I’ve imagined myself dying and dead many times. I imagine gruesome deaths; some that in my mind would fit in a psychological thriller.
I won’t say horror movie because truth be told, many horror movie deaths are ridiculously hilarious nowadays- except of course those in the Saw movies- those are in class of their own. I have not watched any of the Saw films in many years so maybe in my mind they’re more gruesome than they really are.
I’ve mapped my Final Destination so many times; mostly because a suicide is such a selfish thing- or rather is deemed as such.
I imagine myself most times, barely alive after being attacked. Blood everywhere, chaos as I’m found and whoever finds me tries to get help. Help rushing to the scene as I slip away, some sort of satisfied feeling beaming inside me.
I’m always glad to be dying or dead when I imagine myself as such. It’s like the pain bears it’s own power on my soul and is testament to my being released from some previously prolonged pain (which I guess is living) in my moment of death.
I think on some level, doing off with myself in my imagination is my own way of dealing with the failures, no longer having to deal with them as I go forever into slumber.
Lying on a hospital bed. Writing and organising my last thoughts and feelings. Family members at my side, distraught. That one person I love at the foot of the bed- looking at my frail frame under the scratchy hospital sheets- thinking “if only I’d-“.
I don’t know if it’s vanity, self loathing, or just pure madness- but it occupies my mind. And it visits so often. It’s part of the furniture within me. It’s part of the wallpaper. It’s the flowers in my foyer. It’s what gives me texture.
If it were possible to renovate the fibres that make me who I am. Pull myself to the ground and start over. Happiness is a hard path to walk. Especially when you’ve barely known it. When everything falls apart each time.
It’s not fair to rely on other people for your own happiness. Maybe that’s why I’d rather be gone from here. Rather be an urnful, a handful of ashes cast to the wind. A dying body on blood drenched concrete. A frail disintegrating person connected to pipes in a hospital. A full stop.
I’m running out of lies to tell myself about how I’m doing. I’m running out of reasons to smile. I’m running out of skin for battle scars. I’m running out- and since I can’t be replenished- I’d rather be gone.