Voice of a Depressed. Voice of a Self Medicating Jerk. Voice of Struggle. Voice of hope.

A clean wound would be best. Down by the stream, when I fall most if not all of my mess will be washed away. Only an entry and possibly an exit wound, despite my training I am unsure if a hollow point 9mm will exit my skull. I suppose it could just mushroom and bounce around my cranium, most likely happening and ending before I even hit the ground. Ah, what sweet release, I only feel better that a few days ago I watched a lecture on depression and the brain. Apparently and factually the brain itself as an organ does not feel pain. How interesting? In the lecture there was talk of brain surgery and to my understanding once you get past the skin and skull and all that, you arrive at the spongy gray brain matter. This doesn’t feel pain! The professor in the lecture was speaking of this procedure and that once the brain was exposed, needles and what not would be placed in specific areas of the exposed brain. No pain was felt during this, however apparently they were able to manipulate joints and what not by stimulating areas of the exposed brain. All in all what I am getting at is, wow the brain doesn’t experience pain! So when I shoot myself in the head, should I choose that route; the only real pain will be the initial blast and entry wound. Once that bullet is in there no more pain, it will bounce around and tear all types of shit up. I will be on the ground by the time this process happens. Should I still be alive in a biological sense, by that I mean out of my head already however my body following slowly behind ending its cycles and processes which have been on the go for 29 years. Besides cleanliness, the stream will also provide to take away my oxygen when I inevitably fall into her shallow depths and unconsciously drown.

I am suicidal. I am not suicidal. I am broken. I am not broken. I am an alcoholic. I am not an alcoholic. I am a good musician. I am not a good musician. I am a good person. I am not a good person. I am not a good person…..I am not really that good at anything; I even hate how I write. Is writing a form of letting your inner voice out? If it is then I hate that too.

Truth be told, I hate myself. I hate Dave. If cells strive to survive, which I have been made to understand, why do all the cells in my being calculate to end myself as a whole? Stop being a little bitch! Stop whining! Life sucks! Get over it! Stop your Pity Party you sensitive little bitch! All this dialogue on repeat over and over in my head, I need to shut it down. This brain of mine has caused me nothing but pain all my life. Now it is coming out and hurting those around and near me. At what point in life does one really begin to hate oneself? For me it seems, now that I look back on it and posing the question. All my life, the self hatred, the longing to fit in, the longing to be good at something, the longing to understand myself; it all snowballed. For 29 years it built up and became the monster I never knew it could. Now the monster breaths fire, not the kind of fire that burns and chars the skin and hair from the outside. It is a much more devastating fire, spewing hate and pain and the burns are not present on the external surface, but ravage from within. I am like a sick dog, and sick dogs get put down. I need to be put down.

Suicide is a personal choice. I have heard this said, but is it? To an extent yes I guess it is very much a personal choice. I choose to put this gun to my head; I choose to pull this trigger. Is it really though? The choice of committing to the act, which is a choice, the drive to feel that suicide is the option or solution I could argue is not a choice. For me it is as if self destruct was like a program running in my mind. I don’t remember double clicking on the application to open it; I don’t even remember seeing it on the desktop and being curious about it. It was just there, it was open. It has been there, in my brain it was part of the start-up booting process. It’s just always there and running in the background.

Up until now, my late 20’s, okay…..around 28–29 years old did it really come into my perspective that this was really a part of my personality and who I am. I want; no I need to find purpose in this world. I always felt that I had a drive to be something great, something important. I feel I have settled on life, on a lot of life. Is this dark turmoil, this cavernous depression made up? Have I convinced myself that I am depressed as have I convinced myself that I must die? Suicide, Depression, Anxiety, these are terms that have come to dominate my life. I must not let these terms define me! I must stop using labels for myself. I am very much in that dark cave, and at times I can see the daylight through a crack, I must try to dig myself out into that light.

Not getting better is not an option. This depression, this unwelcome darkness that follows me around is now affecting those around me. I am no longer the sole muse, a puppet with depression pulling on the strings. Worst of all, it is not a secret anymore. I have been exposed, my walls blasted away for everyone to see inside. My little world that kept me safe, or so I thought is gone, and being exposed only caused the depression to worsen, the self image to dampen and the hole to become much deeper. I am exhausted. I am beat up. I am trying to learn to accept. Accepting that this is my reality, this is my challenge. I am not religious but part of me does think we are presented with certain challenges for a reason, and often come out better. Is it possible this is a truth for me? Should I convert this depressive energy into a type of fuel for myself, for my spirit, for my soul, for my….sanity? Perhaps with time I can learn to use this head of mine to do good works, and to be of some purpose to those like me.

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