Chapter 1: What do you want me to say?

It's happening again. You can call it the desire to write, if you want to euphemize it. Really, it's just rattling. All these thoughts rattling around in my head. Flowing up from some dark abyss with me sifting through them. Will this one resonate? Will anyone care?

Sometimes it feels like a distress signal. A desperate cry "no more of this, please" - variations stretching toward infinity in number. My mind tells me I must sift. I must find the one that resonates with someone, anyone, who can help - who will help. So far, no luck.

I feel like I've said it a thousand times and no one was moved - it didn't resonate. That could be a misremembering though. Maybe I've always wanted to say it but never have. Maybe it slipped out a couple of times. 'It' is that I've had suicidal ideation for so long I think it qualifies as 'as long as I can remember'.

The first visible manifestation that I can remember was in the 7th grade. It was math, though I'm not sure which particular math it was. Likely one of the Algebra classes. I was sitting in class writing over and over "I hate myself and want to die." I remember that got out somehow, but I don't remember how.

That couldn't have been the first manifestation though, because years before when I lived in Hawaii I was seeing a shrink. That was fun. There was playing with toy cars in a sandbox. Drawing. I remember one of the drawings because it was my favorite. I drew a muscular shadow figure with glowing red eyes, standing in a pile of skin at his feet. It was supposed to be me. What's on the inside, with the pile at the feet the me that everyone else can see.

I assess my memory as relatively horrible. There's really so little I remember, and that was true long before I found the bliss of marijuana. Oh, how I miss the bliss of MJ. Not every time, but a lot of the time, it let's me shift my perspective to one in which everything is so fucking beautiful. I like to think of it as channeling my higher self. Get it? Higher self.

I'm about to take a job at 7-11. It's weekends, stocking in the back for now. With threat/promise of being trained for more later. The notion fills me with dread on so many levels, particularly the part of not being hidden in the back - with having to deal with people.

I believe I can write a book, though. That I should be writing a book. Unfortunately, I have no idea what to say.

Write about what you know. 
What do I know? I know about wanting to die. I know (now) that for me at least, it's not really wanting to die. It's just "please, no more of this." You're deep in it and it covers everything you see. You look forward and all you see is more of it. You don't see any way out of it, and any way out that occurs to you is quickly written off by your oh-so pragmatic mind as being daydreams - unrealistic- optimistic bullshit that will just set you up for another crash.
Don't believe in that, you're just setting yourself up for another fall. You can't handle another fall. You're down here in it, but you're holding it together. You're not sinking any lower. You're treading water, but if you climb up and fall again you'll go under. 

It's hard to talk about too. I've lost 'friends' because of it. Life is hard for everyone. Who wants to be around someone who is drowning? They might pull you under with them.

Drugs! You need drugs, and a shrink!
Sure. My self-esteem is rock bottom and becoming someone who has to take a pill every day is supposed to make me feel better about myself?

I don't want to die. I never have. But please, no more of this. Just let me wake up as someone else tomorrow. Anyone else, really. At least for the first day there would be nothing but relief that I'm not me anymore.

There's an addictive quality to suicidal ideation that most people probably don't realize. It worms itself into your identity. It becomes part of who you are, part of what makes you different. You don't particularly want it there, but who would you be without it?

There's actually a kind of beauty to it. It's better to feel pain than nothing at all. The pain has a purity to it. It's powerful, overwhelming. Despair, beautiful despair.

Right now, I'm tempted to hit publish, and tempted to hit delete. Still, I'm writing though. Actually doing something. Transmitting. It's not just rattling around in my head. Maybe I'm getting it out. Maybe that will help. Maybe it'll close doors. I mean, if potential employers found this those doors would likely close. Gotta lie. Gotta make them think you'd be a perfect little cog in their money making machine, or they'll find someone that looks like a better fitting cog and the despair will have even more fuel.
The beatings will continue until morale improves.

Maybe if I slap "Chapter 1" in the title this can be my book. I can just open up, pour it out through my fingers, call them chapters and self-publish on Amazon later. Then I will at least have done something with my life. I can't believe that it would sell. Like I said, who wants to be around someone who's drowning?
Schadenfreude.Maybe there is a market.