Suicide Notes from a Man Who Died of Old Age

I know there’s nothing I could possibly say to ameliorate the pain I’ve caused by doing this.

I know that many of you will blame yourselves.

I know that many of you won’t recover from this for years, maybe ever.

I know that this might seem selfish–believe me, I know this…I know all of this. But it has to be done. 

Please know that the combined pain all of you are feeling at this very moment doesn’t equal half the pain I’ve felt– half the pain I’m feeling at this very moment. Please know this.

Please, please, please don’t blame yourselves. For the last five years I’ve suffered in silence, occasionally crying in class, or on lonely walks home from school, or while eating dinner with you, saying it’s allergies. Horrible things happened to me that I tried to write out here, but my hand started to shake and tremble, and I started to cry, so I’ll leave that portion of my pain out of this, but it’s none of your fault. No one who’s reading this is responsible for my pain. The people that hurt me will probably not get what’s coming to them until they’re old and alone. They’ll remember the pain, and hopefully hear that I killed myself, partly due to them, and off themselves, or maybe they won’t remember, not realizing the pain they caused. But honestly, I think I would be in pain even if I’d lived a picturesque life–it’s just me.

I don’t believe in heaven, but if it did exist, and I got in, somehow, I would find a way to be miserable in it. My souls tainted and broken, and it needs to be destroyed.

I’m tired.

I want oblivion.

I’m sorry.

I love you all.

Goodbye.

Johnny wiped away the tears he just realized were flowing, and dropped the note back into the box his grandfather bequeathed him.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he whispered to himself.

He anxiously shuffled through the rest of the box, finding note after note filled with sad words.

“Why would Grandpa leave me this?” he asked himself again, before closing the box, and reading the note written on the top of it in grandpa’s trademark calligraphy he tried to teach Johnny to no avail.

To you, Johnny, and only you. I hope this will help you through your struggles, son. I love you.

Johnny walked out of his room, down the hallway to the living room where his mom was with a glass of straight vodka, looking at a note, over a box similar to his, crying uncontrollably.

Johnny never could take the sight of his mother crying–it always resulted in him bawling harder and louder.

He walked over to hold her and cry together.

“Don’t cry, ma, please,” he said, despite knowing that nothing in existence could dam the deluge flowing down her cheeks.

“Why did gra–,” he started to ask before his mom interjected. “Grandpa left that for you, and only you. The same way he left this for me, and only me. And many others for people he loved. I don’t know why, but I’m sure there’s a reason.”

They held each other and cried for a few eternal minutes.

“I know this was a long and painful day, Johnny, but we’ll get over it together.” she whispered into his ear as her head rested on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go to school tomorrow, baby, but it’s late, and you should go to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, I promise,”

He reluctantly let go of his mother and asked, “Are you going to bed?”

“Yes babe, in a little bit.”

Johnny walked down the hall, turning back before opening his bedroom door, and watched his mom pour another glass of vodka, down it, then poor another.

He started to cry again as he took off his clothes and got into bed, telling himself that he would never be able to sleep.

Staring up, wide awake, at his ceiling that he recently covered in glow in the dark planets and spiral galaxies and shooting stars, he remembered a trick his grandfather taught him for restless nights. He started to count the stars, then he multiplied them by ten, then divided by five, then multiplied again and again and again, calming his racing mind, until finally falling asleep.

His mom lied, but it wasn’t her fault. Tomorrow wouldn’t be a better day.



I don’t like the wording of this. There’s much to be done, but I needed to write it down. I’ll go through it and make it prettier, hopefully.

This is the first page of a short story I’m going to attempt to write about a grandfather who lived to 99, leaving his depressed grandson a box of suicide notes he wrote throughout his life. Each page, or most pages/post, will begin with one of the suicide notes, and end with moments/days his depressed grandson goes through, corresponding or running parallel to his pain in different ways, helping him realize that he’s not the only one that experiences despair.

I’m sleepy, so I’m going to go do math in my bed until I fall asleep. Hopefully I’ll wake up to some critiques.

Advertisements

Johnny’s Breakup Note he Wrote to Himself

“I used to tell my friends I had two lovers, just like the Mary Wells’ song, but the number multiplied over the years to a sum that requires a higher emotional bandwidth than I possess, so I’m leaving you.

