Hurt You More
In defense of elective suicide
A long time ago, a (relatively-speaking) famous guy I went on a date with didn’t follow me back. To spite him, I followed his ex-girlfriend who also didn’t follow me back. This didn’t really help and recently his current girlfriend went viral, so I thought I'd follow her, but then I realized all of this is why I am deeply, deeply unwell.
I live in a Samsara of constant jealousy. I like to dabble in the lives of women who interest me, but that’s probably a nice way to say I am drowning in them.
Other girls on social media. Other girls on Substack. Other girls just fucking annoy me. Anytime they have something I don’t, even if I don’t want it, like somebody’s ugly cock in their mouth - it just makes me angry. So yeah, it finally hit me: maybe I’d like you if you fucked less.
Admitting this is hopefully the first step toward healing. Maybe if I admit that I’m a jealous, vindictive freak I can start drinking green juice and committing to yoga. Or I can show up at schools like an ex-felon and tell kids about the dangers of parasocialism.
Social media has only done me damage. It’s made me believe people might actually give a fuck about what I think or what I offer. It’s like setting a table and propping up little dolls to sit around you. It’s like waiting for the little dolls to return your messages at the tea party, except the dolls are too excellent and noteworthy for you. What were you thinking, reaching out to those dolls? They don’t need you like you need them.
I texted my mom about how I’m a huge loser - I didn’t mention all the schizo stuff I said above, I just said it’s embarrassing to be my age and be in debt from a visit to Cohen Fashion Optical. She told me that one of my best friends from middle school is homeless, asking for money on Facebook. Perspective.
Not a lot of people from North Canton, Ohio make it to the lower ranks of the New York City post production scene, which I guess is perspective. Does that mean this is it, then? I achieved more than any regular loser could and now I’ve firmly cemented my place as an upwardly mobile loser? A loser with a Brooklyn library card and one trip to Mexico under my belt. I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve imagined how, if I’m lucky, my children could really follow their dreams. My parents couldn’t follow their dreams and I only kinda followed mine. Do you see the pipeline? For the record, I didn't envision being at a desk in an office - I went to film school because I did not want exactly that. That’s life, though (for people who can’t afford grad school).
Sometimes I pray to God in my head for a better job that allows me to live a more fulfilling life, but then I feel stupid for doing that. The Israelites used to pray for rain, for their slavery to be abolished - but lemme get an email job and ego stroke, please God please. In general, prayer has become very embarrassing. Hi God, I know I don’t talk to you, but can you please make all the things that make me suicidal go away? I haven’t gone to church and I expect coal for Christmas, but can you show me what I’m even supposed to be doing? Can you make me feel like my life means something? Can you give me one reason not to quit my job, spend all my money, then end it? Is your lack of an answer on this one kind of important thing my answer? Are you testing me, or do you just want me dead?
Maybe I’m wanted dead. In general, I don’t believe my suicide would be a net-negative. It would build character for a select few. I hope it would at least add a tragic backstory to my closest friends and ex lovers, one that would compel them to make great art or whatever.
I read about that young European woman who was allowed to kill herself, but through like a hospital or some European pay-to-die service. I know why the caged bird sings and I know why she killed herself. In so many worlds, I would have already done the same. The world doesn’t happen around me, it happens to me. My ex therapist once asked me what all the crying, throwing tantrums, and being scared gets me and I told her what I believe is true: that I am a jester. The world is a stage. God is an audience - someone who might invest in my show. If I embarrass myself enough, if I debase myself, if I bring shame upon myself - God laughs; he invests. My suffering will end, but only if I am the fool first.
The next part of this essay was supposed to be about how much I love someone and how when I say I might commit suicide, he agrees it’s always an option (which is good, because the truth is good). However, this guy decided to make a really fucked up piece of art that’s all about how much he loves someone else and how cool she is and how sexy she is and how —
I used to have these awful dreams about my ex where I’d be hovering like a ghost inside his room. I could go into his drawers, search through his closet. I would be there when his pretty girlfriend came in, but she wouldn’t notice me. I would levitate around and at some point I'd exit through the window. I’d stare into the room from outside at that point. I remember each of the few hundred of these dreams in vivid detail. They happened for years and years; I felt like I was communicating with the dead, even though he isn’t dead. But he never knew and I knew it all.
This time of year is difficult. There’s a big award show in my industry, but I don’t get to attend. This brings self-loathing and forces me to find new ways to punish myself. I decide on a pair of shoes that make my feet blister and bleed. I get drunk with everyone who actually gets to attend the event, but then they leave. And I’m alone, and I’m way too drunk. I walk outside and the sun is still high enough that going home depresses me (even more). I could walk to The Event happening tonight; it would kill two birds with one stone. I could let my ankles soak my socks with blood and I could catch a glimpse of the guy who’s currently making me cry. It could be so perfect.
I’m walking past the area where local NYC women have been getting punched, but I don’t feel scared of that happening tonight. I have no intention of going to The Event. All I want is to stand across the street and see him smoking a cigarette outside, laughing. Not a care in the world, not a shit to give.
When I was very little, my dad would play Silent Hill while I watched. I must have been really young, because my parents were still together. I remember his character running through the fog, I remember watching him fight monsters. I never liked to play games or play sports - I barely liked to talk. But I have always liked to watch.
My hope is that one day I’m a fucking specter, haunting everything I’ve ever touched.
