Good night, Paisley

When I’m suicidal, there are two ways to feel.  One is dramatic and emotional (I want to die) and the other is cold and calculated (I want to be dead).  The second is much more dangerous.

I want to die.

I want to be dead.

I am interested in the process of dying and every excruciating detail. I want the process of dying to be over, and for there to be blissful nothingness.
I cannot stop replaying the romantic details in my head.  I picture how I will look when dead, perhaps like Ophelia. I choose methods of suicide that are fool-proof.  Or I plan to combine methods and backup methods so if one thing fails another will succeed.  Shot gun with pills and carbon monoxide.
Timing is vague. I want to wait until everything is perfect, and set a specific date in the future.
I want the pain to stop.  The pain aches and rolls and splits me up and down.  I cannot take any more. I want all thought and consciousness to stop.  The voices drive into my brain like a jack hammer and I feel impelled to act: DIE.  DIE.  DIE.
I think about it spontaneously. I have a will and all documents in order.  I say goodbye in sideways ways to those I love.
I would make a mess of it. I lay down plastic sheeting so it’s not messy.
I cry in bed. I am cold and resolute.

Suicide is the answer to different questions at different times, but it basically comes down to whether I need the pain to stop or I need the thinking and voices to stop.

There’s a line in The Princess Bride that I think of:  “Good night, Westley.  Good work.  I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”  Not tomorrow morning, though.

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