Ah, well. No point in beating around the bush. 

Dear diary

 

Fuck, do people even write that? Seems like cliche bullshit. What’s next? “Oh woe is me” You’re not a teenage girl. Stop writing pussy shit. Writing things down is supposed to help. Bottling things up in a healthy way. You’re not even writing in a diary, it’s a google doc because your handwriting is terrible. Although there is a certain humour in the idea of a printed-out suicide note, even if that isn’t what this is. Like it was homework that I needed to do or paperwork to be put in my “death” file. The solicitors will love that. But if I handwrite it maybe they’ll have to get it analysed by a professional like they did with the Unabomber, that would at least make my death more interesting. A bit more mysterious. Like the Da Vinci Code. I’m spiralling. Fuck. Back to the task at hand.

 

I’m thinking of killing myself.

 

Not a very emphatic assertion of my desire to kill myself, it had to be said. But then again, if I was sufficiently determined I probably already would’ve by now. Yet there were obstacles both emotionally and legally. I’m not a coward. I’m not doing this as a “cry for help” - I want to be dead, and those obstacles prevent that. It’s only reasonable to think about this meticulously. 

 

My plan is as follows:

Step 1: Obtain a plane ticket to America 

Step 2: Purchase a gun illegally, ideally a revolver. 

Step 3: Find a hill somewhere

Step 4: Go there on a cold early morning as the sun rises, watch it rise, and then pull the trigger.

 

It was your fairly bog-standard “Person in a gun deficient environment wants to die quickly and painlessly.” plan. America had the greatest access to firearms, even out of nations where firearm legislation wasn’t heavily enforced. I’d seen the youtube videos, people could buy guns fairly easily at gun shows without ID or anything. I had money and a British accent, hell, that might get me even further… and I had the endless reserves of fake confidence I’d built up cultivating a facade as an asshole. Was it really a facade if I’d said all the things an asshole says to others and done all the things an asshole does, but internally I knew I didn’t mean those things? Probably not, but it didn’t matter now. 

 

I’d considered all the other methods. Like I was making a morbid tierlist.

 

Hanging? No thanks. I’d watched enough TV. You fail at that and you’re braindead or worse. I’d once been put in a headlock and nearly lost consciousness - it was at that point I realised there’s nothing worse than lack of oxygen. 

 

Slitting your wrists? Why the fuck would I do that? I was killing myself to avoid pain, avoid existing. Why would I choose to willingly inflict it upon myself? This never made sense to me, not even slightly. The idea of blood pumping out of me uncontrollably makes me viscerally uncomfortable. I’m also not stupid. I know that bleeding out takes forever - that’s a good way of getting caught and stopped, and it also gives you time to regret. Everyone’s done something in the heat of the moment they think is a good idea and then regretted it, therefore not giving yourself a chance is the easiest way to commit to something. 

 

Pills? Pfft, were you even trying if you used pills? I didn’t want to be a suicide method gatekeeper or anything, but statistically speaking pills were suicide easy mode, and I’d never played on easy mode. I’d seen the stats. Pills were really unlikely to kill you. If you fail, and odds are you will, you’ll get your stomach pumped and a bunch of really disappointed family members. Pills were the cry for help. The choice for those taking half measures. I didn’t ever take half measures. 

 

Guns were the person delete button. The trigger pull you don’t come back from. One bang, gone into nothingness. No time to reconsider, just the way I wanted. Instant death, no pain. Sure, theoretically I could survive, I’d survived more than most so maybe I was uniquely qualified to eat bullets  - but the odds were not in my favour. It wasn’t perfect but it had the least margin for error. Bliss. In the same way that sleeping was bliss. Pleasure is just the absence of pain and all that. 

 

It definitely made me feel like a psycho, thinking about these things. Like Patrick Bateman, if he was more self-destructive and less of a chad. But I was only being reasonable. If you didn’t consider all the available options and then examine all of them in detail, how would you come to a reasonable conclusion? I’m not acting on wishy-washy “feelings” here, I’m working with information. I’m not insane, I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I want to minimise that as best I can. Me not being here is literally and objectively the best option. I can prove it with science.

