Suicide notes: Husband II

You know I never wanted to impress you to begin with. I was only doing my job. Now this is me trying really, really hard to impress you while sticking up the message in neon light that I miss that, that I miss us, that I don't want to give up. From one translator to another. From the newbie to the veteran. How did I do it?

I miss it like centuries of lonely glaciers
inching down to the oceans ever so slow (icebergs),
long before the old mankind thread the earth
there was no one there to admire them, only crustaceans and algae (icebergs).
I miss it like the Titanic, as if they had cut off my balls
a thousand stampeding elephants, killing me little by little.

I'm before the gates of hell,
sailing in the dark an infinite sea is not impressive,
I'm before the gates of hell for you and I know just what to do.


I miss it like centuries of lonely glaciers
inching down to the oceans ever so slow (geysers),
a piano falls down from the Empire State (building),
the kid said the doll was blonde and silly.

I'm before the gates of hell,
oil extraction platforms of unbelievable extension,
I'm before the gates of hell for you and I know just what to do.
I'm before the gates of hell,
surrounded in flames high above in the shadows,
I'm before the gates of hell for you and I know just what to do.

Icebergs i guèisers, Antònia Font.

Suicide notes: Husband

After a few days, some writing and a whole lot of talking to you (and eventually getting you to listen and even answer) I don't feel suicidal anymore. After all it was never in my system. I'm sure it was brought by the meds and the shitty situation that's still not entirely over. Still, I get this urge every now and then, this wish to run away without telling anyone, starting over again and never ever coming back. I reckon thats another way of killing myself. I would be like killing this self that's apathetic and bored and tired and broken and falling out of love with you. I don't wanna fall out of love with you. You're perfect. You're the top, that's why I married you when no one took me by the marrying kind. I've never gone backwards from one boyfriend to another. I've always progressed, one has always bettered the previous in some way. And there is nothing beyond you. I only miss the fact that you don't know how to dance, but come on, there is no dancer you anywhere in this world. That'll be too much. The multiverse would collapse. 

I came to realise our problems started when you moved in with me, only we didn't realised things were changing and our relationship was worse until a good year and a half later, when all your mum's cancer shit and my depression were there to take the blame for it. 

I don't think we should end this, as epic as our arguments might be. I don't think we should divorce. And I definitely didn't want to kill myself because of this. I just think we missed a point and we need to take a step back and look at ourselves. Nevertheless, this started as a bunch of suicide notes so I'm following the lead and keep writing as if this was farewell. Don't panic. It's just aesthetics, love.

Beloved, I lied. It is not true that you're perfect and I only regret that you can't dance. Nobody is perfect and there is one more thing aside the dancing skills that I miss in you. Somewhere between starting to date and moving together you shut down completely. Or maybe you were never the emotional kind and I just didn't realise or I was under a wrong impression. The thing is, now that everything seems to slow down and settle, and we can't blame our problems on ridiculously continuous outside shitstorms, now I realise you're the man in the high castle and God forbid you ever do such a thing as meddle with non fictional emotions. Movies, books, shows, songs... everything's a-ok as long as we don't tackle your mom's death. You're a perfect gentleman, caring and attentive, as long as I'm not in the middle of an existential crisis. If that's the case you're miles away from me, both physically and emotionally. You barely know how to touch me to give me solace when I'm sad. You speak nonsense, you say obvious things or you repeat what I just said with other words. You just don't know how to deal with feelings. Anymore? Never knew? 

We both are beautifully arranged bouquets of mixed feelings about to explode. For us to work you kinda need to know your way around feelings, my dear. One of the reasons I fell in love with you was that you gave away the impression that you got that way mapped out and walked around with your eyes closed a thousand times. So what the hell is going on now? Why is this new for me? Why didn't I realise before? How could this happen? What happened?

I am tired. I am fed up. I can't trust you when I'm at my lowest and I can't trust myself so, what's left? What's left but leaving? You can't help me and I only seem to annoy you so what are we doing?

I don't want to kill myself because of this. I don't want to leave it all behind because of this. But it doesn't help either. And when I'm down, really, really down, the only way out seems to be leaving.

I've been trying to fix it – I've been trying to fix the whole damn metaphorical house – but I can't do it alone, obviously. I need you to come down the high castle and be yourself again. Tear down the walls, lower the gate, fill the moat with sand, let down all defence because you're awesome and there's nothing you should be wary of.

