You can't really talk to anybody about suicide. Friends and family will take it as a threat or suddenly you become this glass person they don't even touch. You can't talk about it with church officials cause they'll just tell you that you need to pray more, give more, believe deeper, beg God to give you the thing He seems to intent on keeping from you unless you beg deeply enough, like an owner watching its cat dance for treats. At least you can trust a priest to not report you. You can't trust a therapist to do that. A therapist has to report you to the authorities or some shit. And once the authorities are onto you, you're just a liability. At least, that's what you are to everyone legally and financially.

They lock you up not for your own safety, but for theirs. They douse you in sedatives and really make you feel crazy by putting you in the vicinity of other people who are probably just as stressed out as you are. You just feel like you need a fucking break, somebody to just really let you know that its all going to be okay and that you're good enough.

Too bad you're not. At least, I'm not. I don't fucking know you. You're probably fine. It's all going to be okay and you're good enough.

You can't bring suicide up in your art, unless you've been graced with a silver tongue, or your preferred format's equivalent. So, perhaps, you can talk about it in your work. I can't. I don't have little plucking digits that can articulate brilliance through nuance. I have these big fucking lumbering fucking hands that are efficient at destruction, violent extensions of senseless, immature anger. Rambling, pitching bulbs of inarticulate retardation.

Don't feed me that Wreck-it-Ralph bullshit, either. Some people are born with useful skills. I'd even argue that most people are born with useful skills. But big fucking lumbering fucking hands won't ever create beauty. Not enough to make anyone listen when you talk about something as clamoring as suicide.

You generate value, create beauty or you waste away. And I feel myself eroding, reaching out for help, but instead just mashing everything that gets close. I feel my supports eroding. It's like I have Asshole Tourette's. Sure, I can hold off for a while, stay still and tamp it all down, but then I start to shake. I can feel the steam scream out at my seams and before I know it I'm wrecking again.

I don't know how anyone else does it. I sincerely don't. Maybe I should just be sedated. If I can't control myself, maybe some chemical can.

I don't even write this because I want to die right now. I think this is a bench mark. My hope is, give it two months and I can look at this and laugh at the absurdity of this darkness. But, should I continue to trend deeper, this can serve as a reminder that I always have one option.

We are not helpless, and we are on a journey that risks the dark.