Cat Fight In The Kitchen-Wattpad Rant

Suicide

I’m gonna cut to the chase. If you have issues with this kind of thing, don’t read this rant. Do not. We’re not gonna play the blame game. Don’t you dare tell me I’ve triggered you or that I made you want to hurt yourself. Just don’t.  Stop reading if you’re going to do that or if you even think for a second this might be bad for you. Otherwise, you asked for this shit. You played the cards, not me. Own up to that.

I’ve gotten a billion and two requests to do a rant on suicide and I’ve been purposely ignoring them since this rant book has been posted, but fuck it. I’m trying this thing where I just don’t care.

Because if you didn’t know by now, you’d find out from any number of the other things that I’ve written that I’ve tried to kill myself before. And don’t give me the “oh, Addy, I hope you’re okay” bullshit. It’s over. It’s done. It’s in the past. Obviously, I wasn’t very good at it and I don’t need someone playing the pity card. That’s like digging a grave: in the end it only makes you feel better.

The only good thing that ever came out of attempting suicide is that when people find out they tell me they had no idea that I was even upset about anything. It’s like I’m joking. Like it’s one of my weird social experiments. They all just say I was always so happy they never would’ve guessed. That’s a compliment. That’s why I’m a very unsympathetic person.

That’s why I hate characters that do the whole “I’m dark and misunderstood and have had a terrible life/past/family/trauma” thing. And I’ve taken a lot of flak for that, but it’s true. People tell me I don’t understand depression or abuse or whatever the hell else and blah, blah, blah, because I’m not as sympathetic as I should be. But am I such a horrible person for not wanting to read that?

No, you can’t just get over it and get happy if there are chemicals in your brain that are all fucked up. And I don’t think I’ve ever said that.

I think more than anything I just want to read something that’s actually tragic. Because when I read all these suicidal characters that sit around moping about how they want to die, I just don’t get it. But I guess, I’m just weird, because I don’t get a lot of things. I get that this is probably a weird case.

Dying wasn’t this hugely romantic thing. It wasn’t some sweet release from all my misery. Honestly, I knew it wasn’t going to make things better. I just wanted some new scenery. Some new adventures.

It’s like running away, only you have this slight possibility of forgetting or simply being nothing and that’s what you’re running to.

That’s something I never got: it wasn’t poetic. When I wanted to die, I wasn’t thinking at all about this romantic scene of death. There weren’t grim reapers and blood stains and skulls and crossbones and darkness.

There was me, sitting in my car in December, watching a stoplight turn from red to green to yellow, back to red. And again. It turned from red to green to yellow and back to red.

There was the wet pavement from where it had rained a little and all the lights were shining off it, like it was some kind of looking glass. Like if I jumped in a puddle I’d disappear into Wonderland.

There was a weird disappointment that it wasn’t snowing. It was December, it should’ve been winter weather, but it wasn’t. It was raining and that disappointed me. Thirty-three damn degrees like the world was just teasing us.

There was snow in my pocket and I kept patting it, because it was going to be the one thing I knew I was doing right. And I remember I almost laughed at the thought, because snow is what my best friend would have called it. Because only he would use a euphemism for cocaine.

There was no note or anything. There was nothing to explain and it wasn’t about playing the blame game. It wasn’t about pointing fingers. It was for me and only me and I didn’t have to explain myself.

There was the cocaine I left in my cup holder so that when they found my body and my parked car they’d think I’d been high and jumped off the goddamn bridge. Because I didn’t want anyone to think it was their fault. I didn’t want my family to hate themselves and I didn’t want to give the people I hated the satisfaction of seeing me give up.

There was me just walking over the too tall bridge and falling forever into the too shallow water because I wasn’t high at all and I knew exactly what I was doing.

There was the realization halfway down—the point that is the epitome of too late—that I was making a mistake.

And what happened after that doesn’t matter.

I think that’s what disturbs everyone the most. It wasn’t this intensely emotional scene with tears or anger or frustration. Really, I wasn’t even irrational or visibly upset by anything. I’d been to a party earlier that night, where else would I have scored the cocaine?

It was calm and collected. It was just like falling.

That’s what makes them so sad, aside from the fact that I don’t even flinch about it. That I don’t want attention from it because it wasn’t a monumental moment.

Even in the story it doesn’t matter how I felt. It matters what I did.

And that’s why I dislike talking about suicide and reading all these sad, self-loathing characters. Because it never matters how you feel and it’s not lovely and it’s not romantic. It’s not some irrationally poetic demise with tears from everyone and a sense of emptiness when it’s over.

It’s easy.

I've never read anything other than characters feeling sorry for themselves for an entire goddamn book.

I’ve never read a tragedy that’s just like falling and I guess that’s why I don’t get it.

And for the record, you guys don’t have to be careful what you say to me, or treat me like I’m fragile, or be afraid of offending me. I’m not going to hurt myself because people were being mean to me on the internet. It takes a lot to make me want to jump off a bridge.

Be cool. We’re normal, yeah? Awesome. Anyone have a cool story they’d like to share?