 

I stared at the screen, re-reading the very little I’d written despite the thoughts running at a mile a minute in my head. Time passes when you’re having fun I guess. Things would be so much easier if I could just think things onto the page. Maybe Elon Musk’s new brain bullshit will let me do that.  Then again, writing down all the thoughts in my head would make  me sound like somebody who needs a lot of therapy, which I’m not. Therapy is for people who can’t deal with their problems themselves - aka, wusses. I’m functional, I manage. I’m not breaking down every minute of every day. I don’t cry myself to sleep. Imagine unironically needing therapy. Cringe. 

 

I ctrl-A’d and deleted all the text in the untitled document. It still had a revision history, of course, but nobody ever looked there. I had briefly considered this is why google docs was a bad idea for writing about suicide, especially given I didn’t really trust our internet overlords not to spy on me and try and get me help  - but it was so convenient, I could continue being sad on my phone for instance. And notepad was so non-user friendly. The text had to go though. On the off chance anyone found out. This plan had to be secret, from everyone, including my friends. If anyone ever found I’d probably be locked up, sectioned forever. I’d rather die than be caged and sedated. I can’t imagine anything worse.

 

No help was possible. I’d seen that therapists were supposed to risk assess you, and that if you had a suicide plan they’d contact the authorities - so that was out of the question too, because I already had one. I couldn’t risk it. Sure, I’d love a nice civil discussion on the relative merits of me being unalive, but I don’t think when I say “I’d quite like to shoot myself next month” I’m going to get a positive reaction. I’m not stupid. I think therapy works for some people who need it, but I don’t need it. My view on my life is simply a philosophical difference in regards to my own worth and exclusively my own worth. Mental health has nothing to do with it. 

 

Nice doom spiral you got into there, jackass. I squished my forehead between my fingers. Why did these thoughts always come when it was late? I clearly wasn’t going to do anything right now and wallowing in sadness was no good - I needed to take my mind off things. The fucked up sleep schedule that meant I got up at 3am after going to bed at 5pm the previous day had ensured the light was now creeping in from under my closed curtains after my little depressive episode. Sunday morning. Wonderful. 

 

It was a bit earlier than usual but at least none of the others would be awake, so I put on some slippers and navigated my way out of my dorm room, propping the door open with my boot to ensure it didn’t automatically close behind me. The kitchen was a warzone. As per usual. My 5 flatmates could in a liberal sense be called “average college students” but the more accurate descriptor would probably be “Alcoholics with little concern for noise complaints.” My elderly 18 year old soul wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing. The vast number of half-opened alcohol bottles, miscellaneous rubbish and the quite frankly apocalyptic state of dirty dishes in the sink perfectly illustrated why I deigned to spend as little time as possible in here, and only when the others were too out of it from the previous night. 

 

I put the kettle on. If only I’d have gotten some roommates more my speed, I considered. But it was too much work to move out now, even if I had silently grown to resent them from their socialisation I had no part in. Most of them weren’t inherently bad people, probably, I’d never gotten to know them beyond surface characteristics, which given what I planned to do was probably kinder, if not actually my initial intent. I then proceeded to dig out a frozen sandwich from the freezer. This was a true stroke of genius: I could make a ton of sandwiches, freeze them, and then just take them out in the morning so by lunchtime they had defrosted. It meant I didn’t have to go into the kitchen at all during the day. Sure, they were shit and soggy but it limited how much you had to interact with the others. They’ll write ballads about the ingenuity of that one, I bet. Providing the bards can find any trace of me. 

 

I poured myself my tea and returned to my room with my bounty, kicking the boot doorstop out as I returned to my desk and my door buzzed shut electronically behind me. My enigmatic lifestyle left me with a number of options as to what to do with my free time all of which were really just one option; do something on my PC. Browse videos. Play pirated games. Do my coursework. Education and entertainment all in one place. I was almost impressed with how successfully I had been living in this 14 metre squared box for the past couple of months, only needing to leave to get food. I was like Bear Grylls, only more urban and didn’t drink my own piss. Thanks for that image whilst I’m enjoying my morning beverage, brain. Was I lonely? Perhaps. But being a lone wolf is cool, actually. Self-reliance is cool, actually. It gives you a greater understanding of yourself, actually. When the inevitable societal collapse comes, I’m the one who’s going to be winning. Or… would’ve been winning, I guess. 

 

At least the semi-online nature of this college was convenient to my hermit-like lifestyle. I wonder if the serfs tilling the fields in ages past would look at me, sad as I am, and tell me to suck it up as they worked backbreaking hours - and here I am, miserable about existing despite every convenience at my fingertips? They probably would’ve stoned me to death for wearing a digital watch first, but still. What right do I, or anyone not starving in a warzone have to complain? I’m from the most privileged group in society: a cis guy. It’s not like my life is hard even compared to most of my peers, and here I am wallowing. It’s incredibly pitiful. 

