The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Wednesday

Unknown road at night

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

If it's Wednesday, it must be therapy day. I got out of there sick to my stomach. They said it would help, but it makes me feel real bad. Since I woke up on that hospital bed, I haven't been able to feel anything but shame and regret, regret about how I tried to end my life, regret about being unfortunate enough to be revived, shame about failing myself and the others. I didn't really know which was worse, so I started to accumulate all this

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Monday


from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

Another day, another deep regret. Lately, I discovered that I have a lot of time for myself and this is really confusing. Before I tried to end my pain, I never had enough time, or so I thought, doing everything I could to run away from myself and ignore all the darkness growing inside. I used to project the image of a happy, easy going and functional individual: going to work, going out for drinks with co-workers or friends, usually eating dinner at some neighborhood pub or bistro, then driving around the country on weekends, visiting sights and all. Keeping myself busy. Not thinking of

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Sunday

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

Week-ends used to be the highlights of every stupid week. It used to be all bout going out, letting of steam, going crazy with the partying, drinking, consuming various uppers and downers, topped up with some raw, irresponsible sex, all this ending in the sweet pizza and laziness filled Sunday when everything felt almost right, preparing me to face a new boring and unrewarding week.

Now everything has changed. I gave it a try last weekend, going out and all, but somehow the night was deprived of all they joy I used to feel. Actually, I started to see through the smoke screen of constant intoxication I've created in order to avoid the gruesome meeting with myself and getting past that was an immense disappointment. Leaving behind the illusion that I was partying like no one else,

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life -Thursday

That's me in a corner
from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

The day after therapy day has such a bad taste, much worse then the hair of the dog next morning after heavy drinking. No, I haven't had a drink, although I craved one, but there's been so many 'one more and I'm heading home' week nights, that I'm sick of going into the office in the morning all shitfaced and trying to make/fake it until noon with useless hydration and a faulty brain's misfiring neurons causing all the ache and nausea, resentment and regret.

I sat there in my office, trying not to interact with anyone, which is hardly possible when there's D. from marketing always on the prowl for the last gossip. He actually tried to have lunch with me only to try and find out why I've been missing from work on such short notice. Prying little bastard, that one. Nobody knows the exact reason, it says 'medical leave' in the paperwork documenting my leave, so not even one mouthy HR person could guess the real reason of my absence.

God, If i could only bring a a huge trained wolf to work and unleash it

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life -Wednesday

My life is a cage
from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

If it's Wednesday, it's therapy day. Oh, I loathe therapy more than I loathe myself. I believe it's such a sham. Unless you need your brain chemistry altered in order to function properly, I see no need to go and share your most intimate shit with a stranger with a degree, but I digress.

I came out with homework: to try and build up a list of ten things I value in life and/or wish to attain in the near future. Yes, keep me engaged and try to describe what would take me further in this life. Engaged in what? I got the same shit job, shitty mates, shitty environment to cope with, and on top of that, my shitty self to live with. I try to figure out the items on this list and it looks to me that whatever I put down on this piece of paper is simply one more reason to try and end it all, once more an for all. Ah, I love it when I rhyme. Maybe I should try to rap the shit out of my depressive state and become one of those artsy musical artists with an attitude and some mystery wrapped around them. This could be good marketing. 'After trying to take own life, Johnny resets life, becomes rock-star' would read any paper across the country.

As a survivor of an attempt to free myself (suicide attempt survivor), I feel trapped. They want me to comply. "Do this and that and everything it's going to be OK, it only takes some time and patience" and mind numbing - I might add - and more pain, regrets of all sorts and my good friend, the anger. 
It makes me so mad trying to listen to all that shit my therapist had to say, so I asked her if she ever smashed a window just to see it break in to a million pieces and rejoice at the thought that it's a good thing, only misunderstood by so many, hence they call it anti-social behaviour (can't see why, objects are not human). As usual, she avoided a direct answer, mumbling something about me going deeper and exploring that feeling of joy I felt. I answered that I would gladly go deeper down her throat using my hard cock while holding her nose until she gags and teas and saliva juice altogether splash all around when I pull it out and she gasps for a breath of air. Not a muscle moved on her face, yet a vein on her temple was pulsing more vividly. I wonder whether it was with awe or with desire. She is strong enough, this one. She politely announced my that time's up, so we'd be seeing each other next time.

I left a bit disappointed and angry, but I only kicked a bin on my way home; I think someone might call it keeping it under control.

                                                    "Lay your corpse upon a nest of oak leaves
                                                             Wrapped in a star shroud repent your flesh"

                                                                 Wolves in the Throne Room - Prayer of transformation

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life -Tuesday

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:
Memories time: A digital relationship.
At times I just love to sit and reminisce about the past and re-live romantic relationships. 'Romantic' is actually a broad term for what I am about to share here, with all of you. Here goes:

It's been quite a while since we've been chatting with lady on some chat app, sending all these messages and funny emoticons and all that crap. After a while not so long, we even started to celebrate some weird anniversary. It was something related to our first digital approach: actually the first message logged by the damn thing. Browsing through the history of the bloody account, we could tell for sure the instant we first made contact. Good for me: I wouldn't have to try and remember this anniversary - the thing was only a click away. Fuck, there was this time when I forgot to click the reminder, but that's another crappy story.

