The Very Rough Words to The Suicide Me, My Next Book

Okay after The Box of Chocolates Experiment Phase One, but it might come right after that….or should phase two come out…oh decisions.

Looking back I see more and more that I’ve been suicidal my whole life. I kept looking for reasons to allow myself to die. If I just accomplished getting Animal out I could finally die. I had finally paid my penance. In moments I connected to life and felt a semblance of desire to live, but the moment I realized I was alive, or had conflict, it would all flow back. It never felt like I could escape.  In moments without it there was a laughter waiting to laugh, breathing itself into my life air. Yet it hovered, awaiting, a patient lover and foe. A lover is one that stays with you, always by your side, good times and created bad.

If I actually would laugh it would steal the end.

My laughter always cut short.

Lost in bliss then reminded.

I had fantasies of death in constant.

I screamed at having to life. Not understanding why I had to. Begging to know why I existed at all.

I was too scared of death to end it.

Otherwise it would have occurred.

Something also said I had to live

But the writing of my life as I watched and dolled is a different entertwined tale.

The living was just never a want. It was an obligation.

There were moments I wanted to live. Moments I connected to life. The river tinkered out connections and my brain grabbed them. Sparking into life.

Sitting at the river and licking flames out of my burger. Beckoned to life by family surrounding and loving.

Running, pushing forcefully against the ground, escaping within trapment. Feeling the body I couldn’t escape as I ran within it. I. Connected to it. Connections spreading and rupturing and breaking and freeing until I stopped again. Even then they sporadicized and contained in shudders around me, allowing connections I could feel right outside as I panted. They waited for my pause to come back in.

Nights in my room begged for the screaming to stop thrashing around. It felt of constant breaking with no connection back. My life force was disconnecting in shattered forms and I could feel it. I could scream it.

Breath was a force out of desire.

Why did I keep breathing when it only signaled pain? It only signaled life and that I was still in it.

Deeply taking in life. Holding it. Remembering I could not escape as I held it within, thinking might just might I could hold it so long it would want to leave. It would feel me, know I couldn’t have it. Know I was a strange mad child and free me of existence.

Take me.

Yet I stayed…in defiance of self and mind I connected out in moments. I connected to moments I had wanted life…I think…did I? The connections were the tiniest of dots in a giant square of inky murk. The square grew bigger until it held no shape. The gas of death and life. The liquid of gorging. It could not even hold texture it was so immense and inescapable. Yet there I was containing it all.

I kept feeling like the family could see it. At the dinner table they stared and I Knew it was drawn on me. They had to see it. I laughed it out…not a happy laugh but…a laughter is the unexpected…when you fake it…you’re no longer expecting to be happy. You aren’t expecting to be happy. Not now and not ever. It rips into your face.

Everyone must see it. You aren’t connecting to it…the falsity deranges and suffocates. It must all be within. Maybe it isn’t even real at all.

No one talks about it anyway.

It’s all your fault.

Depression isn’t real.

You’re weak.

Get over it.

You’re better than this.

There is no escape if there’s nothing to escape.

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