detatch yourself from the world, hate everything you want to, and love everything you need to. Kill yourself mentally to be reborn again free and happy with what you are and more importantly what you do. Follow yourself, and even if its in circles, know it only makes you a rounder person ;)|
|15 Apr 2010||flipashit||The best way to kill yourself is to try not to kill yourself. (Death loves irony)|
|28 Mar 2010||Gangotryi||...that one asks this question is implicative enough of the fact that one is already much dead. I am another mortal (well above 13, but that is just a translational change in the co-ordinate of time and matters not greatly) who has been in the thresholds of self-destructive thoughts more than once, and in periodic bouts of a plethora of unbearable blueness. And therefore I know, when this question surmises one is then not much of alive. So maybe a thing you can put in your boon-box is a small little round mirror, so that one can look at oneself, look at the destruction, the wreckage in front of him/her, the reflection of the dilapidated existence of oneself, look at the already almost dead state he/she is in, and maybe then can have a flicker of life-force that will make the person shove aside this box of temptation which we so lovingly present to him/her as the suicide-kit.. or maybe seeing how near he/she is too the final full-stop, go ahead to write the finishing statement...
Long-live hope, though, even if it is a misleading mistress. My love and nothing else, for all who wandered and were lost.
|14 Feb 2010||Leon||Suicide you foul temptress; you whore on the corner of rash decisions and unbearable loneliness. You strut in your sanguine dress in the depths of night when the moon and stars are too choked by fog and foul weather to give hope with your profess of false love and release. A walking sin, tempting to the weary weak and unwanted; to those wavering in the wind or walloping in the wanton. All they wish for is saccharine stability. They see the beauty in what you offer and the ease and promise of your service. I know it is a lie, your nothing more than a snake waiting to strike. A snake hissing menacingly in a slow stance awaiting the moment to steal the soul and sanctity of those drowning in sadness. Though your body smooth and sultry I know how malicious your mind is. The eye is gullible and easy to please, but your scent gives way to your intent. The scent of tainted flowers and smoke. How willing you are to take and how patient you are in your methods. When you steadily penetrate the Cimmerian agonized mind of a man extend your bony hand to offer an apocryphal paradise, a permanent escape, an eternal night of vain surrender. Many will take your hand. Those who do are prematurely ushered in to the unknown leaving behind a burden of grief to kin and close ones. Does not the world have too much pain without it? Your pact an exchange from the sufferings of one to the sufferings of many. I pray not for you to end your service, for you are eternal, a sister to Death and a harbinger of dark reverie. No. I pray for those who are in the aphotic depths of sorrow to abstain your hand your call your sight your smell your offer. I hope when you reach for them they will hastily decline and ignore you. I hope they will create a bastion of stone and steel to harbor there hope and keep you away just long enough. Just long enough for another to reach with loving hands and pull them from the darkness into the light. I know how strong and sinister you are, for I remember your persuasive proposition, but I also know how naïve you are in doubting the resilience and vivacity of man.|
|20 Jan 2010||its at the bottom of what i wrote. okay?||Dear Mouchette.