 

But later. For now, drown yourself in your interests. That’s it. Ideal. Bury your sorrows in the dopamine of relevant memes and arguments with people in the comment section. Find somebody or something that makes you angrier than existing - cope, healthily. 

 

Keeping myself signed into my forum account was probably a poor move for somebody taking a computer science degree. It reflected poorly on my OPSEC, at least. Especially because I didn’t need anyone to find out I had a minor interest in Yuri manga. Because the poorly groomed hermit with an interest in lesbians isn’t at all creepy and going to ruin your social life more so than it already has been. It’s like you’re trying to go for the creepyincel% speedrun world record. Thankfully, this account was unknown to anyone - it had started as an alt account, and later progressed to my main account because I didn’t want to be shamed into not engaging with things I might like, things my friends would judge me for. 

 

And then there’s the other one. The one that we don’t talk about. Not even to you, internal monologue. Not just because the name is cringeworthy - but because I don’t enjoy the implication of saying it. I’m not that. Because saying you are that inherently means something else which I’m also definitely not. I just enjoy the memes. The memes are funny and relatable, but I don’t agree with all of them which means I don’t fit neatly into that group. The worst thing I have is a fetish, what they have are delusions. No amount of memes is going to change reality - men can’t be women. And I hardly think video games are reasonable to base your identity on. You know, if video games don’t make you a murderer, I don’t think they make you that either. I thought about leaving a mean comment on some of them. But it wouldn’t be worth it. They’d just get 10 more positive ones that’d make mine meaningless. And a mod would probably remove them anyway. Fucking hugbox. This is why the anonymous message boards were better. People were more honest. 

 

Given that today was clearly what passed for a slow news day on the various subforums, they weren’t going to distract me sufficiently. I went to the anonymous boards. I was self-aware enough to recognize that I never left those boards feeling better than when I entered. But honesty was sometimes necessarily hurtful. The anonymity allowed for the harsh truths of reality to be told, unburdened by things like a social contract - what people really think, and honesty was always the best policy. 

 

Do I pass? (4 months HRT) 

 

That’ll be spicy. You sweet summer child. The accompanying medium quality JPG wasn’t exactly ugly. She looked moderately feminine. Without the knowledge she was trans and passing her in the street she probably wouldn’t get a second glance. But upon appraisal… Oh. Hah. With an Adam's apple that big? Good luck. I noticed it because I was skinny and my Adam's apple stuck out too. I didn’t have a problem with it - it was just… noticeable, is all. The replies were the usual suspects.

 

Post more

 

Cut some bangs

 

Bonepill says no 

 

And at this stage, I could’ve been nice. Give them some actual advice. Tracheal shaves exist. But… in many ways, they were kind of asking for a harsh appraisal by posting here. And it’s anonymous, and my day so far has been pretty shitty. Why not. Maybe I’ll get chastised by other users and argue with them for the rest of the day. 

 

Lol with an adams apple like that I’d probably just rope

 

Nice. Sufficiently cutting, but with the air of flippancy that made a classic messageboard comment work. Thank god nobody could backtrace that shit. That’d probably get me arrested from some kind of abuse law. I didn’t literally mean it, but what I said wasn’t actually wrong: if I was trying and failing to look like a woman that badly, I would kill myself. Imagine putting in that much effort and failing.  I didn’t actually tell them to do it, so it was still fine morally. 

 

Setting the forum to auto-update and dragging it to my second monitor, I moved on to the rest of my day. On account of the fact that our group work started tomorrow, that meant it was largely composed of burning daylight filtered through curtains by exploring the RPG I’d wasted far too much time modding so I could get my character looking just right. 

 

Even if I really wanted to I couldn’t kill myself today. Or even tomorrow. I had schoolwork to do. Technically I had the money to buy a plane ticket and start the process tomorrow, but I had loose ends to tie up. I can’t just disappear out of the blue. I’ve gotta hang out, make my absence make sense, give my stuff away to charity, delete my history, get rid of that skirt I bought and wear in private every now and again. The usual. I won’t be somebody who dies and leaves my family a disappointment. 

 

I’m still going to kill myself,  I’m pretty set on that. Just maybe not today.