I've been hinting on my impending suicide for a while now.
No one worries anymore because everyone thinks I won't do it. I wish I share their faith.
I don't trust myself.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Driving around in circles.
Sometimes it gets so bad that I shake and I bite the insides of my mouth until it bleeds. The urge to just up and leave. I tell myself it would be easy, but it would be too easy.
How does one leave behind so many others who'd have to answer for their suicide? It's easy for me, but like I said; too easy. I've given so much thought, I've spent most of my life running away from my thoughts and suppressing the urges, keeping the darkness at bay. But what happens when you're left alone?
I am strong enough to stay but not enough to live.
It's easy to smile and say it will be okay. You learn to believe the lies you tell others.
How do you keep the darkness at bay when it's so inviting? The light blinds and drowning in darkness doesn't look too bad then. But at what cost? Suicide is contagious, I'd much rather not start infecting others.
I need these urges to go away, I cannot do it, I cannot do this to everyone.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Monday, April 6, 2015
!3th floor of the opposite building.
There is a man who lives on the 13th floor of the apartment building opposite mine. He spends his nights and Saturdays staring into my apartment. He makes me feel insecure in my own home. We've seen him touch himself watching me do housework. But I cannot be bothered anymore, it's been years since he started making me feel uncomfortable in my own home.
He knows that we know he's looking into our tiny apartment, he stares and stares for hours looking at me, at us, doing mundane things like feed the cats, do our laundry or watch tv. He stands for hours on his balcony straining to get a glimpse of us (but mostly me, we've figured out he likes stalking me best) between the curtains.
Since a couple years ago, I've taken to have the curtain drawn almost every time I am home. I am a paranoid person so I have got his schedule down. He spends everyday, except Saturday, at work. Or I assume he's off to work on weekdays. He usually starts his routine of standing at his balcony staring into our apartment sometime around 8 or 9 (I haven't paid enough attention to figure out the exact time he comes home) and he does this everyday. Except Saturday. On Saturdays, I assume he has the day off because right as I wake up in the morning and open the windows in my room, he would be there standing at his balcony staring right at where I stand. So I've learned not to stand near windows on Saturdays.
About a year (and a half maybe? or two?) ago he figured out that I know when he's home (then he was home all day on Wednesdays, now it's Saturdays) and he would wash his sheets and have them hanging on his balcony as a shield. He would sit behind the bed sheet (literally sometimes he brings out a chair onto the balcony) and wait until he sees me and stands up to stare. I think he enjoys making me uncomfortable since I am confident he knows that I know.
God knows what he does behind the protection of those bed sheets. I can guess but I'd rather not think about it.
I expect to be harassed when I am out on the streets because so many men are pigs and have absolutely no respect for women but in today's world, I get harassed by strangers even in my own home. I am so glad for dark coloured curtains providing me some peace inside my own home.
Sometimes I fantasise about just standing on my balcony as he watches on. In my fantasy he just stares at me, daring me to look right in his eyes as he rapes me with his mind. Sometimes I imagine him touching himself as he watches me stand on my balcony. He would touch himself and I would let him look at me as I pet my cats or hang the laundry and I will steal glances his way to see how far along is his progress to completion. In my fantasy, this particular ones where he touches himself, I imagine climbing over the balcony railing of my apartment as he finishes himself off, waving to him and jumping off from the 12th floor.
I smile thinking about how traumatised that will make him. I hope every time he gets an erection afterwards he thinks about my brain, splattered all over the pavement. I hope he thinks about my small gesture right before I jumped to my death, the wave that will haunt him forever. I hope he never finds pleasure in objectifying a woman's body and invading their privacy ever again. I hope every single time he deposits his seed he thinks of the girl who killed herself as he watches by.
I don't choose to imagine these things, I really wish I don't think about him at all. But when I imagine his face as he witnesses my head cracking open on the ground as he spills all over the balcony, it cheers me up for a while.
Of course I would never commit suicide for him, not for anyone really but it's just a nice touch to traumatise him for the rest of his miserable life doing what I was already going to do anyway. Let's call it an 'added bonus' to jumping off the 12th floor.
As always, these are ideations. I am safe. I am always safe. I am in control, not always but I am in check of my sanity. There is no reason to worry.
Giggling at the thought of actually doing something so dramatic,
Q.
