Early last year, I stared at myself in the small vanity, flipping between the normal and the zoom faces. I held the cleaver along my neck, sliding it and just thinking about how fragile and robust skin can be.
I had brought up the idea of euthanasia, which is for some reason legal in parts of the world. “Who’s going to pay for your plane ticket?” mama scoffed.
I finally understood my mother’s perspective. Killing yourself is stupid.
With my Skullcandy headphones blasting Porter Robinson’s latest set, I felt pumps of adrenaline rising from the base of my neck. If I wanted to escape this predicament, no one could stop me. It’s not like the hospital where someone is responsible legally if a death occurs: someone must check on you every fifteen minutes.
I was hyping myself more and more, only to hear a Liberty Mutual commercial break the mood.
Add to the fact that my therapist told me to stop contacting her off hours… besides your family, even if you are risking self-harm, she couldn’t afford to care.
If you’re going to die on your own terms, you had better fucking live first.