Thoughts...

I was going to commit suicide once. Was pretty serious about it. Considered it a few times, but this particular time I was really going through with it. Had my gun. Bullets. Alone in my apartment. Loaded the gun. Put it in my mouth.

Couldn't do it.

TV was on. Somewhere in the haze of crying as I tried, but couldn't pull the trigger, I heard the suicide prevention line commercial come on. Took that as a sign. Put down the rifle. Picked up the telephone. Called the hotline.

Someone answered. I started blurting out how I was going to kill myself. That I had a gun. I was ready to do it, but having trouble. I was a mess. I needed help. Just please somebody, anybody, help me. His voice came over the line --

"I'm sorry… but I am just the answering service. If you want, I can take your number and have someone call you back."

I said, "Never mind," and hung up. I sat for a while. I dried my tears. I realized that there was no one in this world for me, but me. I decided to keep going on. But I wasn't happy about it.

Made art about it. Had bullet engraved with my name on it. Put it in a frame with a staged picture of me with the gun in my mouth. Bad poem handwritten next to it. It got some laughs.

It was lost with everything else in 1998.

For a long time, I kept a shotgun slug with my name on it on display in my living room. Ready to pick up and use. Also lost in 1998. Along with my guns.

My going on was meant to be my big "F*ck you" to the system, the world, by continuing. But it has not been.

I did go to counseling now and again. "All in my head," and "I can change the tapes that run in my mind," were the advice. Was given drugs, but they were horrible… bad hallucinations. Couldn't trust what was real and unreal...

A couple times during grad school I considered suicide again. Went to the school doctor. He prescribed something. Never filled it. Framed the prescription. Kept it on display in various apartments and houses for a while. It's put away now. Doesn't seem so funny any more.

My friend recently committed suicide. He shot himself in the heart. He was a sensitive, artistic guy. I see why he did it.

He was also damaged goods. AND he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. A disease, his sister called it at the memorial service/funeral. It was the disease that killed him -- not the gunshot. I see why he did it.

I am looking at, once again, losing my business. My money is run out. I cannot take care of what I am supposed to. I cannot deal with what I am supposed to.

I have two beautiful children. I have a beautiful girlfriend - though she is done with me and I do not think she cares for me anymore. I should not die for them. But I do not want to burden them with my pain and how awful I feel and that I am making them.

My repeating fantasy is recently to have my girlfriend kill me. To hold her hand while she thrusts the knife blade into my heart. I think about pulling a gun on myself. I have one here for it.

But I want to die. I do not want to go on...

But, then… maybe I will.