He knows that we know he's looking into our tiny apartment, he stares and stares for hours looking at me, at us, doing mundane things like feed the cats, do our laundry or watch tv. He stands for hours on his balcony straining to get a glimpse of us (but mostly me, we've figured out he likes stalking me best) between the curtains.
Since a couple years ago, I've taken to have the curtain drawn almost every time I am home. I am a paranoid person so I have got his schedule down. He spends everyday, except Saturday, at work. Or I assume he's off to work on weekdays. He usually starts his routine of standing at his balcony staring into our apartment sometime around 8 or 9 (I haven't paid enough attention to figure out the exact time he comes home) and he does this everyday. Except Saturday. On Saturdays, I assume he has the day off because right as I wake up in the morning and open the windows in my room, he would be there standing at his balcony staring right at where I stand. So I've learned not to stand near windows on Saturdays.
About a year (and a half maybe? or two?) ago he figured out that I know when he's home (then he was home all day on Wednesdays, now it's Saturdays) and he would wash his sheets and have them hanging on his balcony as a shield. He would sit behind the bed sheet (literally sometimes he brings out a chair onto the balcony) and wait until he sees me and stands up to stare. I think he enjoys making me uncomfortable since I am confident he knows that I know.
God knows what he does behind the protection of those bed sheets. I can guess but I'd rather not think about it.
I expect to be harassed when I am out on the streets because so many men are pigs and have absolutely no respect for women but in today's world, I get harassed by strangers even in my own home. I am so glad for dark coloured curtains providing me some peace inside my own home.
Sometimes I fantasise about just standing on my balcony as he watches on. In my fantasy he just stares at me, daring me to look right in his eyes as he rapes me with his mind. Sometimes I imagine him touching himself as he watches me stand on my balcony. He would touch himself and I would let him look at me as I pet my cats or hang the laundry and I will steal glances his way to see how far along is his progress to completion. In my fantasy, this particular ones where he touches himself, I imagine climbing over the balcony railing of my apartment as he finishes himself off, waving to him and jumping off from the 12th floor.
I smile thinking about how traumatised that will make him. I hope every time he gets an erection afterwards he thinks about my brain, splattered all over the pavement. I hope he thinks about my small gesture right before I jumped to my death, the wave that will haunt him forever. I hope he never finds pleasure in objectifying a woman's body and invading their privacy ever again. I hope every single time he deposits his seed he thinks of the girl who killed herself as he watches by.
I don't choose to imagine these things, I really wish I don't think about him at all. But when I imagine his face as he witnesses my head cracking open on the ground as he spills all over the balcony, it cheers me up for a while.
Of course I would never commit suicide for him, not for anyone really but it's just a nice touch to traumatise him for the rest of his miserable life doing what I was already going to do anyway. Let's call it an 'added bonus' to jumping off the 12th floor.
As always, these are ideations. I am safe. I am always safe. I am in control, not always but I am in check of my sanity. There is no reason to worry.
Giggling at the thought of actually doing something so dramatic,
Q.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
"share a childhood memory"
Something happened earlier today that revived a memory from childhood that I had long kept hidden and locked in a vault in the deepest part of my mind.
I won't go into what happened today but I will share with you the memory that came back to life as a result of what happened today.
I was maybe 7 or 8 years old at the time. I was playing with some toys at the upstairs living room of our old house. I don't think anyone was home at the time, I don't recall any of my family members being around. It was day time because I remember the smell of sunshine permeating the house and as I type this, I am recalling the smell of food in the air. It was fried fish. Our maid at the time was cooking lunch downstairs and had left me to play with my toys.
My sister had a couple of hamsters. Cute, fluffy little things. Cream coloured fur with tiny, dark brown globes for eyes. They had the most beautiful face, their snouts constantly in motion, sniffing everything the eyes could and couldn't see. My sister didn't like me touching her things, she was a teen then, going through puberty and we all know how that feels like. We were always fighting, I bit her a lot, I remember. One time I even bit her gold necklace off of her neck and she locked herself in her room all day. I hated her and I suspected she hated me. But like all younger sibling, you cannot help but be fascinated by everything your older sibling owned and I was jealous that she had had a couple of cute little hamsters.
Seeing as no one was home, I sneaked into her room and took her tiny little rodents out of their cage and played with them. I made them homes out of legos and fed them veggies that I made my maid cut into tiny hamster-bite sized pieces. I remembered having a good time playing with them when my maid called me to lunch. I left my mess on the living room of the second floor and went downstairs to eat.
