Arguments of a Suicidal Mind : Me vs. Me

It feels as if I am broaching a taboo topic. After all, I was the "tough guy". The one who never needs help. The who talks other people out of (or into, depends) stupid stuff.

But I'm doing this because it feels necessary. I have been suicidal and/or depressed, on and off for the last one and a half months. I've hurt myself. I've "researched" more ways to hurt myself. A confession, if you want to put it that way. If I was writing literature, this is the point where I say "it felt good to get it off my chest". Right now, frankly, I don't care how it feels. Maybe more accurately, I've been running from myself for so long, I don't know how it feels.

(Literature does come back to me. There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old age: youth's burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares; old age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same.Maybe I've just grown old.) 

So I'll try to be as brutal as possible here. I have grown up thinking killing oneself is a abominable cowardly thing. I still believe so, and if, in case, I do end up doing it, I want mine to be seen as such too.

When I say I'm suicidal, I guess that means I want to kill myself. That would be both true and false.

Why do I want to die in the first place?
I hate myself. It's a dislike born of many years of (maybe unnecessary) self-analysis. 
I feel a burden to people around me. Terribly low self confidence. So low, it doesn't qualify as confidence any more, low or otherwise. 
I tell myself nobody cares. That I don't care either.
I kind of think I have run out of choices to take in my life. Some things have ruled out the options I had kept for myself. (That of course has been a major factor lately)
I am tempted to "start-over". A clean slate. One where I'm a bit less stupid, a bit more stronger.
 
And why again, do I not want to die?
Because it's the same self-analysis that tells me that at least some of that hate is misdirected.
I know I'm useful. Maybe not always. But sometimes, yes. And when I believe those who say I'm a burden, to be fair I have to believe those who say I'm not, too.
If nobody cared, then I would have been gone long back. People do care. And I do too. Maybe too much, sometimes. 
I am here because I did not know what the future held. Same applies now too.

I find telling myself that "I want to live" more often than I say "I want to die".
I want to live. I want to live so badly. I want to be happy. To be normal. To be a little less afraid. To love myself a little bit more. To have a few doubts less. To stop wanting to hurt myself. To take it one day at a time, gladly. 
I want to see what the future holds. I know I can. And no matter what happens, I still am happy with what I do have.
I am strong. I have held on for so long. I've gone through the worst. 

Now if only I could convince myself of it.

Maybe I could just live for my poems and stories.

And miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

The Nirvana of Nothingness

I wish you could see me now.

Standing at the edge, I'm almost, funny word, peaceful.

Which way?

I've been here often over the years.

At the depths of my darkness.

The place where it doesn't hurt any more.

So tempting.

Words don't work in this place. 

Neither do hopes, dreams and shooting stars.

There's a door here.

I either walk through or walk back.

I've been here often over the years.

So tempting.

Time slows down here.

I've always walked back.

Till now.

It's only me vs. me in here.

Which way?

You flip through your life, while you take you call.

Standing at the edge.

It lists out all that hurts.

It hurts because you love it so.

I can walk through.

But I can't take with me what I love.

And I love it so.

I can walk back.

But I can't make it stop hurting.

And it hurts so.

So tempting.

Which way?

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry, 

   I am not there; I did not die.           

                      

                                                      -- Mary Elizabeth Frye

I came across this first in a favourite light read of mine, Alan Titchmarsh's Rosie. I love the serenity of the poem. It's sad, but it soothes too. Sometimes.