Post about suicide. It’s raw, and angry. You have been warned.
Fitter, happier, more productive
I’m drinking green tea again. Bitter green tea. Trying to be healthy, still. Apparently green tea is healthy.
I got a new rucksack. My old one, small hiking one, carried on my back through the Andes; zip kept breaking, all it’s shape lost, a sandy colour that went with nothing. Like most things, I’d notice every now and then, and then, forget.
But I got a new one at last. It’s a black ‘Head’ one and it looks sporty, and I got some proper breathable gym kit so I don’t get soaked on the cross trainer and some new trainers because Christ knows I was getting hobbled in my old scratty ones and now if you look at me I guess, sometimes, I almost look like a real boy.
Pants, even! You can get special breathable underwear for cardio work. I had no idea. They’re flush and lush against the skin and I can’t deny they’re more than a little bit arousing; hugging, smooth. If you’ve got the right pants I guess you can do anything.
Oil on the ocean.
People are talking about suicide, lots, right now; someone took their own life, and people do that every day but this person was famous and so everyone noticed and is saying how sad and tragic it is and everyone is talking and asking why. Unthinking people are calling it selfish and caring people are calling it tragic. I don’t don’t know why this one person did it because really, really, what do we ever know about why anyone does anything?
People are talking about suicide and people will talk, and they always talk about the hidden pain of depression – which is a fucking joke, depression is only hidden to the extent we decide to hide it, to the extent we have reason to hide it from our families, from our friends. To the extent we’re able to hide it. You don’t tell the guy serving you in Starbucks or the colleague you see every day and it’s not hidden, it’s clear as fucking day, but they just think you’re grumpy or sulking or unfriendly.
People always talk about the pain of depression, and that pain being the reason people take their own lives. Like I say I can’t know why any one really does it, maybe it’s the pain. I know it hurts, it can hurt like nothing hurts, like grief hurts, like solitude. On and on, and on. I can imagine wanting that to end, of thinking that suicide is the only way to end it. I’ve thought that. Hell, that’s where the first seed of the thought was planted for me.
But no one ever talks about boredom.
I’ve got this new bag and all this new kit. I’m trying to lose weight because you have no idea how much I put on during the past dark, bleeding months; no gym, barely any movement. Sleep, pizza and ice cream and beer. Everyone says I look fine but obviously I can see the belly and the love handles and the moobs, and I hate it, so I’m churning away on the cross trainer and eating sensibly and it’s all new day, new me, and shitting Christ I hate it.
Not in the jolly Bridget Jones ‘I’d rather be chomping on a Galaxy’ way, or the comedy Foster’s ad way where of course the real lads can get down with some beers and a laugh and fuck all that health crap, just become alcoholic or diabetic and wayhay isn’t life great. I just fucking hate it.
I hate it because it’s pointless, I hate it because it’s vain, I hate it because I’m trying to be some kind of normal productive member of society and actually, you know actually I don’t give a shit. I don’t give a shit about being healthy and I don’t give a shit about being indulgent; your taut desired abs or your lips fellating a flake; pumping iron or chugging beers, get your arse tight for the lads, get your cock out for the lads, I don’t care, I don’t give a fuck, it all bores me to tears, to cynical, bitter tears. Churning black water smothered by iridescent oil, paper thin rainbows.
In my dark moments I despise this world we’ve made, which we live in; in brighter moments, I just don’t care.
I’ve got decades ahead of me. Decades in this world. Decades of not caring, sustained only by the brilliant, blazing stars of my family. At least I have them, you could say. It’d be easier if I didn’t, I could reply.
Pain, pain I guess is easy to understand. We try to relieve pain. People can sympathise, if not empathise. It’s natural to want pain to end.
No one ever talks about boredom. Colours fading, taste fading, desire fading. Looking on, for years, for decades, a brittle, deadwood world.
I am not currently suicidal. But the idea sits there, plain and simple, a fact; crisp as a shadow on a bright sunny day. I’m glad it’s there, that potential of cool respite. Maybe one day I’ll rest there.
That, possibly, is much harder for people to understand.