Journal: Why I'm Electing to Travel (pt. 2):
7 June 2017
I was thinking pretty seriously about suicide a while ago—not currently, but I figure I should write to process those feelings while I’m functioning.
I was laying in bed, earplugs in, meditating on my ideation, appealing to and envisioning that ending fulfillment. I invented a hypothetical scenario: I was standing at the top of a rocky cliff at nighttime and there was a dark, blue lake sitting at the base of the cliff a few hundred feet down. As I stood on the edge, I soliloquized my ending.
“If I jump, I will die: my heart will stop beating, my lungs will stop breathing, my eyes will stop seeing. My limbs will freeze over and my body will do nothing but float there. If it is found, I won’t know about it. As much as I’d like to believe in a system of reincarnation, I have to assume that my death would end everything entirely. And if I were to die, who comes with me? Nobody comes with me; why would they? I don’t even go with me.”
The thing is is that I’ve been down this rabbit-hole before. I’m not stranger to the insurmountable, unquantifiable pit that is suicidal ideation. I know I couldn’t go through with it. Regardless of that inability, a change is needed, and it needs to be on my terms.
With suicide, the outcome isn’t on my terms. Take everything you’ve heard about suicide being the most selfish decision a person can make and throw it out the window. Selfish? Debatable. A decision? Absolutely not. Unless you’ve lived it, it is impossible to comprehend the feeling of absolute reckless abandon that engulfs you when you’re suicidal. There is an honest loss of all control.
This trip will be a sort of suicide, but it’s a sort of suicide where I’m still there on the other side. So I’m burning my bridges, purging my belongings, traveling to change my surroundings, and bringing who and what I want along with me. The baggage, the memories, and the family that triggers and depresses me I’m leaving behind.