The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - the living dead



from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

I used to be a loner since forever. A loner and an introvert. I had nothing against being a somehow functional member of the society and, surprisingly, I was part of various groups, sometimes antagonist groups of people. Sometimes I even had people belonging to different groups get together on social occasions and then enjoyed to discussions arisen from the individuals’ discrepancies brought to the surface especially by alcohol. I could always navigate graciously the meanders of social interaction, but never felt that I belonged. Not to any group, not a specific place, not to anyone.

Since I was in my teens, I had this recurring dream, probably like many others: I used walk in a green field or a forest, with no apparent purpose, simply enjoying the scenery and most of the time I met a ‘her’. We would talk and she would clad me with a feeling of security and she would speak my language in a soothing tone. She would simply understand and complete me, and I would be able to share pieces of the real me, let the veils fall, and grow the intimacy of late night hour chats, heart to heart, soul to soul. In my dreams, ‘she’ actually never spoke and more importantly, I never

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Tuesday

God's playground

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

I looked around at people with beliefs: Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Pagans and so on and so forth. They all believe that there is a Heaven and a Hell, and that access to either is granted on grounds of some moral issues, acts if you want. It's not so relevant whether access to either is granted during this life or the other, what is relevant: it always requires some sort of passage ritual, preparation and all, especially the access to Paradise or Nirvana or whatever one may call it.

For me paradise was that day I decided suicide is the key, the answer to all my questions. It was a paradise I didn't know how to access until it was somehow presented to me. Now I realize that I managed to get there myself, on my own, without any help, yet I didn't know what I was doing. It was pure bliss what I felt

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Wednesday



from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

If it's Wednesday, it's therapy day, only today it isn't. I just couldn't pull myself together to get off the floor and do anything. Since Saturday. Most of the time, I curled up on the floor and just lay there, waiting for it to pass. I'm not even sure what triggered this breakdown, maybe a phone call coming from my old friends who tried to cheer me up and take me out for the night, maybe the contemplation of a completely useless social interaction, who can tell? 

What's for sure is the fact that I got this glimpse of a completely useless act I've been tempted to perform or be part of and from there it all went out of control, the void spread in my brain and brought me down with the realization that nothing was really worth trying anymore as if I've seen it all and nothing would matter anymore. So I crawled under a blanket and there I lay for a couple of days drifting in and out of some sort of revery or slumber; I wasn't even sure whether I was asleep or awake. I heard my phone ringing until the battery was dead, and the usual wife beating neighbour from upstairs, but that was pretty much all I can recall.

Then, I had to tend to my bodily functions, so I tried to eat something, but my guts recoiled in horror, so all the food went back the way it entered my body. During my laying there I must have lost control of my bladder, because I smelled a heavy stench surrounding me and my pants were stained and the floor was sticky and covered with some unidentified,

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Wednesday



from the suicide attempt survivor's journal
:


This Wednesday's therapy session started to pull out some interesting feelings and facts from my past which bring me to the idea that I was dwelling in that morbid grey area of life, only I refused to recognize it, apart from it's very surface.

The therapist asked me whether I had encountered suicide as an act ever committed by any acquaintance or friend before in my life. To my surprise, I realized that I've seen death in quite a few forms, either we stood shoulder to shoulder witnessing the sudden proof of mortality, or we had met as antagonist characters on live's stage,  but I never bothered to give it too much thought so far.
Today's chapter might as well be called 'Pride', it's about a girl I used to know. Here goes.

Christie was one of those weird religious type characters. In terms of religiousness, she was holier than thou, if there ever existed anyone like that. She was really serious about the mumble jumble about the one who is actually three and how he came

Today's useless thought



People do really weird things when they're continuously judged instead of just being loved.

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Sunday

My autumn

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:


It was a long weekend. Long and painful and revealing as I try to cope with this reality and my new way of life. At last, I can immerse into the solitude which now I realize has always been there, only I was too afraid to come to terms with myself back in those days. 