The fried fish was delicious, I love fish. Fish always make for a great meal. I watched tv downstairs while I ate my dessert (cut watermelons with some sweetened condensed milk) as the maid washed the dishes.
A few hours later, I went back upstairs to clean up the mess of legos and a plethora of toys that I'd made when I realised that I'd left the hamsters unmanned as I went to lunch. I had always been a forgetful, clumsy child and I grew up into an even more forgetful and clumsy adult. As a result of my lack of proper observation, I had left the hamsters in a air tight container and left them there. It had been a few hours since I placed them in there (why I did it in the first place, I had no idea. I was a morbidly depressed child, it is possible that on a subconscious level, I knew what I was doing but I can no longer recall) and I removed the lid of the container to see these two cream coloured fluff bundled up together: dead. Their snouts no longer pointed at the air and sniffing the scents of that warm day, instead they faced the ground, with their bodies flat in a sleeping position. It was beautiful in a sad kind of way.
I don't remember how I felt when I saw them but I remember being so afraid afterwards. Afraid because it was the first time I had killed something that was not ants, afraid because my sister would kill me, afraid because I had become a murderer and felt no sense of remorse. The only thing feared for was myself. So instead of telling my maid about them, I took the hamsters back to their cage, covered them in some of the wood shavings (like they would if they were asleep) and left them there for my sister to find.
I thought nothing about it until the next day when my sister told us that her hamster had died and that it looked like they died in their sleep. I'm sure that however I reacted to her announcement, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Maybe she even suspected that I killed them but why would she have any reason to think that a 7 year old girl would kill her pet hamsters when I knew she loved them dearly. I breathed a sigh of relief when she buried the hamsters out in our yard and we hardly spoke of those little things again (she got a couple of new ones not long after).
To my knowledge, she still doesn't know how her hamsters died and I have never thought of telling her about the incident, not even now that I suddenly have recollection of that incident. I don't know if I will ever tell her, maybe I'll include this little anecdote in my will for when I off myself but eitherway, I wasn't haunted by it nor do I feel a strong sense of remorse.
Today, I could have taken a life but here I am, blogging about my childhood memory. Perhaps I am a monster of sorts and that terrifies me almost as much as it excites me.
Always,
Q.
I won't go into what happened today but I will share with you the memory that came back to life as a result of what happened today.
I was maybe 7 or 8 years old at the time. I was playing with some toys at the upstairs living room of our old house. I don't think anyone was home at the time, I don't recall any of my family members being around. It was day time because I remember the smell of sunshine permeating the house and as I type this, I am recalling the smell of food in the air. It was fried fish. Our maid at the time was cooking lunch downstairs and had left me to play with my toys.
My sister had a couple of hamsters. Cute, fluffy little things. Cream coloured fur with tiny, dark brown globes for eyes. They had the most beautiful face, their snouts constantly in motion, sniffing everything the eyes could and couldn't see. My sister didn't like me touching her things, she was a teen then, going through puberty and we all know how that feels like. We were always fighting, I bit her a lot, I remember. One time I even bit her gold necklace off of her neck and she locked herself in her room all day. I hated her and I suspected she hated me. But like all younger sibling, you cannot help but be fascinated by everything your older sibling owned and I was jealous that she had had a couple of cute little hamsters.
Seeing as no one was home, I sneaked into her room and took her tiny little rodents out of their cage and played with them. I made them homes out of legos and fed them veggies that I made my maid cut into tiny hamster-bite sized pieces. I remembered having a good time playing with them when my maid called me to lunch. I left my mess on the living room of the second floor and went downstairs to eat.
The fried fish was delicious, I love fish. Fish always make for a great meal. I watched tv downstairs while I ate my dessert (cut watermelons with some sweetened condensed milk) as the maid washed the dishes.
A few hours later, I went back upstairs to clean up the mess of legos and a plethora of toys that I'd made when I realised that I'd left the hamsters unmanned as I went to lunch. I had always been a forgetful, clumsy child and I grew up into an even more forgetful and clumsy adult. As a result of my lack of proper observation, I had left the hamsters in a air tight container and left them there. It had been a few hours since I placed them in there (why I did it in the first place, I had no idea. I was a morbidly depressed child, it is possible that on a subconscious level, I knew what I was doing but I can no longer recall) and I removed the lid of the container to see these two cream coloured fluff bundled up together: dead. Their snouts no longer pointed at the air and sniffing the scents of that warm day, instead they faced the ground, with their bodies flat in a sleeping position. It was beautiful in a sad kind of way.