I'm not hear to tell you a way to kill yourself, but I do have something important that I would like to say.. For one.. I was stumbling across the internet, searching random things.. True story. I'm fascinated with the art of suicide. I have known plenty of people I know have ended their life with suicide. Life is going to end anyways, so why not just end it now? stop the uselessness sadness in ones life before it drives you to a mental breakdown. How bout that? dying in a facility where they keep the kids who have psychological problems. Well anyways, I'm getting EXTREMELY off topic. That always seems to happen to me.. Well what I was saying before.. I searched up on the net, "How to tie a suicide rope" .. and somewhere it landed me on this link.. that was about 3 or 4 days ago. Then the next day, I continue this.. um.. viewing of your site. I wiki'd it.. I studied it.. and I honestly say Im very fascinated with it. Especially the first time I ever looked at your home page. I was filled with bewilderment when I saw a floral back-round.. with very few Letters and sentences on it. And especially the picture that was of a strange white creepy vampire-like picture of a man in the top left corner. And anyways.. Im losing myself. Earlier before I searched up "mouchette.org" on wikipedia, I learned that this site was very mysterious.. After that I looked pretty much on just your pages, took in the information and quotes you had left, and the other wonderful things that others had left. I then searched on more, Learned more, and discovered some of the truth. Im not sure if what I had seen you write on one of those other pages.. But what im thinking about is that you said something that you were giving up this wonderful.. amazing.. mysterious.. lovely.. strange site and turning it into something that the internet has many of.. a blog. I have to admit.. Some blogs I see are extremely interesting, and I do take plenty of time into reading and enjoying..but The thing is.. The first time I've viewed your beautiful site, was only uptil January 17th. 2010. And it was taken away so quickly.. just for giving some information.. What I thought before this was this site was aboslutely amazing. For the fact that it has stayed 'pseudonymous' since 1996. That you had kept it a secret, and had not had given any personal information.. whatsoever, But then I see this "blog" stuff.. and this website, that had me so interested in.. just changed.. and now I wont be able to look at it ever in the same way again.. Im not complaining. Im just saying.. just giving you my point of though.. And just so you know..
My name is Veronika. Supposed to be spelled with a "C" but I like it so much better with a "K". And I am 13 years old.
|19 Nov 2009||Enzyme||My dear darlin death-rabbits
Enzyme, captain of the rotting multitude is back. So much mercury-tainted misery on the forums these days my poor maudlin angels! Your wings all torn off, soggy with blood and bile Come into the fold into the copse of pine trees. Ill heal the maelstrom in your cerebral cortex Stand tall little death rabbits all is not lost.
First off. One towering lament I hear again and again is that no one loves you, lil mouse. No one cares. No one really understands your delicate brainpans electric vibrations. You are wretched, ugly, foul and besmirched. Yes? Who will ever hold you to their neck and coo? Who will stroke your greasy hair and whisper soothing words down your raw throat? Who will cook your pancakes in the morning? Who will flip the record over? Who will lick your temples and cradle you in eternal warmth and silver salvation?
But I ask you. What is the true nature of this love you crave? Love. Our society has anointed this elusive and brief emotion to the throne of absolute human achievement. More than just a human experience weve turned it into the philosophers stone. The rare ingredient that alchemists used to turn base metals into gold. The solution and balm to all our clawing torments. If you just get love youll be all better. Free from all woe. At peace. Complete spiritual enlightenment. Complete joy and freedom. Those who have it are ascended deities. Immortals living the epic saga you never could. They stare down at us lonely peons, codgers, reprobates, losers, and vagabonds. Thats how it seems, yes? Youre a blip on the radar. You exist not, because no one cares if you live or die. Yes?
But you are wrong, my adorable little persimmon. Dead wrong. This world we live in is but one shade of the entire story. Deep within your migrating being is another, golden universe of the dawn. The universe of your velvet soul, your chattering life force, the cathedral of your emotions, call it what you will. Your consciousness. And this consciousness IS the audience you crave for your life. You really dont need the love, approval, understanding of another being to be happy and content. Some of the happiest people on earth live in total isolation in Tibet on the tops of snow-covered mountains milking goats. Sure, love, sex and approval from other humans are NICE and fun to have around, and kinda good for us. But they are not what truly sustains us. No one will ever love you more than your own being.
Close your eyes and listen to your life force trembling and pulsating inside you. A radiating harmonium of thoughts and words and beats and dreams and images and demons and nymphs and monsters all part of you. All created by you. That glow, that universe, that place adores you, lil rabbit. Like no one else ever can. Because you sustain it. Because it is completely original. It has never existed in your distinct pattern before, and will never exist ever again. Think about it. No one exactly like you has ever existed before in the history of the universe, nor will ever exist again. You are so damn rare. If you tend to that inner world by creating things, breathing, escaping, imagining, lollygagging in your unconscious, youll get all the love you need. And much more.