I was lonely and I thought that social life would alleviate my desperate craving for something undefined, yet not socially related: being not alone was a smoke screen I put up to mask the need to meet the real me and I did that by feeling I owed something to others (friends, acquaintances). I didn't want to let them down and mostly, I didn't want to be considered weird and marginalized, although deep down I was completely uncomfortable with all that social interaction. Luckily, my concealment skills served my well to create the perfect camouflage so that no one could even get a glimpse of what was hidden underneath my smiling and joyful surface. Inside, actually, I was hurting, mostly for not having

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Wednesday

Journey

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:


Trigger. Yesterday, in therapy session, I managed to regress towards the point that changed my life one hundred and eighty degrees. Ground zero. When I tried to end it and where I managed to start something else instead. Near death. Life.  

Up until now, I was reluctant to even try to remember the day before I took that final step, some sort of anxiety combined with the feeling that I have lost something I will never have again, something very dear and valuable; lately, after disabling all the firewalls I put up in order to able to cope with the environment, it started to feel as if it never really happened to me, so I could try and open up about conditions and other issues that drove me to that point.

After waking up on the hospital bed, I could not remember anything. I remember things prior to my

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Sunday

Ghosts

we are never prepared for anything, but always ready to chase after illusions.

we are always on guard against being hurt, but never really do anything to prevent it.

we are bitter and secluded, we divide ourselves between preparing for pain and the reality of it, because it's most likely to

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Friday



from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

Before trying to commit suicide, I used to be scared shitless for most of the time. Scared of what I am tempted and inclined to do, scared about what I might have lost, scared of what I had or owned, scared knowing that I have constructed a pattern that I wouldn't give up, scared of hurting all the people in my life, scared of regretting doing so, scared of the ensuing anger and self loathing, scared of this entire repeating vicious circle, scared of myself and scared of what's out there. To top that, the self-loathing found new nourishment everyday and the hating myself became my favourite sport.

I wasn't even depressed, I somehow managed to function as an individual in social life, at work, with family and friends, I never gave out any signs of weird behaviour that would raise eyebrows and incite people to ask my whether I was OK or not. Confusion is the least to try and describe what was going through my mind, except for the fact that I couldn't find a reason for all that. I was agitated and my mind raced needlessly through

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Wednesday

Purging fire

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

It's Wednesday again, so it's therapy session time. Actually, it was time for that and I start to see these sessions as some sort of a new torment I need to undergo to achieve something I am not really sure it can be achieved. Plus, they are mandatory. My therapist calls it catharsis, the celebrated process of purging and obtaining relief from strong and repressed emotions. Sometimes I feel that I am not going to make through all this shit, I mean, digging deep into my past to find out whatever took me to take the step towards the point of no return, re-living all those horrendous memories I have tried so much to bury and separate myself from. 

During this session, we explored my resentment and resistance to any kind of authority, especially to any imposed type. My parents were quite nifty in bringing me up; they cultivated my curiosity by encouraging me to ask questions and not to be necessarily satisfied with the answers I got. I used to be the type of child/teenager who could go on forever inquiring about pretty much anything, then annoying the soul out of my counterparts by proceeding to need further explanations as to why those answers would be correct  and not some other variants. This would serve me later, when

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Tuesday





from the suicide attempt survivor's journal
:

Somehow I made it and discovered that I underestimated the animal survival instinct.Weak and unable to retain food, I somehow managed to pass the weekend and got myself out of the bed on Sunday evening. My crazy neighbour was listening to some rap music on his incredibly powerful speakers, so my only thought was that that was no soundtrack for giving in. Pulling myself together to listen to some extreme metal music did the trick. The need to retaliate was stronger than the incline towards self abandonment. If only my therapist knew that. I am focused now, focused enough to start a new week of hating and despising everything around me. We'll see how long it will last.

These last days seemed to be some sort of an emotional hurricane devastating

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Sunday

Path to freedom

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal

On Thursday I turned out to be the worst version of myself of late. I woke up completely paralyzed by the thought that I had to get out of bed and drag myself to work. Seeing people and interacting with them appeared to be the an insurmountable obstacle and only the thought of having to do anything else then curling up in the fetal position under my blanket simply froze my thoughts, sending me into an almost catatonic state. I felt like crying for help, but I had no voice and I had no idea how to cope with the situation. So I simply called in sick to work, mumbling something about bad food and diarrhea. That always works. It appears that others seem slightly embarrassed when they hear about someone's uncontrollable bowel movements, plus they fear there might be a virus or something that can be passed on, so I got my two days off - that would be Thursday and Friday. Well, I got that sorted, now what? 


