Rage, guilt, remorse ... suicide

Anger just boils inside me. Intense anger over absolutely nothing. It takes so little to provoke my rage these days, and it makes no sense that I feel rage.

I'm thinking about a gun. The .357 downstairs. Already loaded (center-fire ammo, should do the trick). And there is only one person I care to harm.

I think about that gun all the time. Smith & Wesson Model 636. Great piece. I've enjoyed shooting it over the years. I know I would enjoy the feel of it in my hand again, pointed at my head, at long last. It's about 15 feet from here.

Oh, the lies that suicide prevention organizations try to spread. A few favorites:

Please get help right now. Even though suicide may seem like an option to deal with your pain or cope with whatever is going on that is stressful, it's actually a terrible idea.

To whom—you? Of course. You think it's a bad idea. I think it's the only way out.

You are not thinking clearly right now. Suicide is not an effective way to reduce pain or cope with issues that are stressful. 

Whether I'm thinking clearly or not has precious little to do with anything. Most people aren't "thinking clearly" most of the time. That only seems to be a problem, though, when suicide comes up. Maybe I'm thinking much more clearly than you are; that ever occur to you?

Killing yourself is not simply ending your pain or ending stress...it's ending your life.

And, by ending my life, ending my pain. End of life=end of everything in and about life, yes?

It is debatable whether ending your life will end your personal pain. However, it is not debatable that your suicide will have a negative effect on those you leave behind. Your family and friends will almost certainly suffer your loss, and the closer and more dependent they are upon you, the more deeply and permanently will be their suffering. 

But if I die of natural causes, they'll feel great, and their grief will be temporary. Huh? I'm nearly 50. It's not like I've got some as-yet-untapped potential roiling inside me. I'm done. No wife, no children. Animals, but I've made arrangements for them already. Seriously, I'm done.

Why not give yourself the chance to try some ways that we know can help to decrease pain and stress and stick around to see what that feels like? 

Because I've tried them, and they don't help. At least, not any longer. There was a time when antidepressants helped, but that time has come and gone. Maybe they do help; maybe this could even be worse than it is, save for the antidepressants. That's possible.

I guess I could "stick around and see what that feels like." Hmmmm. Probably a lot like it's all felt like up to now. And that's put me where I am right now: Thinking about my Smith & Wesson, again, thinking about the list I made recently:

• Call my friend about my animals. She knows what to expect and what to do.
• Double-check all my end-of-life legal documents to make sure they're in order. Leave them out, where they'll be obvious.
• Finish whatever needs to be done that others are expecting of me professionally. Right now, two freelance articles, both easy. Finish and e-mail 'em. Obviously, invoicing doesn't matter.
• Remember, do it outside. Don't make others clean up my mess. The rain will was away the brain matter and skull pieces, or the dirt will cover in time.

To recap: I am a white Southern male, and I hate myself for all three of those inescapable facts. I hate the dark emotions within me. I hate my sins. I hate the sins within me. I hate that I seem to have lost my faith in Jesus Christ, assuming I ever had it. I hate that I have made myself so isolated. I hate my life. I hate everyone and everything with a passion. I not only have no desire to live, but I also have an active desire to die.