I don't remember how I felt when I saw them but I remember being so afraid afterwards. Afraid because it was the first time I had killed something that was not ants, afraid because my sister would kill me, afraid because I had become a murderer and felt no sense of remorse. The only thing feared for was myself. So instead of telling my maid about them, I took the hamsters back to their cage, covered them in some of the wood shavings (like they would if they were asleep) and left them there for my sister to find.
I thought nothing about it until the next day when my sister told us that her hamster had died and that it looked like they died in their sleep. I'm sure that however I reacted to her announcement, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Maybe she even suspected that I killed them but why would she have any reason to think that a 7 year old girl would kill her pet hamsters when I knew she loved them dearly. I breathed a sigh of relief when she buried the hamsters out in our yard and we hardly spoke of those little things again (she got a couple of new ones not long after).
To my knowledge, she still doesn't know how her hamsters died and I have never thought of telling her about the incident, not even now that I suddenly have recollection of that incident. I don't know if I will ever tell her, maybe I'll include this little anecdote in my will for when I off myself but eitherway, I wasn't haunted by it nor do I feel a strong sense of remorse.
Today, I could have taken a life but here I am, blogging about my childhood memory. Perhaps I am a monster of sorts and that terrifies me almost as much as it excites me.
Always,
Q.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Soundtrack to a lost film
No matter how far I go or how deep I get into isolation, I somehow still end up surrounded by people who make me feel worthless.
And that is the truth.
Q is constantly in the heart of inadequate. It doesn't matter where I am, people make me feel inadequate. worthless.
That's possibly how I truly feel about myself. At least that's what a shrink would say. Those toads are trained frauds with scripts I can recite in my sleep.
Head Space is a safe, dangerous place. I've just realised that worthlessness feels much worse than being suicidal.
As always, grateful for still being able to feel... feelings.
Q.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Head Space.
Do you ever daydream so hard you kind of lose sight of what is real and what isn't? It happens to me sometimes, I just go off into some Weird Head Space where things that are likely to happen in real life happens and I come back down to reality and am unsure of what is real and what is not.
It really is not all that strange to me and I don't find it distracting or annoying for any reason but it has been happening a lot more lately that I find myself struggling (for the first time) to determine whether or not the things I think/thought of is real or just a figment of my imagination. When I go off into that Head Space I don't usually daydream about exaggerated things but, I don't know, maybe wish to do on some subconscious level. Like today as I was taking a shower, I slipped into my Head Space and thought about cutting all my hair off (which I have been thinking to do for a while now but haven't for whatever reason) and when I come to, I had to run my fingers through my hair as I was shampooing because the images from my Head Space were so vivid, I wasn't truly sure myself if I had cut all my hair off or if it just happened in my head.
Maybe it has something to do with my suicide ideation being exceptionally strong these days. I would generally wake up (if I went to sleep) and think about ways to kill myself that would not burden other people... much. But I never find a good way to off myself, so I just spend the rest of the day as usual (coffee, write, write, write, meet editors, coffee, write, write, dinner, read. rinse and repeat) with the thought of suicide at the back of my mind.
My daily experience with suicide ideation... is kind of like having two cogs moving in motion at the background of my mind all day everyday, thinking up ways to off myself and scenarios leading up to the Big Event. As most cogs in old machinery, these cogs creak and make lots of sounds that demand attention but don't really get much because I have grown accustomed to these sounds they make. I do check up on them every morning before I start my day (why? maybe to see if they're still going? habit, perhaps? I don't know) and then I check up on them again before I go to sleep. If I don't sleep then I observe these cogs until I have to start my day.
I don't know how socially acceptable it is to talk about these cogs but having come to the conclusion that no one of importance comes to this blog anymore, I don't feel like I am at risk of being called up and checked into a treatment facility.
Not that I need to be checked into a treatment facility.
I am not suicidal.
I just fancy thinking about it.
So there it is, after a few years, the update to the dullness that is my Head Space.
Q.