I’ll always love that one you–you know the one.

I’m sorry.”

If You Aren’t Bruised or Bleeding…

I’m manic again, but I haven’t lost my shit…yet.

It might just be hypomania–the result of recently titrating up on a med that helped me crawl out of my pit–but I’m not sure…yet.

I have racing thoughts, but none have been intrusive, minus the one where I looked at my fancy grill outside and imagined the propane tank exploding as a result of being left out in the hot Cali sun for days on end; only to be relieved, after Googling whether or not it was an issue, to find out that, in firefighting training, they put torches to propane tanks and they rarely pop, and that’s 1000 plus degrees of concentrated heat! Amazing, right? Stupid negative mind.

Other than that, my thoughts have been surprisingly happy, though, a bit grandiose, but I can take an inflated ego after being deflated for so very long.

One positive recurring thought involves me biking down the Cali coast, along beautiful highway one, stopping at various spots to camp and dream and play alone in front of handmade fires. It’s been a plan of mine to do so for a while, but I haven’t been stable enough to actually do it. I’m petrified to leave on a high, just to bike a few hundred miles, and slip into a depression that would inevitably end with me swimming out into the pacific, a half a mile or so, and drowning myself. I’ve heard that drowning could be quite a lovely death, only hurting for a split second. Plus, if I plan it right–burning my wallet and clothes and other belongings, before swimming out naked, the same way I came into this world, engulfing mother nature’s salty, amniotic fluid, and slipping into oblivion–my body might end up too bloated to be identified, or wind up getting eaten by pretty sea creatures, and then my family will just think I finally ran away to Argentina or Uruguay to live in a hut, with a hammock, and small, but infinitely entertaining and enlightening, library.

I guess that train of thought ended a tad macabre, but fuck it, macabre can me beautiful, and suicide can be romantic, but maybe that’s just me.

I think about suicide too much, but I can’t help it. Manic or depressed, I still dream about leaving this world. There’s too much going on, good and bad and blah, and I’m too sensitive. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to process it. The faulty machine in my head does not compute–maybe there’s ones where there should be zeroes, or the other way around, or maybe I don’t have enough memory, or maybe I was born with a virus in my mind that hijacked my synapses, causing them to fire out dopamine when I need serotonin…or something like that…maybe.

Surprisingly, I don’t consider suicidal thoughts to be intrusive, though in every psychiatric book they would absolutely be considered so. To me, suicide is oddly comforting. I remember Hunter S. Thompson saying: I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn’t know I could commit suicide at any time. I’ll eventually commit suicide, not to be morbid, it’s just the truth. I just have to do it right, In a way that appears accidental or happenstance. Maybe I’ll go out the way Brad Pitt tried to in Interview with the Vampire, starting fights in bars with dangerous people and being beaten to death or shot. Or I can go out heroically, dying in an apartment fire while trying to rescue an old lady’s cat, or saving a drowning child, or stopping a terrorist on a rampage. Each time I read about heroic people sacrificing their lives to save other people, I imagine they felt the same way I do–suicidal–but I always snap out of it, feeling ashamed for thinking so selfishly, and denigrating heroes who had marvelous lives they sacrificed to save strangers. I’m ashamed for writing that. It’s such an ugly thought.

Enough sadness.

I willingly socialized today, and it was wonderful. Me, my bestfriend/housemate and two other friends spent a few hours, standing in my kitchen, listening to music and riffing. The two friends who came over aren’t new friends, but, unlike my bestfriend, we haven’t hung out together enough to know every tidbit of each other’s lives. I learned today that one of them used to go to hardcore shows in his teens–the same hardcore shows I used to go to, at the same exact spot, we called The Cave, in ESSJ. We reminisced about two-stepping in mosh-pits to unintelligible songs with savage guitar riffs and never-ending drum solos…about watching kids walk out to get some air with broken noses and smiles, just to go back in and inflict the same rage on another…about illegally drinking forties and smoking black-&-milds outside shows that, surprisingly, and wonderfully blasphemous, were held in the back of a church…about how neo-Nazi skinhead bands would come to play, not knowing that most of San Jose’s hardcore scene is Mexican, just to get beat the fuck up…about how homeboys, who hated hardcore music, would come out just to smash on skinheads–it was beautiful. We shared our scars with each other and relished in our savage teens. He asked me what The Cave’s motto was, and we both said in unison: If you aren’t bruised or bleeding after the show, you didn’t do it right.

