I was over 20 years suicidal. Passively or actively suicidal. One might wonder what made it so difficult? Why didn’t I just kill myself if I so much desired to?
Well, back at the time, I set up the date for it and I lived for it with everything I had. I decided on the date almost 10 years prior, and that became my one and only goal in life. To die that afternoon.
I can’t describe enough how liberating the decision was. It freed me from all the suffocating pain I was trying to run away from. It was a brilliant idea!
That decision made me fearless. Reckless.
Life got new rules. No rules.
It put a mischievous smile on my face.
I became immortal. And just in case if I anyway would have happened to be wrong about it, it would have just made my job easier.
Have you ever realized how much your life is limited by your fear of death?
I don’t think you ever can see it unless you become totally indifferent about your life.
Unless you make dying your biggest dream.
That plan, that little secret of mine became beyond anything or anyone else to me.
And life, in its own bizarre way, turned awesome.
Those almost 10 years I felt so unchained, so carefree.
When you choose not to have anything, you can be sure you don’t lose a thing.
Fuck, how convinced this piece of wisdom made me.
It flew me through years of experiences a mortal wouldn’t find any sense in doing. Poor them.
Then less than a year before the time was up and all planned accordingly, something happened. Something that fucked up my plan.
I met someone. Like no one else ever before! Unbelievable misfortune!
But could someone mean to me enough to change my plan that has been my Everything for almost 10 years, the plan that would guarantee to keep the ghosts away I was running away from?
Could someone give me so much love that I would stay?
No. Absolutely not.
But, unfortunately, it was more complicated.
In a short time, I had become Everything to one poor innocent soul. And by killing myself I would have deprived him of all the joy of life. By completing my plan, I would have killed him, too. I wished I were able to ignore his pain, and just take what I desired the most.
But no. It was against my vow. And I was powerless in front of it. Powerless. The first time in a decade.
Because in my child’s mind I had once promised to myself that if I ever can take the pain of my beloved ones away by taking it to myself, I always would.
I let him keep his Everything and I let my Everything go.
I would have had balls to kill myself but I didn’t have balls to kill him before that.
So I stayed, I could not fucking believe it… I felt I was trapped with no options.
And I started floating with no meaning in life. I had nothing planned, nothing. Only until that day. I never had planned to live longer than that afternoon.
I had nothing to look forward to anymore, not the smallest passion. And now since I didn’t have any meaning in life anymore, I just took one day at a time with no idea what I was doing, or where was I heading.
Simply put, I didn’t know how to do life anymore.
At year 24 I was in a situation where after having planning my dying day for close to 10 years, I had fallen in love with it too deeply to let go.
It was my only dream, still. I didn’t know anything else to look for, nothing else to wish for. Nothing else to love.
Nothing else as beautiful as Death.
And that love was to be eternal.
Even though I decided to stay, Death kept on coming before everything and everyone else almost until I turned 40. Until that, I was thinking of Death, every single day. The most beautiful thing I could imagine. I was dancing with Death for about 25 years. I was teasing myself with that lusty thought, I was flirting with My Only One, he who was always waiting for me. Every day and night.
I was craving Death, I desired it more than anything. And I hated the fact that I kept on always having someone in my life who forced me to stay. Cause I couldn’t hurt them. All I could do was to dream about my True Love secretly.
Even though leaving would have been the most beautiful thing to me, I couldn’t do it. To them. And I felt so out of place. Anywhere. No one else saw the same sun. I was anyway alone, always.
Of course, many people kill themselves even if they have people in their lives who are left behind to long for them. So many people do it anyway. They do it cause it’s best for themselves. Only to them. And the fact that they manage to see it from so a subjective closed-up perspective, they manage to become selfish enough to complete the plan. It’s not about daring, or not, to kill oneself, but it’s about how subjective one manages to get, how closed up into their own selfish bubble. If enough, then they’ll go.
And I never managed to get subjective enough, selfish enough, to think of myself only.
And that’s why I didn’t go.
OR IS THIS THE TRUTH AFTER ALL?
Did I stay because I couldn’t get selfish enough to go and hurt them?
Or did I stay because I was extremely selfish?
I think so.
My decision to stay was selfish.
The truth is, I didn’t want to be a person who could do such a horrible thing to people who I knew would have crashed for good, People who would have kept on asking for the rest of their life ‘How could she do it to me?’
(Others’ thoughts about me mattered to me cause to us human beings it’s so important that others think about us the way we want. We are proud of ourselves through how others think about us. Even after we are dead… That’s fucking ridiculous, but the truth often is.)
I wanted to be a good person, I had promised myself. Not a person who hurts those she has the power to hurt. I didn’t want to be that kind of person in others’ minds.
This was so important to me. The most important. And that’s why I always have decided to stay one more day. I am so selfish. I care too much about how others would think about me even when I would be gone. I want them to think well of me.
I don’t want my legacy to be an asshole. I’m too proud of myself for it. Even though I know I would be dead and not able to give a flying fuck about anyone’s feelings or opinions any longer. It still matters to me so much that I stayed back then. And that I’m still here.
It’s funny. My pride. My pride keeps me here.
And as long as there’s pride, there is selfishness.
But when pride dies, selfishness dies along with it.
Suicide is a total absence of pride and selfishness.
That’s the moment a person loses her value in her own eyes. Completely. It doesn’t matter anymore what kind of person she is. It doesn’t matter what others will think of her when she is gone.
That’s when suicide happens.
So next time I hear someone telling me that a person who committed suicide was selfish, I can tell it might not be the case. The reason might be even the complete opposite of it.
And about myself… I’m so glad that my pride never died. It carried me over time, over the empty years, until I found my husband and psychedelics, and I un-fucked myself. And life truly started to be amazing.