I was hungry but it felt like too much trouble to get out of my bed and fix myself a sandwich, let alone cook an omelette or anything else. My muscles were sore and I couldn't thing straight. My mind floated in between numbness and sleep, yet my thoughts were rushing as if some idiot user opened multi-threaded processes and left then to run in the background of my brain without any possibility to shut them down. At some point, my mind was racing at such a pace that I couldn't stand it anymore and

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Wednesday

Unknown road at night

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

If it's Wednesday, it must be therapy day. I got out of there sick to my stomach. They said it would help, but it makes me feel real bad. Since I woke up on that hospital bed, I haven't been able to feel anything but shame and regret, regret about how I tried to end my life, regret about being unfortunate enough to be revived, shame about failing myself and the others. I didn't really know which was worse, so I started to accumulate all this

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Monday

Hangman

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

Another day, another deep regret. Lately, I discovered that I have a lot of time for myself and this is really confusing. Before I tried to end my pain, I never had enough time, or so I thought, doing everything I could to run away from myself and ignore all the darkness growing inside. I used to project the image of a happy, easy going and functional individual: going to work, going out for drinks with co-workers or friends, usually eating dinner at some neighborhood pub or bistro, then driving around the country on weekends, visiting sights and all. Keeping myself busy. Not thinking of

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Sunday


from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

Week-ends used to be the highlights of every stupid week. It used to be all bout going out, letting of steam, going crazy with the partying, drinking, consuming various uppers and downers, topped up with some raw, irresponsible sex, all this ending in the sweet pizza and laziness filled Sunday when everything felt almost right, preparing me to face a new boring and unrewarding week.

Now everything has changed. I gave it a try last weekend, going out and all, but somehow the night was deprived of all they joy I used to feel. Actually, I started to see through the smoke screen of constant intoxication I've created in order to avoid the gruesome meeting with myself and getting past that was an immense disappointment. Leaving behind the illusion that I was partying like no one else,

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life -Thursday

That's me in a corner
from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

The day after therapy day has such a bad taste, much worse then the hair of the dog next morning after heavy drinking. No, I haven't had a drink, although I craved one, but there's been so many 'one more and I'm heading home' week nights, that I'm sick of going into the office in the morning all shitfaced and trying to make/fake it until noon with useless hydration and a faulty brain's misfiring neurons causing all the ache and nausea, resentment and regret.

I sat there in my office, trying not to interact with anyone, which is hardly possible when there's D. from marketing always on the prowl for the last gossip. He actually tried to have lunch with me only to try and find out why I've been missing from work on such short notice. Prying little bastard, that one. Nobody knows the exact reason, it says 'medical leave' in the paperwork documenting my leave, so not even one mouthy HR person could guess the real reason of my absence.

God, If i could only bring a a huge trained wolf to work and unleash it

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life -Wednesday

My life is a cage
from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

If it's Wednesday, it's therapy day. Oh, I loathe therapy more than I loathe myself. I believe it's such a sham. Unless you need your brain chemistry altered in order to function properly, I see no need to go and share your most intimate shit with a stranger with a degree, but I digress.

I came out with homework: to try and build up a list of ten things I value in life and/or wish to attain in the near future. Yes, keep me engaged and try to describe what would take me further in this life. Engaged in what? I got the same shit job, shitty mates, shitty environment to cope with, and on top of that, my shitty self to live with. I try to figure out the items on this list and it looks to me that whatever I put down on this piece of paper is simply one more reason to try and end it all, once more an for all. Ah, I love it when I rhyme. Maybe I should try to rap the shit out of my depressive state and become one of those artsy musical artists with an attitude and some mystery wrapped around them. This could be good marketing. 'After trying to take own life, Johnny resets life, becomes rock-star' would read any paper across the country.