I think that’s a good place to stop. I know it’s kind of abrupt, but I was never good at tying bows.

I’m going to go work on one of my hundred drafts, and hopefully post a short story tonight or tomorrow.

Babbling Brook of Conscious

Fuck it. I can’t post anything of worth so I’ll just babble a bit.

I quit drinking again, and I feel great, physically, but my mind is going through its usual post-binge shock. I know it’s technically withdrawals, but I hate using that term because I feel it diminishes the experience hopeless drunks go through, shaking and trembling, taking shooters like medicine spread across hours and days and weeks to ensure their bodies don’t shut down–just to relapse again and again and again.

I’m lucky enough to have never been a full blown, drink or go into seizures, alcoholic. Prolonged hardcore drinking, that which exceeds four consecutive days, destroys me psychologically…unfortunately. I can deal with physical hangovers–waking up, head pounding like I used a hydraulic press for a pillow, mouth and tongue temporarily destroyed from chain-smoking packs of menthols and downing absurd proofs, cuddling my porcelain whore for hours, intermittently microwaving hot pockets, bagel bites and other greasy foods to soothe my tummy tempest, just to fly out thirty minutes later because I was brazen enough to try and lay comfortably on my side instead of the 45 degree elevation required to keep my stomach’s corrosive contents placidly in place. I can take all that. It’s the psychological ramifications of heavy drinking I find unbearable. It’s the way my self-loathing mind confabulates the previous night’s blackout, filling in long gaps of lost time with reckless words and actions that hurt people I love or could’ve loved or probably hated. It’s the hate spiral I go into after waking up in a foreign place next to a foreign person. It’s walks of shame and Ubers of regret. It’s turning off my phone to avoid pissed off calls and what the fuck is wrong with you texts. It’s finding out days or weeks later that nobody realized I was obliterated, and that I actually didn’t do anything wrong; I was actually a blast to be around, as always, and got some rando at a bar, that turned out to be a really cool chick, to temporarily fall in love with me for a night. It’s my friends thinking that the real me is the drunken personage I created to cope with my anxious, self loathing soul that’s too sensitive to be around other people sober. It’s my stupid, fucking, chemically unstable mind that can’t even find happiness in innocent flings or partaking in the requisite party nights of a young adult. It’s me. It’s always me.

It felt good to write that out. I keep too much bottled up. It’s better to vomit on here than vomit in a toilet, or worse, let ugly words foment and fester in my mind, eating away at my sanity, leaving me alone in my garage, talking to myself about talking to myself while hyper-fixating on erroneous things like trying to convince myself that the freckles on my left arm aren’t arranged in a way that explains some esoteric idea in Morse code

Eventually my mind will settle down to its depressed baseline–then I’ll deal with the savage lucidity sobriety provides.

It’s a Beautiful Night

Once upon a love, under diamond studded skies draped in nimbus negligee, two lovers drank cheap Moscato in a park overlooking the city, chain-smoking Kools and flicking the still-lit butts towards downtown hoping a strong west-wind would pick one up and drop it on the silk dress of some floozy who just got done saying like for the 47th time, setting her dress aflame as douchebags, who’ve blown hot air at her and her ilk all night, fan the flames, setting off a chain reaction that travels down each alley, each smoking section, into each bar and club, setting the city’s night life ablaze for days, until all the ego and vanity burns away.

“It’s a beautiful night to watch the world burn,” his lover says before taking the last sip of Moscato and smashing the bottle on the ground.

“I love you,” he replies.

A Cardboard Chest Filled with Fool’s Memories

I left work early today, nearly quitting, in an anxious rush to get home. Of course, the elevator down from my office on the top floor hit each stop, gradually filling up with five people, which, to me, is overcapacity. One coworker asked if I wanted to go get sushi with her. I absolutely didn’t want to. I didn’t even want to talk to her. Or see her. But not because of her. She’s nice. It’s because of me. It’s always because of me. The fact that I had to talk to her was my fault–I broke my own rule which prohibits my anxious mind from using the elevator outside specified times: usually at 11:47, 1:47 or 4:47, or sometime thereabout. All other times I take the stairs, but I have to take the elevator when I leave because our company’s bike rack is on the bottom floor, in the lobby. I could take the stairs down, walk through the front door, buzz in, grab my bike, buzz out, but the times I’ve done so wound up drawing even more attention than the elevator so I’m fucked either way.