See, weve all been sold a bill of goods. Our social contract is hopelessly pernicious. From everywhere were are bombarded with constant tirades: Be loved! Get happy! Get laid! Make money! Find friends! Look pretty! Have children! Be a success! If you cant, wont, or live with your mom, youre a failure! Kill yourself! Give up! Life is a game! You lost! Game over!
Take a breath, lil mouse. Remind yourself. Life is NOT a game. There is no winning or loosing. Only the passage of time and the accumulation of experience. Thats it. And all experiences are worth having. Good, bad, pathetic, tender. Its all part of the human rollercoaster ride. Take your fingers off your eyes. You dont want to miss a thing.
And always remember. Enzyme loves you. Even if no one else does. I do. Ill enfold you in my poison arms, coo in your ear, give you head, lick your teeth, knit you mittens, braid your greasy hair, draw on your hand, crash your car, kiss the nape of your neck, put on Nick Drake, film you while you sleep, smell your armpits, clean your bathroom, let you doze off, cradle your breasts, eat your food, buy you candy, watch 30 rock with you, clap when you play air guitar, wrap you in a down comforter while it softly snows outside, rent your favorite horror film, and mull you hot apple cider. I will. You know why? Cuz I love my lil velveteen death rabbits. Thats why. Yes. Yes I do.
Song of the day: Rock & Roll Suicide by David Bowie.
|18 Nov 2009||Ms Mercy||If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll want to know is how I like my eggs.
I like them scrambled. I like them scrambled so much that I've had scrambled eggs every day for a week. What this is doing to my insides, I don't know. I can only hope that eating lots of eggs is beneficial to ones health in some way. They might give me the lustrous, shiny hair that people advertise on TV- egg yolks are high in protein, after all.
If I were truly a vessel of the universe these eggs would begin some marvellous sort of transformation that would make me irresistable to middleaged lady vicars. Or at least, somebody dressed as a middleaged lady vicar.
Sadly, this is one of my sexual fantasies that will never be fulfilled, even if a shared love of scrambled eggs brings me together with the lady vicar of my dreams and we begin a torrid love affair. If God exists and I am fucked by one of His representatives on Earth (in the confessional booth, natch), there will be no going back- it would be hell for me.
Although, that being said, I dreamt of hell last night and it wasn't so bad at all. I met Groucho Marx.
|14 Sep 2009||Enzyme||Dear Velveeta Death Rabbits
Enzyme, chortling mutant of the undergrowth, is back. Todays post is in praise of warm french-fries, mango-chutney dipping sauce, and evil. Im going to reach my withered hand out towards you, through the computer screen. If you pry open, and/or chew off my fingers at the knuckle, youll find a gift. A present. For you. Yes, you. An ornate silver box
and inside? An enchanted set of World War 1 aviator goggles. They should fit, I measured your skull last night while you slept. Upon adorning the twin periscopes, activate the mechanism on the nose bridge. There! Now notice and observe
all around you
what was there before
and what youve never seen. The clandestine chamber reveals itself. With these goggles you can see the world as you wish it was. A new skin of time and space painfully sutured onto this insolent reality.
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! The lifeless office temps slumming their way to work are leering jackals in pill-box hats! Billie Holiday has risen from the dead as an oscillating, gossamer specter! She whistles and coos her beaming siren call God Bless the Child. Breath out now, little rabbit. You are safe. Wrapped in my poison arms. Drink this mulled apple cider. Turn over the record. Know that I love you unconditionally. Know that.
Now turn off the goggles. You dont want to waste the batteries. Use them whenever you feel like a bad penny. Like a tin bucket collecting rain water. Like a set of false teeth.