First, there were four months of Facebook friendship. Four bloody months, this thing hit me like a stone. What have I been doing for the past four months? I've been having a virtual relationship. Virtual, not real, in my head, yet my partner existed physically somewhere in this world. Nice paradox, isn't it? Me and my girlfriend: we were a couple, although I've never been lonelier in my entire life. No more going out with my friends, running straight home from the office, no socializing of any kind because all I could see and to was to look at a screen depicting words and images. So I live one life where I moved around my continuously shrinking physical world, then I lived another life - the sitting in from of the scientific marvel called computer and then finally my third life, my dream world of relating to a person/concept I projected rather than knew.

I imagine that she's my girlfriend, she imagines I'm her boyfriend, but we actually do not have a common palpable present, not even a common past. All that connects us are images and words, a pretty picture of everyone of us projected on our empty life walls. We know nothing human about each other: how we smell, how we taste, how we react when we're happy or angry, how we feel pain or joy; and despite all these inhuman connection, we feel more connected to each other than many people, at least we love to believe this.

Four months' anniversary. I sent her virtual flowers. She sent me a virtual bottle of wine. Said she wanted to surprise me although she knew I fancied scotch whisky. I asked her if she wouldn't mind me having a bit too much to drink. She said I was funny. Emphasized it with a winking smiley face. And there was all the thrill, the joy, all consumed using little figures on a screen. These were to replace the expressing of our emotions when added to our written phrases. 
I got drunk and I wanked again in front of the monitor, staring at her picture.
This was our own reality and we couldn't change it for the world, only because we wouldn't know something else. We wouldn't know how to function normally anymore. At least, I wouldn't. At work, I'd rather have sent ten emails than talk to a workmate for a minute. [...............]

For both of us, this was real. Everything else would be unreal, a fantasy. This was all we got so far and we were happy with the way things were, although it was all upside down, making no sense at all.
It all ended the way it began. Everything slowed down and perished, complete with the user name deletion from my chat list. Nothing out of nothing.

Miscommunication, illusions, delusion, projections, lies, fantasies, deep frustration, isolation, alienation and ultimately failure.

                                        "There's no sense, it's all Volta, Ampère and Ohm
                                                Earth to Moon, it's the same as London-Rome." 

                                                                   Theatre of Tragedy - Fragment

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Monday

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

Sometimes I feel they should call it Mooday. Maybe because I felt a compelling urge to moo at people, seeing them so dumb and irritating in their typical Monday mood, with the same old 'I hate Mondays' attitude, as if their royal entities should be entitle to something better. I  wished I was invisible so that I could practice some good old kancho on their sorry asses, even better, kancho the shit out of their sorry asses, then smearing a bit of brown material on their face and laugh my ass off while enjoying their disgusted, confused and enraged reactions. 

I don't even remember much of how it all went at the office, I was so busy procrastinating and holding back on insulting my co-workers. I actually got tired doing that. It must have been all the concentration and effort I put into avoiding myself, the others and mostly responsibility, so I mentally curled up and zone out all that shit.

This is complete bullshit. I really not up for this. I think it'ks the very first time I actually look forward to my Wednesday therapy session, so I can download all the crap building up inside me into my therapist's lap. Enough for today. Fuck that and fuck her too (but that's another story). NO picture, either!

                                              "There is no hope, why don't you pull the plug?"
                                                                             Chuck Schuldiner - Pull the plug

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Sunday

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:
I got it all wrong again. So I went out on Saturday, just as usual, trying to get drunk and not so much and maybe pick up some 'awkward'. By that I mean someone resembling to me: acting all easy going and relaxed, but actually tight and only looking for a shag while feeling completely inadequate. 

I got some mellow social moment instead: the conversation went well for the better of the evening, the stars were all aligned and I felt quite OK. As time passed, I didn't feel the need for sex anymore, just wanted to get drunk and then Uber my ass home. Then,

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - A suicide attempt survivor's journal

My path
from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

The worst part when you re-gain consciousness after a suicide attempt is the fact that nothing changed and now you are a complete failure. It's the perfect addition of insult to injury: 'I really sucked at knowing how to live, I sucked at trying to end it'. End. 

In all fairness, something did change. Not that I don't wish to see it all gone, but this time is different. I mean I used to think I was unable to endure it all, so the way out seemed to be the rational thing to do. Now I feel the same, only I wish it all get destroyed, while I witness it quietly.

Suicide attempt survivors need find hope in order to carry on, at least that's what they said in therapy, among other crap. I will carry on (at least for a while) by making sure there is no hope. Existence is futile and meaningless. It's us who believe there's a purpose somewhere, or a higher power, or some afterlife. Since it's called 'belief', anything goes. Once it's well embedded in the brain, we'll try and