Letters from the Lunar Outpost

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
- William Henley, English Writer, Poet, and Critic (1849-1903)

Today, I started wading through the 2,300-something emails (98% spam) that I had allowed to pile up since my original post about my suicidal plans and found enough emails and Facebook replies that I figured it was probably best to explain what the hell I was thinking in making such a post in the first place. I wasn’t trying to leave anyone in suspense or wondering if it was a gag for the last two weeks, I’ve just had almost no desire to do the emails and the Facebook or even boot up the computer, but allow me to explain . . .

Surely, I must be crazy for even posting this kind of shit on the Internet in the first place, but I am an open book. That’s the way I’ve always been. With only 183 unique visitors to that original post, it’s not even like I’ve exposed myself to the world so much as a few friends and readers, but I’m really not ashamed at all to tell anyone my story. I have battled with depression and suicidal thoughts since I was a teenager. In later years, it exposed itself as a penchant to drink myself to death in a slow suicide, but it’s been something I’ve struggled with even before alcohol was a part of the picture.

I don’t post any of this to try to cause distress to anyone who may care, and the last thing in the world I’m trying to do is go fishing for sympathy (ah dude, don’t do that, we love you, you’re such a great guy . . . ) neither one of those reasons would drive me to post any of this. I just have this compulsion for honesty, and whether I’m making these posts for myself and myself alone or whether anyone might ever find any of this interesting enough to read, I’m going to write whatever I may be dealing exactly as I really am dealing with it, no matter how unflattering or bewildering it may seem to some.

But I know I’m not alone in this war that rages inside of my head. When I was in the mental hospital there was a nineteen-year-old girl there named Kristina who devised a plan for a painless self-execution by contacting a chemical supply company, obtaining potassium cyanide and hydrogen cyanide from them, and then while everyone else was gone from the home, she got into her car in the garage, rolled up her windows and mixed the two chemicals in a bucket, basically turning her own car into the equivalent of a death row gas chamber. Thankfully, the mixture went wrong and with her eyes and lungs on fire, she bailed out and lived to tell the tale. Now that’s hardcore. So yeah, I know I’m not alone in this desire I have to obliterate myself, a voice that’s always there, sometimes nagging, other times seductive, but never completely silenced.

So I’m trying to pull myself out of this. The story could end up that I was never really able to pull myself out, in which case, maybe it ends up a cautionary tale for some reader somewhere. Or perhaps if it all ends for the best, who knows, it just may provide inspiration for someone going through the same things I have gone through.

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