P.S. Notes from The Underground you are at home with me, and have a lovely lexicon.
|09 Sep 2009||Enzyme||Salutations my lovely death rabbits. Enzyme here with a brief rumination about suicide. Yes indeed. While standing in the shower fantasizing about slitting my throat with a box-cutter, I had a sudden revelation. The reasons we hari-kari vary from person to person, but I believe there is a common psychological thread that weaves all self-inflicted murder together. True, there are the folks who blow their brains out to end some physical suffering or because they weary of enduring old age. The vast majority, however, are usually people that have reached some nightmarish climax of guilt, shame, isolation, terror, heartbreak, frustration or self-loathing. Consider this. As children the first lesson we ever learn is one of punishment and reward. If we do good, our god-like parental units reward us with affection, love, and gum drops. If we do bad, we are punished, sent to our rooms, smacked, or denied love and gum drops. How tragic that this bizarre confluence of crime and success is thrust upon our fresh young minds. Some people learn this lesson far too well. At first the forces of reward and punishment are all external, localized in parents, teachers, and other children. As we age we tend to internalize all figures of authority psychologically. I think its a survival mechanism. If a figure of power or extremity terrifies us we attempt to control the threat by absorbing that person into our own being. Like a clam turning grains of sand into pearls. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. The only trouble is that some of us internalize the wrong authority figures too deeply. Harsh morally austere task masters with zero remorse or compassion. As we grow into adults, these tyrannical voices become indistinguishable from our true inner dialogue of self-preservation. Gradually we mentally absorb large swaths of society, like a carnivorous gelatinous blob. Until we become our own judge, jury, and finally executioner. There is no doubt that we are punishing ourselves when we commit suicide. The ultimate punishment. The Death Penalty. Like that poor girl a few posts back who was going to kill herself if her STD test came back positive for herpes. Such a common, controllable, non-fatal VD. Yet to that poor darling she has to die. She has to punish herself for the crime of sleeping with a boy, for the crime of catching a disease, for the crime of being young. The most ruthless judges imaginable reside in our cerebral cortexes. Our parents eventually stop rewarding and punishing us, and we gradually take over the job with a hysterical zeal. That poor girl is on trial. In her own mind. Suicidal people who struggle with failure in business or romantic ventures never talk about giving up and becoming a vagabond or criminal. It's always about killing one's self. Punishment for their failure to procure a wife, to make enough cash, failure to stay healthy, failure to stay sober, failure to be a good parent, or a good daughter, failure to get happy and successful. The truth is, however, that these internal subconscious judges and jury members are far from objective. Heck, let's face it, they are fascistic Nazi bastards with no goddamn sense of perspective. Imagine that poor girl killing herself over a case of herpes. She's just a young kid doing her best to find love and validation. In moments of clarity all of us with suicidal tendencies can occasionally see how out of touch we really are. What was the crime we committed? Some minor infraction, in all reality. And plus, life is not a gulag unless we make it so. There is no one right way to live or experience existence. Even if you murdered someone. There's always room for redemption and progress. Let's free ourselves of the yoke of perpetual reward and punishment. Expel these false prophets from our brain pans. Let go. Let yourself off the hook. Yes, my lovely undead figure skaters. Yes, indeed.
Song of the Day: "King of Carrot Flowers" by Neutral Milk Hotel
P.S. Melvin, a benediction upon you. Hang in there kid.
Bebop! I'm kind of a world traveler. Not in L.A. now. In the meantime, watch that film tonight and imagine I'm there, eating all your ice cream.
|05 Aug 2009||Kable||I enjoy your prose, your pose, your pantyhose wrappend around you neck. They can also be used as a makeshift automobile belt in a bind.
A suicide kit you ask? Almost anything can be included, from a small rubber ball that can fit your gullet to a baby seal who wishes to club you. An open ended question if you ask me and for the sake of this post I am telling. Perhaps you stumbled upon this while you were searching the best way to kill someone under 13. Until this point I was not aware there is an age limit which you pass and gain new methods. The wrists are so 10 year old, the shotgun is so 18.
Hark another pill down the hatch till I awake to muse, use and abuse my bruises once again.
|28 Jul 2009||Valentine||Hello Mouchette,
Since you will be absent for awhile, I thought I would write this poem to be read when you come back. I hope you enjoy it (next month) :
You've been away for so long
Did you go on vacation?
Did you play ping pong?
You must be restless of us
And that's why you were gone
But don't worry dear
You've gone thirteen years strong