Sometimes, on nights like this one, when I sob uncontrollably, my options seem very slim. The first one, the best one, that comes to my mind is always, always, always suicide. I don’t think of it as abstractly as that though, no; I imagine in great detail how I would do it. It always baffles me, because I honestly couldn’t care less anymore how my soul leaves my body, if I even believe in souls. Pills sounds fine to me- slow, painful, but still dead. The best option though is probably to make gashes in my limbs that mimic the ones already there, but larger, and deeper, and hitting arteries. Obviously, I’d do this in the bath, because it’s considerably easier to clean that carpet. Ironically, I love baths, and this is where I’d die.
Sometimes, on nights like this one, when I stare at a wall and try to convince myself that suicide isn’t the only option, my brain moseys over to thoughts of the second best option- self harm. It wouldn’t be anything new. Why not? As long as it’s not visible and as long as no one knows, who does it really hurt? I can see it now, experimenting once again with gash depth and length, watching to figure out if it makes the blood gush or spurt, flow faster or slower, bead or ooze. But this isn’t an option: I wrote my college essay on this very subject. I said that I’m getting better, that I know I won’t go back.
So maybe college isn’t an option.