As a survivor of an attempt to free myself (suicide attempt survivor), I feel trapped. They want me to comply. "Do this and that and everything it's going to be OK, it only takes some time and patience" and mind numbing - I might add - and more pain, regrets of all sorts and my good friend, the anger. 
It makes me so mad trying to listen to all that shit my therapist had to say, so I asked her if she ever smashed a window just to see it break in to a million pieces and rejoice at the thought that it's a good thing, only misunderstood by so many, hence they call it anti-social behaviour (can't see why, objects are not human). As usual, she avoided a direct answer, mumbling something about me going deeper and exploring that feeling of joy I felt. I answered that I would gladly go deeper down her throat using my hard cock while holding her nose until she gags and teas and saliva juice altogether splash all around when I pull it out and she gasps for a breath of air. Not a muscle moved on her face, yet a vein on her temple was pulsing more vividly. I wonder whether it was with awe or with desire. She is strong enough, this one. She politely announced my that time's up, so we'd be seeing each other next time.

I left a bit disappointed and angry, but I only kicked a bin on my way home; I think someone might call it keeping it under control.


                                                    "Lay your corpse upon a nest of oak leaves
                                                             Wrapped in a star shroud repent your flesh"


                                                                 Wolves in the Throne Room - Prayer of transformation


The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life -Tuesday


from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:
Memories time: A digital relationship.
At times I just love to sit and reminisce about the past and re-live romantic relationships. 'Romantic' is actually a broad term for what I am about to share here, with all of you. Here goes:


It's been quite a while since we've been chatting with lady on some chat app, sending all these messages and funny emoticons and all that crap. After a while not so long, we even started to celebrate some weird anniversary. It was something related to our first digital approach: actually the first message logged by the damn thing. Browsing through the history of the bloody account, we could tell for sure the instant we first made contact. Good for me: I wouldn't have to try and remember this anniversary - the thing was only a click away. Fuck, there was this time when I forgot to click the reminder, but that's another crappy story.

First, there were four months of Facebook friendship. Four bloody months, this thing hit me like a stone. What have I been doing for the past four months? I've been having a virtual relationship. Virtual, not real, in my head, yet my partner existed physically somewhere in this world. Nice paradox, isn't it? Me and my girlfriend: we were a couple, although I've never been lonelier in my entire life. No more going out with my friends, running straight home from the office, no socializing of any kind because all I could see and to was to look at a screen depicting words and images. So I live one life where I moved around my continuously shrinking physical world, then I lived another life - the sitting in from of the scientific marvel called computer and then finally my third life, my dream world of relating to a person/concept I projected rather than knew.

I imagine that she's my girlfriend, she imagines I'm her boyfriend, but we actually do not have a common palpable present, not even a common past. All that connects us are images and words, a pretty picture of everyone of us projected on our empty life walls. We know nothing human about each other: how we smell, how we taste, how we react when we're happy or angry, how we feel pain or joy; and despite all these inhuman connection, we feel more connected to each other than many people, at least we love to believe this.


Four months' anniversary. I sent her virtual flowers. She sent me a virtual bottle of wine. Said she wanted to surprise me although she knew I fancied scotch whisky. I asked her if she wouldn't mind me having a bit too much to drink. She said I was funny. Emphasized it with a winking smiley face. And there was all the thrill, the joy, all consumed using little figures on a screen. These were to replace the expressing of our emotions when added to our written phrases. 
I got drunk and I wanked again in front of the monitor, staring at her picture.
This was our own reality and we couldn't change it for the world, only because we wouldn't know something else. We wouldn't know how to function normally anymore. At least, I wouldn't. At work, I'd rather have sent ten emails than talk to a workmate for a minute. [...............]

For both of us, this was real. Everything else would be unreal, a fantasy. This was all we got so far and we were happy with the way things were, although it was all upside down, making no sense at all.
It all ended the way it began. Everything slowed down and perished, complete with the user name deletion from my chat list. Nothing out of nothing.

Miscommunication, illusions, delusion, projections, lies, fantasies, deep frustration, isolation, alienation and ultimately failure.

                                        "There's no sense, it's all Volta, Ampère and Ohm
                                                Earth to Moon, it's the same as London-Rome." 


