I've been thinking of death all day today. I don't quite know why. I just want to do myself in. I don't feel an unbearable weight of misery suffocating me. From what i gather from my experience i don't, technically, have a reason to think of suicide. But i have been thinking about it and quite profoundly.
Thinking, or rather imagining myself spreadeagled on the bathroom floor, my fair fanning out behind my head, creating a reddish gold aureole. A tragic, though formidable expression on my face as though this is a chosen destiny and the fate i have consigned myself to, incontrovertible.
Or conversely, my expression would be totally bland and impassive ,concealing all my complex inner thoughts and ruminations. I often have trouble communicating or transmuting my inner world to the outer. There is a basic disjunction between how i apprehend the world and how it actually is. What the world actually is like is unknown to me and the only hints of its presence become conspicuous by the resoluteness and shock in the countenances of my interlocutors, as though any bit of unsavoury, to them, not me, inner thought i express discomposes them.
I am often told by my analyst to engage more, partake of the real world and not be so embroiled in my unconscious mind. But i see no reprieve for me, nor any restitution in embracing the external world. It scares me, its hard and abrasive edges and inimical people threaten the world i have in my head. If i allowed the outer to be let in i'd collapse because not only would it contravene my prime mode of being but also cut short any becoming i could have chosen for myself.
He scares me too and it is for him and because of him that i deliberate on death. I have a blade in my left hand. I press it gingerly and a tiny cut indents my wrist, a ribbon of blood pours forth, unstoppable. I press in deeper. The sharp cut of the blade against my throbbing vein is sexual, like an orgasm. I have a temptation to macerate my wrists, cut indiscriminately, let all this clotted, withheld blood gush forth in rivulets. I want to bathe in my blood. I want to smell its amniotic tang and feel my nostrils quiver. I want to let out my tongue and lick drops of it, to lick myself into being, into a new shape. A bacchanalian frenzy has seized me.
But i must go about this whole thing calmly. During winter the veins are congealed. So here, i must soak my hands in hot water to liquefy the blood, to render intractable valves and arteries pliable. The one cut gave me ecstasy but there is more to come now. He is not here and that redoubles my industriousness . There, my veins feel warm and throbbing. They quiver with anticipation. They flex their tendons so that one gash would release them, and me ,from the tautened, knotted oblivion of non being.