In pursuit of dying.

The first time I tried to kill myself I was eight or nine years old.  I must have seen the how in a movie or something, but I knew that you were supposed to take a bunch of pills and drink alcohol.  Oh, but you couldn’t have too much or you would throw up and not die.  With very careful consideration I decided to take three aspirin and have some vodka.  It would have been a cup of vodka, but vodka was gross, so it was just enough to swallow with the pills.  Sure this would do the job, I settled in to die in my bed.  I got my stuffed bunny, Bouncy, and laid down.


When I woke up, the world was magical.  Everything was dark and glittering.  Bouncy and I were still in our bed, but we walked outside to see a million stars in the sky.  There were no people.  All was quiet and peaceful.  No one waiting to jump out at me.  No one mean.  No pain.  Just beauty.  Must be heaven, right?


We climbed a tree and fell asleep.  I figured I’d explore heaven more in the morning.


I woke to the sounds of the morning commuters driving to work.  I was in a t-shirt and my underwear, and had only the stuffed animal I’d deny sleeping with.  Too bad I hadn’t thought to put on pants to die in.  I had to sneak home and back into my bed.


The next time I tried, I took four aspirin and managed the entire cup of alcohol.  That time I didn’t die even for a little while.  I just slept all night.  I decided dying was hard.  Much too hard.  Maybe I wouldn’t die?  Maybe I just needed to try harder.


Over the next few years, there were experiments.  I jumped off a roof, but landed in a bush and was fine.  I took more pills.  There was alcohol, which was successful at stopping feeling, but not killing me.  I collected quite a number of sharp and shinys.  There was the time I tried hanging myself–twice.  Didn’t work.


Maybe dying would be harder than living was.