Depeche Mode is OK with my suicide, I think.

Some excerpts from their brilliant, painful lyrics:

 

Scum

You’re calling, and you’re falling
And there’s nowhere left to run
And you’re weeping, and not sleeping
And you’re begging for your gun

You’re dead inside, you’re numb
You’re hollow, and shallow
Your empty life is done

Pull the trigger
Pull the trigger
(Hey scum, hey scum)
Pull the trigger
(Hey scum, hey scum)
Pull the trigger

 

No More (This is the Last Time)

This is the last time
I’ll say goodbye
The last time
Then we won’t have to lie
The last time
(All the memories, all our pain)
This is the last time
(All the memories, all our pain)
The last time

Zdzislaw Beksinski was a genius.

His images depict depression absolutely. Let’s form a narrative of how it feels to be a depressed person in a world that doesn’t understand:

“You can’t just stay in bed all day.”

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“Work is good for you! What do you mean, you can’t focus? I’m sure you’re fine.”

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“Are you exercising? Exercise is good for depression, you know.”

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“Well just go for a walk then!”

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“What about music? You used to love playing music.”

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“You think about yourself too much. There are a lot of people worse off, you know.”

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“Maybe that’s what you need, just get out more.”

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Corrupt

Lyrics to Depeche Mode:

“Corrupt”

I could corrupt you
In a heartbeat
You think you’re so special
Think you’re so sweet
What are you trying
Don’t even tempt me
Soon you’ll be crying
And wishing you’d dreamt me

You’ll be calling out my name
When you need someone to blame

I could corrupt you
It would be easy
Watching you suffer
Girl, it would please me
But I wouldn’t touch you
With my little finger
I know it would crush you
My memory would linger

You’d be crying out in pain
Begging me to play my games

I could corrupt you
It would be ugly
They could sedate you
But what good would drugs be

But I wouldn’t touch you
Put my hands on your hips
It would be too much to
Place my lips on your lips

You’d be calling out my name
Begging me to play my games

Self-Harm and Spirit Leaves

Nettle leaves…

From anniesremedy.com: “Called “wergulu” in old Wessex in the tenth century, nettle was one of the nine sacred herbs, along with mugwort, plantain, watercress, chamomile, crab apple, chervil, and fennel.”

Full of serotonin, the leaves hurt when put on intact skin but can feel good when put on injured areas.  Is this the mathmagic of self-harm?  That pain plus pain equals healing, and those who were never wounded can never understand?

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Taylor Mali is a genius

The Entire Act of Sorrow

by Taylor Mali from allpoetry.com

Because men murder their wives every day,
Because when a woman dies and it looks like a tragic accident,
A botched burglary or even, in fact, especially a suicide,
It too often turns out to have been her husband,
I wonder if when the detective called me to tell what happened to Rebecca –
“It seems your wife has taken her own life,” those were the words he used,
Seems and taken her own life,
Not ‘killed herself’ or ‘committed suicide,’ instead
And nothing more than seems, even though she was dead,
I wonder if as I began to cry the tears I never cried when first my father
And then even my mother died,
I wonder if he was secretly taping my every word, my breathing,
The entire act of sorrow.
For playback at some future date,
Just to see if I sounded like an innocent man.
Because later, after the services,
After the shrine of flowers and candles disappeared
As suddenly as it had bloomed on the sidewalk.
After the medical examiner made her final ruling
And I was allowed to break the tape that sealed our apartment
And walk in on her last night,
The scene of the crime,
Untouched except for the window from which she had jumped,
Now closed. But everything else,
The small and final stones of her ritual still lying in a cross on the floor.
Goldfish floating dead in the fish tank.
Even as I bagged and gave away her clothes,
Invited her friends to take what fit if they could to remember.
I wonder if I still, or ever was, a suspect in her murder.
I think sometimes, I should have been.
I don’t mean that I was there, or opened the window for her,
Gathered her screaming in my arms and let her go,
But rather by the small, sad cloud that hung over her
And which rained stinging black and bitter tears on her
Daughter of the Holocaust head,
I knew that she would one day do this.
Even – and I cannot stand myself for saying so,
Even hoped she would
In the same outrageous secret way you hope a dog –
Like our dog, the one she picked out herself,
Because he cowered in the back of his cage
As though he did not expect to be saved from the shelter –
In the very same way you hope to God this dog will die,
Before you have to put him down.