Suicidal tendencies/Misanthropy.

"You, who can't do anything, think you can bring off something like that? How can you ever dare to think about it? If you were capable of it, you certainly wouldn't be in need of it."

Franz Kafka, of himself, in a letter.

They say everyone thinks about it at least once in their life. I have, seriously in three occasions.

I am seven or eight years old. I sit in a room on a chair crying, screaming that I want to die. My siblings are standing in the doorway staring at me. My mother has kneeled next to the chair, and tells me I mustn't say something like that. She never touches me.

I am fifteen. I take a razorblade I bought from the store earlier the same week. I press it against my left forearm, and I cut myself. I always were long-sleeved shirts so no one ever notices. I do it for two years.

I am twenty-one. I am listening to Tori Amos and writing here.

At this moment I don't know how this world could ever have anything to offer me that would overcome the rest and silence death would bring. No more crying, no more worrying, no more loosing direction, no more nothing but eternal peace. This world is filled with evil; during these moments of clarity I see how no one can alone change them. There is no way I could change this world any safer or better place to live. The odds of having to go through the very things I fear the most and the same things that would result in my suicide for sure are very high. So why live and take the risk at all? It's not really worth it all; it's not really worth the constant fear and anxiety and paranoia. I could just end it all right here, right now and know that I would leave this world without blind and ruthless and disabilitating hatred towards the world that made me go through the things I truly fear.

How would I do it? I don't have access to a car or even know how to use one, so my father's methodology is out of the question. The only pills I have are birth control pills (you have to appreciate the irony of that); the package says an overdose of the pills causes sickness, puking and vaginal bleeding. Well, I have the pain killers that weren't prescrbed to me; their package doesn't share the results, merely tells to contact a doctor, a hospital or the Poisoning Centre (unlikely if one wants to kill themselves). I think I have to check Pharmaca Fennica. Drowning; no, I don't have a bath tub. Well, I could always use the sea but someone might end up with life-long traumas after finding my dead body once it's been in the water for quite a time. For the same reason jumping is not an option. And getting hit by a train. The pieces of meat wouldn't be recognisable as a human beings but I'm sure everyone looking at my torn musculus trapezius would know it belonged to a human.

So what's left? I guess it's the cutting I have left. Yes, I suppose that would be it. That one knife is very sharp, and I know more than well where all the arteries are located. I would be able to estimate how long it would take until the blood loss made me loose consciousness, and which arteries should be cut in order to live that long (including the increased heart beat rate due to the situation, of course), knowing the blood is flowing out of me, thinking for the last time, breathing for the last time, seeing something for the last time.

And before doing it, I could say my goodbyes to the few people I thought I wanted to say farewell. Her, of course. And Wanderer. And a couple of you here. And a couple of people at the gym who have always been nice to me. I wouldn't eat for a while, or drink in the end; otherwise the bed would be very messy once they actually found me.

And when would that be? Once people at school began to think where a nerd like me is; I never skip a single lesson unless it's necessary, or physically impossible (even I can't be in two places simultaneously no matter how much I wanted to). Or if I did it right away, it would be my mentor at the convalescent home who would wonder where I am. My so-called family... I'm not sure they would even notice; we're not close, we don't even talk on the phone more often than once in two weeks with my mother.

And who would genuinely miss me? I don't know. When it comes to that so-called family... they would probably miss me because that's what is expected of them. "Poor woman. First she almost looses her son, then her husband goes killing himself, and now her first-born followed her father's footsteps. She must be devistaded... Hey, did you hear what happened in the BB house last night...?" Maybe my siblings would really miss me for a while. And others? Maybe some of you would notice if I didn't update this every week or reply your messages. Don't know about missing, though; how could you miss someone you don't really even know? Wanderer, I think, is the only one I can name likely to miss me, and contemplate my motives. I keep hoping She would miss me, too. I know we're not close even in the vaguest definition of the word; I'm just one student among so many others... but maybe, just maybe, she would remember me sometimes, the girl whose father killed himself, the girl who acted like an ass around Her, the girl with "poignant use of irony" in her texts. Maybe. I want to believe that. I want to believe I'm not completely meaningless to Her, even if I never got the chance to tell her how I feel for Her, share her the feelings that She may find naïve, but that are perfectly real and strong to me. She's the only one I've ever been willing to die for, to kill for, to go to hell for.

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