Nicole Talks About Suicide

I want to talk about suicide. Not because I want you to feel bad for me, or try to rescue me. And not because I want your sympathy. Actually, it’s called suicide because it has absolutely nothing to do with you.

I want to talk about suicide because I am tired of feeling. I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want to feel one. single. thing. I don’t want to feel empty, or sad, or single, or unwanted, or fat, or tall, or blind, or deaf. I don’t want to feel jealous, or worthless, or hopeless, or aimless. I don’t want to feel anything.

You’re still thinking about you, aren’t you? You’re saying, “Well, don’t I matter to you?” Of course you do, and when I’m gone you’ll make more friends and think of me once in a while, but your life won’t change that much without me.

I’m not going to commit suicide just because I talk about it. I think the worry would be if I suddenly stopped talking about it. I can’t commit suicide because of what it would do to my family, and because, like every other aspect of my life, I’m too chicken. I lack the ability to follow through. Because I manage to worry about how long it would take for someone to actually come looking for me if they couldn’t find me in the real world.

You know, I think I’d be very happy to get absolutely pissed drunk one day. I’d like to know what it feels like to feel nothing. I think that’s why I like sleeping so much. Sleep is like death…only it ends every morning. Sleep with a sleeping pill is best because there are fewer dreams and I don’t even have to feel those pseudo-emotions. Because if I feel stressed in a dream, I wake up stressed. Scary dreams pop me awake and then I can’t fall back to sleep. Dreams in which someone loves me…right…then I wake up and realize that no one ever does.

You love me, you say. I know you do. You’re a great friend. I’m not talking about friend love. I’m talking about romantic love. And having wished for it for more than 20 years and never finding it is maddening. “What about so and so? Didn’t he love you?” Nope. He didn’t. One of them did, for a short time, but someone convinced him otherwise. And if he was that easy to convince, how much did he love me in the first place?

I’ll keep living. You won’t find me slicing my wrists in the bathtub (I don’t have a bathtub). And I’ve used all those really good painkillers slowly month after month trying to curb the pains of menstrual cramps (those wonderful reminders of all that female stuff that’s not being used…sloughed off eggs from unused ovaries…an empty womb to compliment an empty vagina) there’s nothing really I could use to kill myself anyway.

Is this a cry for help? Am I asking you to rescue me? Am I hoping to change your mind and make you into my knight in shining armor?

No, it’s none of those things. It’s me, unable to sleep because my heart is breaking again and I can’t fall to sleep.

Nicole Wonders If She Can Ever Face The Truth

Who am I…really? Deep down. What do I hide?

I’m afraid.

But not of the dark…I like to sleep in pitch blackness.

I am afraid of thunder and loud noises.

I hate bugs and spiders, but I can deal with those if I have to.

What if everyone finds out that I’m a phony?

What? I’m a phony?

Yes it’s true…I’m false.

I’m not happy. I’m sad a lot of the time…because I’m alone.

I’m very selfish. I don’t want to give anyone my time.

I don’t put as much time into teaching as I should…but I’m good at faking it…at making people think I’m good at it.

I don’t want to be alone. I hate walking around by myself. Never feeling someone’s arms around me…never having him hold my hand.

I read somewhere that women are attracted to men who look like those in her family. That makes sense to me. My father, my brothers, my uncles, my grandfathers…all wonderful, kind, gentle men. Why would I not be attracted to that? And for that reason, why would I not be attracted to you. You’re funny and sarcastic like my family’s humor. You’re kind and gentle and accepting of others. I do love you. So very much. I wish you could feel it. Or that I couldn't.

There are things I can’t write down. I can’t write them in my own handwriting…and sometimes I just write them with my finger. No proof afterwards that the words ever even existed. Mostly…what I write…invisibly…are my hopes that are so fragile, so heart-felt, that if they’re in words at all they may shatter and never, ever come true.

He told me that he wasn’t interested. He told me kindly, gently… And I’ve tried to get over him. I have. I really have. But he’s so…good. He’s kind, gentle, handsome and all the things that I have always hoped for. And everything new I discover about him makes me less and less inclined to get over him. I wish my head would tell my heart that it’s no use to hope.