(Originally posted on May 1, 2008. Note that this took place two months after my previous Flashback post, the one about sobbing through college courses. The following post is not-at-all cheery, as you may have guessed by the word “suicide” in the title. My next post will explaining why I’m sharing all these episodes in misery.)
Last night, I thought about suicide. Not so much ‘considering’ suicide as pondering it, looking for the least painful way to do the job.
I was leaning toward asphyxiation until I realized that I don’t have a car OR a gas stove, and don’t have access to noxious chemicals… Hanging is popular, but I don’t know what to hang FROM. Or, for you grammar police, I don’t have anything from which to hang.
Or, for that matter, rope.
Anyway! As I was lying in bed pondering, I heard a skittering sound coming from my recycling bin… skitter. Skitter skitter. Rustle. Skitter.
(Image from the very useful Bug Guide)
I’ll spare you the graphic details; the skittering was caused by a centipede. I killed it, while screaming, shaking, and sobbing “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” all at once.
As I explained in “The Walls Are Alive…” I have a deathly fear of big, ugly bugs. When I realize that there are large crawlies roaming my tiny apartment, I really DO want to hang myself.
Last night I realized that insects/arachnids are the ONLY thing that ever makes me doubt the existence of God. War, famine, disease, hatred… eh, we often bring those things upon ourselves. But a CENTIPEDE? In my HOUSE? Could a loving God do that to His children???!
I spent most of my night sobbing and shaking. I’d PLANNED to write a paper on Vocal Pedagogy, but I hadn’t counted on a MONSTER invading my boudoir.
What a life. I’m empty, painfully lonely, malnourished, barely scraping by, struggling in school, can’t sleep at night… AND my face is breaking out.
Friends, Romans, countrymen; lend me your rope.
(Footnote: clearly, I am still alive. Also, I had to retake Vocal Pedagogy, which didn’t surprise anyone who’d watched me bawling through class all semester. If I had a dollar for every hour I spent researching suicide in my college years, I could have afforded better antidepressants.)