                                                                   Theatre of Tragedy - Fragment

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Monday

from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

Sometimes I feel they should call it Mooday. Maybe because I felt a compelling urge to moo at people, seeing them so dumb and irritating in their typical Monday mood, with the same old 'I hate Mondays' attitude, as if their royal entities should be entitle to something better. I  wished I was invisible so that I could practice some good old kancho on their sorry asses, even better, kancho the shit out of their sorry asses, then smearing a bit of brown material on their face and laugh my ass off while enjoying their disgusted, confused and enraged reactions. 

I don't even remember much of how it all went at the office, I was so busy procrastinating and holding back on insulting my co-workers. I actually got tired doing that. It must have been all the concentration and effort I put into avoiding myself, the others and mostly responsibility, so I mentally curled up and zone out all that shit.

This is complete bullshit. I really not up for this. I think it'ks the very first time I actually look forward to my Wednesday therapy session, so I can download all the crap building up inside me into my therapist's lap. Enough for today. Fuck that and fuck her too (but that's another story). NO picture, either!


                                              "There is no hope, why don't you pull the plug?"
                                                                             Chuck Schuldiner - Pull the plug


The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - Sunday

Interrupted. 
from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:
I got it all wrong again. So I went out on Saturday, just as usual, trying to get drunk and not so much and maybe pick up some 'awkward'. By that I mean someone resembling to me: acting all easy going and relaxed, but actually tight and only looking for a shag while feeling completely inadequate. 

I got some mellow social moment instead: the conversation went well for the better of the evening, the stars were all aligned and I felt quite OK. As time passed, I didn't feel the need for sex anymore, just wanted to get drunk and then Uber my ass home. Then,

The Beauty and Grotesque of a Common Life - A suicide attempt survivor's journal

My path
from the suicide attempt survivor's journal:

The worst part when you re-gain consciousness after a suicide attempt is the fact that nothing changed and now you are a complete failure. It's the perfect addition of insult to injury: 'I really sucked at knowing how to live, I sucked at trying to end it'. End. 

In all fairness, something did change. Not that I don't wish to see it all gone, but this time is different. I mean I used to think I was unable to endure it all, so the way out seemed to be the rational thing to do. Now I feel the same, only I wish it all get destroyed, while I witness it quietly.


Suicide attempt survivors need find hope in order to carry on, at least that's what they said in therapy, among other crap. I will carry on (at least for a while) by making sure there is no hope. Existence is futile and meaningless. It's us who believe there's a purpose somewhere, or a higher power, or some afterlife. Since it's called 'belief', anything goes. Once it's well embedded in the brain, we'll try and

Compromise, Relationships and Personal Freedom



A compromise between two parties is usually seen as a way to settle a dispute by mutual concession. It is often used as means to conclude negotiations, settle arguments or simply getting closer towards a common purpose in human interactions. That is, compromise can and is even Recommended to be used in material transactions of any kind.

What I want to explore is the compromise in romantic relationships.
I start by saying there is no such thing, or, even worse, in case there is, it does more long-term damage than anything else (besides crucial faults).

Thing is, a compromise can only renouncing a part of the self in order to please the other. What's in this? Well, in order to reach common ground, each partner has to give up something: this something is a a piece of the self - a sentiment, a desire, a personal secret, a habit - which is very personal and an integrative part of who they are. So far, so good. Each gave up a bit and a common decision has been reached. This something, be it big or small (according to the value assigned by their owner) is seen as a piece that it's being traded against the partners renouncement, in order to reach an understanding.

The problem resides in the fact that

Karma vs. Personal Freedom



The generally accepted definition of Karma is (in Hinduism and Buddhism) the sum of a person's actions in this (and previous states of) existence, viewed as deciding factors for their fate in future existences, or simply put - good or bad luck, viewed as resulting from one's actions.
In other words, careful  what you do, because it will be returned to you later on in some other form. So far, so good. 

Only, some thinkers went even further and merged the karmic principle with physics, more precisely with a perverted Newton's third law of motion, which, in short, states that for every action there's an equal reaction. Now, physics laws apply to (surprise!?) physics, no to fate, no to predicting future and they have nothing to do at all with

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