I need you to be once again the guy that could hug me without hesitation and say cheesy but true words when I was in need of them. That self-confident, charismatic fat ass nerd that moved around the office like a movie star. The guy who regularly talked very openly about his own homesickness or how he felt at work with his very manly mates and prided himself in loving ABBA unapologetically, listening to them through his purple headphones.

I remember now, you bastard. You did used to talk about feelings. You did used to feel and acknowledge others feeling things and you were able to discuss the matter. So what now? Come on, please. Please, please, I beg you, please come back so I stop feeling like I should leave.

Then maybe I can teach you how to dance? I don't know much myself but we can give it a go. What do you say? 

Suicide notes: Introduction

I think I better start writing my suicide notes just in case. I'm gonna write them in English 'cause I don't want no one to freak out in case they find them cause you know, in the end I may not kill myself. I still don't know if I want to do it or if it's a side effect from my meds. Scratch that. I've never, ever been suicidal. Nor when I was a little drama queen, nor during my teenage crisis, nor while I was coming to terms with the fact that my so called boyfriend was raping me. I know for a fact that this fucking persistent death wish is a medication side effect. But it's still there.

Anyway. Suicide. That's a biggie. I don't want it to hurt for anyone. I want it to hurt the least possible, hence the notes, explaining everything very carefully. To avoid pain for myself, I'll most surely go for pills and then walk into the sea because, gods, I miss the cold salty water. It used to scare the shit out of me when I was a child but I've been missing its embrace for ages. I've been to the beach these past few years but it was never enough. Too hot, too short, too many people... Never enough. Never achieved the peace.

Then to try and hurt the least the others, I'll leave presents and notes. That's why I'll need time and money. That's why none of them will suspect. That's why they won't understand if I tell them the damn pills are giving me suicidal thoughts.

I'm writing a note for mom and dad because it is, by no means, their fault. And another one for them to read at my funeral, for everyone to understand what mental illness does to people, even to those of us lucky enough to find a loving family and understanding friends and good doctors. I am choosing the music too because I've got control issues. Imagine afterlife's a thing and I have to stand there listening to something I despise or thinking that one song would have been so much better. No way, I am leaving everything set and paid for. 

I'm writing a letter to the platonic love of my life because she already lost a friend to suicide and I would kill myself again if she thougth this is her fault. I'm guessing that's gonna be the longest. I want her to understand that she should be free from all of us she decided to take care of. I want her to live her life at its fullest. I wish I could save her from herself. But, gods, I'm so tired of trying.  

There will be another note for the big sister I never had because she stepped up and took care of me without jeopardising her own well-being and that's an art I'll never learn. I want her to know that I wouldn't have gotten so far without her. 

Of course there will also be a letter for him. I told him I intended to kill myself. He was almost unperturbed by it. He was sad and seemed to asume it was his fault. But he was kind of under anesthesia. I do not know what to write in that one, because I've told him all and everything always and a million times. Still I can't seem to reach him and more than any other thing, after four years of consistently reaching out, this is what seems to be killing me. More than the depression, the bipolarity, our finances, our tragedies or anything: the fact that we are so alike, so in love, so perfect for each other, that every one can see it and still we can't communicate. Still, we are miserable. I don't know how to fix that. I used to be a problem solver. I can't solve the most essential problem to my life: loving him without making each other miserable. 

And yet he told me I had. When I suggested to live in different places while maintaining the relationship to help us with our therapies he was touched. He reckoned it was a good idea. Playing boyfriend and girlfriend, going visit to each other's places… It made sense and we where smiling at each other for the first time in ages. Later, when the light was off he said to me: "Like Nausicaa, you have solved love". I fell asleep smiling, but nothing changed the next day. I am so done.

I need to write so many other letters and make so many arrangements. I need to find a painless way to die and a nice spot by the sea to spend a few days writing and swimming before going. Chose my last clothes. My last feast (not that this fucking meds let me enjoy food that much, and suddenly stoping the treatment would be painful and remember, we are not into pain here). Cancel memberships and accounts and all the annoying stuff that makes you angry at the world when you lose somebody you love and you have to face bureaucracy.   

I'll better get going.