Bitch from Hell

someone i know tried to kill themself yesterday.< ?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

there was a time, not so long ago, when it was all black and white: people just dont do that. its ridiculous. its attention seeking. its a result of psychological trauma. life never gets that bad.

but now - these past two months - its just not that simple anymore. theres only grey.

i have found that its not about not wanting to live, its not about wanting to die, its not about thrills, its not only about depair. there are so many nuances to any single person's subjectivity, that no-one, sometimes not even they themselves, can fathom the depths of their experience. its about frustration. and loneliness. and - "im happy, like i havent been since i came here, im emotionally happy, intellectually happy, mentally happy. but i cant stop crying."

i cant make judgement calls so quickly anymore. i cant dismiss it and think hey it'll all be fine. someone said today: once you start, you cant stop, its an addiction. what scares me is they may be right.

so why, why does someone give uo hope like that? do they give up hope? some statistics reveal that 90% of suicides try and save themselves once the deed is done. but then who can believe statistics, after all means medians and modes are imaginary lines we create to comapre. and somehow i dont think one can compare in this situation. what are those circumstances that can make a person who is fairly stable inflict injury on themselves? it is easy to slot them.

Armando Favazza, the best known psychiatrist porsently working in this area does exactly that.

on self-mutilation:

"Skin-cutting and burning that occure episodically are the most common self-mutilative behavious and are a symptom or associated feature in a number of disorders such as borderline, histrionic, and antisocial personality disorders."

but who gives anyone the right to slot someones life?

the value judgement is the worst. "im ashamed of it" why? why should anyone be ashamed of their inner wounds?

bu then again, who am i to hold forth?

She had more right.

Wanting to Die

by Anne Sexton

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.

I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.

Then the most unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.

I know well the grass blades you mention

the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself

have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,

have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,

warmer than oil or water,

I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.

Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.

Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don't always die,

but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet

that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue! --

that, all by itself, becomes a passion.

Death's a sad bone; bruised, you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year and year,

to so delicately undo an old would,

to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,

raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,

leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of a book carelessly open,

something unsaid, the phone off the hook

and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

and sometimes its as simple as this.

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