It really is not all that strange to me and I don't find it distracting or annoying for any reason but it has been happening a lot more lately that I find myself struggling (for the first time) to determine whether or not the things I think/thought of is real or just a figment of my imagination. When I go off into that Head Space I don't usually daydream about exaggerated things but, I don't know, maybe wish to do on some subconscious level. Like today as I was taking a shower, I slipped into my Head Space and thought about cutting all my hair off (which I have been thinking to do for a while now but haven't for whatever reason) and when I come to, I had to run my fingers through my hair as I was shampooing because the images from my Head Space were so vivid, I wasn't truly sure myself if I had cut all my hair off or if it just happened in my head.
Maybe it has something to do with my suicide ideation being exceptionally strong these days. I would generally wake up (if I went to sleep) and think about ways to kill myself that would not burden other people... much. But I never find a good way to off myself, so I just spend the rest of the day as usual (coffee, write, write, write, meet editors, coffee, write, write, dinner, read. rinse and repeat) with the thought of suicide at the back of my mind.
My daily experience with suicide ideation... is kind of like having two cogs moving in motion at the background of my mind all day everyday, thinking up ways to off myself and scenarios leading up to the Big Event. As most cogs in old machinery, these cogs creak and make lots of sounds that demand attention but don't really get much because I have grown accustomed to these sounds they make. I do check up on them every morning before I start my day (why? maybe to see if they're still going? habit, perhaps? I don't know) and then I check up on them again before I go to sleep. If I don't sleep then I observe these cogs until I have to start my day.
I don't know how socially acceptable it is to talk about these cogs but having come to the conclusion that no one of importance comes to this blog anymore, I don't feel like I am at risk of being called up and checked into a treatment facility.
Not that I need to be checked into a treatment facility.
I am not suicidal.
I just fancy thinking about it.
So there it is, after a few years, the update to the dullness that is my Head Space.
Q.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Yellow paint.
I like it when it's cold enough to wear socks indoors even though I live in tropical country. I like it when my bestfriend responds to things I say so I know he hasn't lost his ongoing battle with his brain. He has to make it so I can make it.
Why does a person let another person determine whether or not they're going to make it through to the end of their life or prematurely off themself? I don't know. I don't ever truly know. I feel like it's kind of a madness shared together, not so much folie a deux but just a kinship.
When I stare at my wrists, my forearm for too long, it brings up feelings. Not so much memories but feelings. I yearn, I thirst for things I have tried to fix but have left buried because what else do you do when it's going to be perpetually broken?
Sometimes, when I stare long enough at my forearms, I can make out the scars I left there so long ago. So many scars that took so long to heal. All the scars I thought disappeared. But they never truly disappear do they? They lie dormant under the skin, blending in until that one day when you accidentally look their way and realise they were always there. Nothing ever leaves.
I love coke but I don't drink them as much as I'd like to. The only beverage I indulge myself with is coffee (albeit all kinds of coffee and sometimes tea) otherwise my liquid intake mostly just includes good ol' plain water.
I found out recently how much thinking of children and the idea of a family in the future upsets me. I never want that for myself nor have I ever envisioned it for myself unless by accident in the form of a nightmare. To be honest, it was never like I thought I'd make it that far in life. How am I already here? Who makes it past the age of 17? Not me. At least I'm not supposed to.
Do you think the birds ever get blinded by how bright the sun shines in a summer day? I wonder about that all the time. Maybe birds shit on people because they cannot see anything in the daylight. I sympathise because my eyes are so sensitive to sunlight it drives me crazy.
Sometimes I get upset when I realise there are worlds out there that I have never and will never explore thanks to my limited language skills. I speak only 2 languages fluently and that has never and will never be enough. There are times when I think and voice out how I cannot wait to be 60 years old and be the master of 8 languages at least but then I come down from my castle in the clouds and realise that I may not make it that far. Making it to 22 is an achievement that ought to be celebrated, but who'd the celebration be for? It never was anyone's intention for me to make it this far. Shit sure as hell wasn't my intention.
Isn't it funny that the moment you were born, you start to die?
P.S. 'yellow paint' in my title is reference to Van Gogh's relationship with yellow paint. Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought that would make happiness be inside of him. Nevermind the fact that eating paint is poisonous, I feel like he had the right idea there.
P.P.S. I didn't re-read what I wrote so any grammatical or spelling errors are overlooked. This note is specifically for those of you who come here to read my words simply to criticise my writing skills. I don't have a blog to please you. I have it to please me. That is, if I can ever be pleased by my own writing.
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