By K

At the heart of a suicide attempt lies not death but the desire to get off yourself.

It’s like you want your soul to be unzipped from your body, detach yourself from the worn out. There is the desire for detachment to the body, to the person, for wishful thinking, that the soul would be transformed into a different person—a person who truly understands how the beaten feels but is not the beaten one. Only then there would be a person who can truly feel for you, be sensitive enough to know how close you want him/her to be for warmth—a warmth that doesn’t breathe down your neck; a warmth that doesn’t snarl you by the ears; a warmth that doesn’t rub you too hard that it hurts more than it heals.

Attempting is different from committing suicide. You have the awareness that when you do commit suicide, you never really unzip yourself from the worn-out body but only the world—your physical existence is gone but not the memory of you. The worn-out is left as a wrinkled body for someone to pick up and mourn over. You become a lingering memory to those who hurt for your leaving. The greatest fear you do have is that, when you do commit suicide, you will make another person feel bad for not being there for you, eventually making that person hate him/herself so much that he/she would eventually want to get off his/her body, too: the origin of another you. You want to get off from the worn-out body, not to hand it over for someone to wear.

On the other hand, a suicide attempt is so much worse simply because it means that you tried and failed. There are those who would encourage you to live. Looking at the mark around your neck, scars on your wrists, or dark rings around your eyes, they would proclaim that it’s a great opportunity to start all over again. A clean slate. If only the worn-out is a cloth to wash, dry, and wear again. The person is what the person was, is, and will be. The person is living, gagged by the life he/she wants off from but couldn’t. The person knows because the person tried and failed.

At the heart of a suicide attempt lies not death but the desire to get off yourself.

When one tries but fails and stops trying, the person can only write about it. A way of getting a part of the person free. A way of making others understand, hoping they would try.


K—, 25 years old, wrote this and will keep on writing similar pieces for better understanding of how it is, however worn out he gets.

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