Another Sad Film About Suicide

What is there to say about the eternal hum in my brain that fires synapses and sends electricity out on jagged paths from one neuron to another. Pushing the proverbial red button that says "Do not push!" That when pushed sets itself on a course of self destruction is not a choice I consciously made. The spiked lines on a heart moniter spelling out the words "STOP! STOP! STOP!!!" are not vocalizing a cry for attention or unwillingness to try. Instead they speak of a war that cannot, must not, be lost yet I am not sure I want to fight. A war which, if won, leads to a future and, if lost, the gentle lullaby of a swinging rope. Everything pushes me close to tears now, things I don't fully understand. The birds in the trees constrict my throat as the image of a black mailbox at the end of our drive burns my eyes. These things aren't tragic or poignant but my overloaded brain cannot bear the thought of tranquility or beauty when so much in me is ruptured and rotting so instead tears roll down my face. I sit in bed at night and watch romantic movies of girls like me except these wilted flowers are too entranced by the burn of the bullet or the ice of antifreeze as it flows down your throat and all the movies invariably end with slashed wrists and a tubful of blood. The utter romanticism of these images, girls who never figured out how exactly to love themselves and therefore ended themselves, leave me thinking of all the times I've counted out delicate white capsules and washed them down with a shot of vodka each and felt the burn of them in my throat just like the tears that will no doubt burn my eyes when all the pills are gone and there's no more alcohol. So I leave myself to lock my doors and stumble to bed and stare at the ceiling and fire runs down my cheeks as I think of what I've done. How many times have I played this out? I can't remember. At least five? Seven? Ten? It leaves me to wonder why I haven't died. You'd think sleeping pills and vodka ten times would leave some lasting damage but the only organ failure I have is my damn brain. One time I started vomiting. I sat by my toilet and threw up blood and soggy powder. I cried so hard my nose bled and I had vomit in my hair and on my face. I slept in the tub that night. Intermittently crying and throwing up until dawn finally broke and I was still alive. Another time, perhaps a month ago, I went blind. A bad drug cocktail I suppose. Don't mix hydrocodon with vodka and trazadone. I could barely walk and my vision kept fading in and out until it went and didn't come back. I passed out on the stairs up to my room then again on my bedroom floor. I woke up disappointed the next morning with sunlight streaming through the window and my mother yelling. But no longer blind. I was sick for days after that. These stories aren't told for pity or attention as some have accused. Instead they are a way to say that my body, no matter what I do, stays healthy but my brain is diseased and languishing in its own filth. But I speculate it will always be that way so what use is a ripe vessel if the contents are spoiled.