I hurried to my bike, hurried out, and hurried to the bike path I take to downtown Redwood City. My life is a just a series of protracted hurried events.

I pulled up to the train station as my train left. Fuck, the next train doesn’t come for an hour–an hour of idle time my current mind state shouldn’t have for the sake of my liver and sanity. Luckily, it’s blazing hot outside, and I have an hour bike ride after the train, and while a drunken bike ride in the early evening is amazing, a drunken bike ride in midday heat is unbearable.

After smoking five or six cigarettes, my train came. It was empty and beautiful; I even managed to read a few backlogged Jorge Luis Borges short stories.

My bike ride home was speedy but relatively uneventful.

I got to my house, and walked straight to my garage, where the real battle commenced.

Don’t drink. Don’t drink. Don’t drink.

I’ll clean my garage.

My housemates just had a baby–a beautiful little girl that fills my mind with much needed this is what life’s about(s)–so our garage resembles a small BuyBuyBaby warehouse.

I love to organize things. It’s the perfect activity/work for an anxious person with a hectic life. This box goes here, this one goes there, it’s like Tetris.

Each box was punctiliously placed on the shelves of my garage, perfectly utilizing every inch of shelf space, but I still had five boxes, with only one place left, the rafters, which I hadn’t gone through in the six years I’ve lived at this house.

Most of the rafter’s contents consisted of garbage and random things the previous tenants left, but there was one box on its side, towards the back, covered in black tape with black Sharpie reading Fragile B Stuff.

It was my box, I think. I am B….and I am Fragile.

Industrial duct tape wrapped around the box in a way that damn near needed a hacksaw to open. As I sliced away at erroneous layers of tape, I tried to remember the contents. Old football cards? VHS tapes of Jurassic Park and Independence Day? Peruvian shrunken heads? A menagerie of cords to ancient devices? Jumanji? I really couldn’t remember.

I got the box open, and a chill ran up my spine like I had just opened Tutankhamun’s tomb.

It was definitely my box.

Luckily, the me that filled the cardboard chest was kind enough to include a bottle Johnny Walker Black.

I poured a glass, on the rocks with a little lemon and Perrier water, and stared at the contents for a minute, deciding whether I should toss it into my firepit, tape it back up and exile it back to the rafters, or bite the bullet and go through its contents…and hopefully not eat a bullet later.

I poured another drink, on the rocks with a little lemon and Perrier water, and pulled out the first item: a spiral notebook with the cover image of a cat hanging from a rope and the words Hang In There. 

Flipping through the pages made me sick to my stomach. It was filled with scribbles and sketches, incoherent ramblings in between hypergraphic pages, a myriad of negative words and sayings telling me to do horrible things to myself. Kill yourself, die, you’re worthless, you burden, what are you waiting for.  

It looked like a prop from a Japanese horror movie.

I felt like I was just cursed.

Cursed by my self.

Cursed by my past.

Cursed by dormant levels of self hatred that I should’ve destroyed years ago but intentionally left for my future self to find on a sad night like this, to finally push me over the edge…one last plunge into the abyss.

I left myself a cardboard chest filled with blueprints for suicide and treasure maps with X’s at the bottom of tall buildings and bridges, or on the pilots of trains.

I threw the notebook back into the box, on top of the dozens of other notepads, notebooks and stray papers, and took it to my currently quarantined room to be examined on another night.

Pour another drink,

on the rocks with a little lemon and Perrier water,

then repeat,

until I’m too drunk to read.




I’m sad and lonely, but I’ll be alright…I have my Johnny Walker.

Every dark age births a renaissance, I tell myself. When my mood swings back to the brighter side I’ll go through my cardboard chest and write some posts about them…The Lost Books or something like that.

Lastly, I hate the title of this post, but I’m too drunk to think of anything better. It makes sense in my head, but it sounds strange when I say it–maybe someone else will have a better one.