So I’ve been thinking about suicide again.
Thoughts are like like rivers, they carve out their own valleys. I never used to think about suicide, except in the abstract. I’ve had so-called depressive episodes since my mid teens, but until about 2008 suicide was something only other people did. But thoughts are like rivers, and can be like floods, shifting the landscape and letting new rivers flow, and flow stronger. I never used to think about suicide, but now I do. I think about suicide in so many ways.
Some rivers are more like streams. I’ve been thinking of suicide in the sense of an option, a way out when it all gets too much, or just too boring. Life in the moment can be bright, but often I look out and it seems a dreary, pointless affair, stretching joyless and drizzling into the future. I could just step out.
I don’t feel depressed. I don’t think. But depression’s myopic. Maybe I am.
I still want to see friends. I still enjoy the things I enjoy. I’m just not that enamoured with the thought of living very much longer, and it’s comforting to know there’s an option. A plan, stuck inside my skull like a grenade, just waiting for me to pull the pin.
Some rivers are more like streams, but streams can flow fast and pull you under to darker, colder, deeper waters. I’ve been thinking about suicide again, holding it delicately in my thoughts like a viper, like the morphine tablets I used to hold on my tongue; electric and terrified, wondering when the time will come to bite.