Yesterday, I did an induction day for a new agency job, in a fresh produce warehouse. Slavery is a felicitous description for this job: We fill in “fresh produce” boxes with “fresh produce”, all day, from 6am-6, sometimes 7pm; the boxes are designed to sell to lazy middle-class millennials (Wannabe middle-class) living in gentrified areas. Inside information: Workers drop the produce on the dirty floor and still put it in the box, even the manager moans when they do not do it. There are no check ups and nobody really washes their hands. Some of the veg is also off. So, have fun eating the exploitation that your apathetic self surpassed to live in a gentrified town. Anyway….
Four to five separate lines of up to 15 workers per line, something out of a Marxist fiction work depicting the terrible conditions of 19th century plant workers. The managers, supervisors are aloof to tiring reality of the “job”, scolding everyone, shouting to motivate for more “speed”.
When the end of the day finally blessed us with its presence, sheets of “sign out” papers were thrown on each line; workers frantically chased each piece of paper, in haste to get home as soon as possible, looking for their name to sign out. I caught myself saying, “slow-down, guys”. I did want to get home, like everyone-else, but I cared less for life than they did, I suppose; for the only thing that got me through the day proved to be elaborate plans to kill myself.
A thirteen hour thinking session chasing every idea, every move I can make before I end my days on earth. “I should work hard and make sure I leave some money behind just before I die.” But, no, that would make it bad for other people, creating too much of an emotional atmosphere; leaving trails of good “actions” or “kindness” before death by your own hands may deepen the memory of you; we do not want the people we leave behind – friends, family, people you admire – with an emotional stain. Indeed, it will be felt regardless, but there is no sense in deepening it. Perhaps, I should give them some presents a few months before, removing a direct link between my suicide and the presents, money, thus rendering them “just another memory of me?”.
“What is the most painless way to do it”. I cannot do a Heroin overdose because the autopsy may cause some idiots in my parent’s “community” to spread rumours of how I am some kind of druggy and how I always had been. Un-related patterns will begin to emerge: “Omg, he always looked tired, must have been the drugs”. And, like that, the absolute truth that I am a druggy would have been established. God, I remember being defined as a “substance” dependent person for drinking a bottle of red wine once a week – something most young people do. Granted, I would drink alone sometimes; but I was no alcoholic, jus depressed. As for drugs: My friends were always heavy weed smokers, throughout or university years and the two years prior. If I do die, I invite anyone to ask my friend’s what I felt about the whole weed scene: I probably smoked maximum twice with them, hardly even getting high or anything like that. I usually stood outside the car till the smell would go, and would cover my nose and mouth to prevent second-hand smoking. I would leave the room and never enter until the smoke cleared. When I hit the age of 27, the age I am at now, I actually got high, bringing my total up to being high probably seven times my whole life. Did it change anything ? No. I always had the same OCD, depression and anxiety. De facto, I have much more insight now than I ever did and have managed to spot where I had gone wrong – possibly, this is what sent me into the recent rabbit hole, which was not as bad as the one a 16 months ago, but very tiring and hard. I digress.
Perhaps a Xanax overdose ? But I need a hundred of those… Perhaps I will just drown myself in the ocean… Of course, the overall planning needs a lot of money, for I need to buy stuff, help people and leave some money behind for the people I love.
I made a list of things I would by for people before left this godforsaken planet and its system: Some involved inside jokes; others were emotional dedications to memories I had with that person, some of whom I had never met in real-life. But was I being grandiose ? Effecting everyone in some way before I died, drawing attention to myself… perhaps it was pathological, too creative and emotional… I had to limit damage in my plan.
The location always involved a seaside, beach or a cliff looking straight at the ocean; and I would die as the sun was setting, for I do not want to die in the darkness. It will also be during summer; winter always sucked. I will eat well till then, have a decent physique and spend some money on a suite and some clothes and go on a week holiday, doing all kinds of things before I died. Of course, no drugs, for the autopsy would mean: “He was on drugs; that is why he was like that”. And I would be compared to all kinds of crazy people for the rest of my family’s life. Perhaps, I will try overdose on all the drugs and die in the ocean, where nobody can find my body. Lol.
There stood the difference: I, standing there, waiting for everyone to finish before I could sign out, not in haste to get home, un-characteristic of me, while everyone-else hurried to live the rest of their day and have fun doing things. How could this be: Probably the most mentally diseased individual in the whole place was is no hurry to get home from a job that would make the most stable person end up in some European city talking to themselves in tongues, screaming at passers-by, thinking it is their ‘manager’ telling them to hurry up ?!
Suicidal ideation is a relief from life. Knowing that we can die whenever we want is the only thing that prevents us from killing ourselves at that very moment. So, it is not always a bad thing to romanticise and plan for your suicide and think about everyone you leave behind and how you would honour them before you leave: It can give you a chance at an intense observation into your own mind and how you see people. I see myself as a bad person, who had broken some hearts, destroyed friendships and relationships; so, it was apt for me to do the best I can and think of others before I leave. Even though the pain is overwhelming, one spares a lot of thought for loved ones and people who have ever crossed your path. But, were these thoughts a way of making sure I make up for all the wrong I did, all the things I did not do, all the angry shit I said, all opportunities missed, or the fact that I am now a complete loser ? I doubt it. Never did I question my motifs, until the negative inner voice came in: “You could be doing this because you think you are so great and want to be remembered…” Blah, blah.
Truthfully, I do know why, but I do know I have always had empathy and care somewhere inside me, and I can confidently say, empathy and care is sometimes what prevented me from doing things to fix myself. “Oh, I do not want to be in a hospital or see a mental health professional, express how suicidal I am, because it may hurt my family or others.”
Now, will I go along with this so called, half-finished plan ? No. It is just a fantasy that allows a little calmness and distance from my mind while I actually try to live a little and work. but, put it this way: I would welcome a cancer diagnoses that is guaranteed to kill me in the next 11 months. I would refuse any treatment to extend my life and I could die sometime in August, during summer, and have the long 11 months to work, live and do things for everyone. I can drink and smoke without any care. I can actually live without caring about the future, be present and fuck-off any pressure society or anyone puts on me. I can finish a few books and hopefully write a decent novel. It would save me from my mind, the melancholic depression and the constant negativity and worry – and the awful trail suicide leaves behind.