I talk about death and dying a lot. It’s part of my nature. If I don’t occasionally voice my thoughts on the subject the thoughts gum up the works in my brain. I meander through my day with a dull pulsing in my temple. “I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.” I silently watch other people going about their own lives, always wondering if any of them feel the oppressive weight of self-loathing I live with. I marvel that they can still breathe through the palpable pain I’m emanating. I envy them, at least on some level. An intimate observer of the many layers of shit in this world, I wonder if it’s warm underneath a mound of dung.

Sometimes, in a less advisable state of mind, I let my morose personality leak onto social media. Last night I posted something to Facebook about wanting to die and it apparently got read by the wrong person. The post was flagged and removed but not before Facebook sent me a super-thoughtful interaction about the places I can find help if I’m feeling down. If only any of those places could actually help. What actually helps me is being able to express my thoughts on the subject without being shamed or hated. People with tender sensibilities getting upset at my mention of suicide obviously don’t know talking about it is healthy. Instead their best solution is to shut me up and pretend it never happened, right?

I don’t think I’ll actually die by my own hand. At least not suddenly. If I get a terminal disease or find myself completely destitute, I might make a plan. The desire to die isn’t connected to not wanting to live. I’m mostly expressing my intense guilt at failing everyone that’s ever invested time in me. I don’t want to waste the space and resources that someone else could use more than me. Almost no one has ever treated me like someone of value. I am always replaceable and my ego isn’t developed enough to defy that notion. If I try to garner self esteem I’m generally met with rejection in some form or another, even from platonic sources.

As a teenager, declarations of hating myself and wanting to die were often part of a melodramatic tirade directed at my parents. I didn’t mean the words because I didn’t understand their meaning. I’m not saying the feelings were false – I think the feelings of children might be more real than anything. The meaning is what changes. Mourning the loss of a loved one changes with age, theirs and yours. I’ve lose a friend to suicide. A friend that was cherished by many, myself included. If he’d known the way I feel maybe it would have stopped him.

If he’d talked about his feelings, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. I won’t ever know. But I think about him every time I want to die. I remember what his transgression left us with. I’m not interested in doing that to the few people that still care for me. If I do get to that point, I’m probably going to say something about it. Maybe that will be flagged and removed as well. Maybe I’m making a cry for help that doesn’t exist. Facebook is just one of the many outlets for connection to a community. How valuable is that connection if we are only sharing the good moments with each other? I don’t identify with my online persona but it is based off a character I play in real life.