The Thing We Don’t Say Out Loud

The truth? I’ve thought about it.

I’ve thought about it a lot.

I’ve thought about what songs I want played at the funeral. What KIND of funeral. I’ve thought about disinviting my family from attending. But then I suppose, not many people would attend, would they? I’ve thought about making sure it isn’t a Christian ceremony.

I’ve thought about the fastest ways to do it. A gun through the mouth, not through the temple. Less chance of complication. The pain would only be an infinitesimal second. I wondered what it would look like. A flash of red, or purple, or every color at once?

And what then? Oblivion? Darkness? A sea of space? Music? Light? Heaven? The smell of grass as I wake up as a new being? Or maybe I’d just stay lost in my own mind, living in representations of things from my own psyche, experiencing an entire lifetime in that one instant of death. Maybe this lifetime is one leading up to the instant of death. Maybe everything I’m experiencing now is my life flashing before my eyes.

Or what if nothing happens? What if my consciousness simply ceases to be? Would that be peaceful? Would it be purgatory, nothing good but nothing bad? How can I even grasp the concept of my consciousness ceasing to exist?

What if I could exist in any way? Where would I go? Spend time in the fantasy worlds of video games, like I used to dream of doing when I was younger? Would I waft through the waves of music, would I become a color, would I exist as a feather, or as a trumpet, or as a single note held on through eternity? Would nirvana be blissful or relentlessly dull? Would I live in my novel? Would I see their lives, my characters?

What would go through my mind when it happened? I imagine the darkness would be there. My old friend, comforting me through the pain. The darkness that says it’s okay to hurt. We’re together now. It’s okay, I’m not judging you. If you need to die, it’s alright. I’m not mad at you. I’ll go with you.

I’ll go with you.

Will anyone?

We all die alone, they say. But how much crueler is it to die with someone beside you? At least if you die alone, you can leave. But to slip away, holding someone’s hand, watching them be ripped from you?

What kind of a Heaven could exist where those you love aren’t with you? No kind of Heaven I’m interested in.

I’ve thought about what song would play. Where they would find me. What they would see. Who would find me. I’d probably rather do it somewhere on a roadside, so a stranger finds me, not someone I care about. Though there are so few I care about, and they’re all so far away.

There. That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’d break hearts. My ex-boyfriends, my friends, those who would miss me. Oh, how sad that they would miss me if I were gone but here and now they’re so far away that they can’t comfort me.

I would be angry, certainly. Or maybe not. But I think I’d be angry at her. For how much she made me hate everything. No, that’s not right. For how she hated me. For how much she made me suffer. I would want her to suffer too.

I wonder if she would contact my father? Tell him? Our baby boy is dead?


I didn’t even think about it until now. I’m theirs, aren’t I? They who haven’t seen or spoken in years and years. But I’m theirs.

I don’t want to be theirs.

I want to be mine.

Or maybe I just want to be the worlds.

But the world isn’t a very good parent.

It’s a lie to say I don’t think about it. It’s a lie to say I haven’t really considered it. Maybe it’s more powerful that I have thought about it, a lot. That I’ve considered the ways.

And that I’ve stayed.

I haven’t given up yet.

I’m still fighting.

Even if breathing is fighting, then so be it, I’m still breathing so I’m still fighting.

“How can suicide be a choice, if it’s the only choice we have?”

My choices haven’t narrowed just so far yet. Maybe two or three remain, but that’s something. I can try to build more. I can try to cast out the nets. Try to bring in the multitudes of hope.


I will fail. I always fail. But maybe after I fail I’ll try again. And again.

Maybe I’ll start to have little successes among the failures. Maybe one day one of them will be a big success.

But maybe that’s wishful thinking.

I think about it. Sometimes I think about it every day. Sometimes I don’t.

But I don’t deserve to be treated differently for thinking about it. Because I don’t think I’m the only one.

I don’t think I’m the only one.

Start the treadmill. Start the pedometer. Make me a salad.

It’s so stupid. So cliche. Losing weight, as my metaphor. But it’s something. I have to start with something.

I have to keep breathing. I have to keep moving. I’m out of breath and I can’t see, but I have to keep running.

Not from darkness. Is it from light? I don’t know. Maybe it is darkness that I’m running from. But not the darkness that whispers comfortingly in my ear. The darkness of not knowing. The darkness of not having a future.

I want to know. I want to live. I want to try.

To try.

To try.

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