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D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
I am starting this thread in 'Off topic' in the way of updates and, hopefully, keeping in touch. For the time being. I intended something similar when I first re-joined the forum but realised that it is probably better suited here.

While I have always been what people like to call a 'loner', in the last three years, I have become a recluse. I know it is not uncommon amongst the forum's folk. It is what happens when there is nowhere to go and nothing to do. Thus far, it is my memories, writings and poetry that have kept me breathing. As my favourite poet once wrote, 'Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.'

I found the last few days particularly difficult. Like many, I, too, have read the NYT's, by now, notorious article. At first, it made me angry. I expressed it in a few lines I posted on the mega thread. As time went by, I felt worse and worse. Deeply saddened. Then I sat down and wrote a letter to NYT. I tried to post the extract from it on the mega thread, but it would not let me. So, I have enclosed it here.

I know that the chances of it being opened, let alone read by anyone at NYT, are all but non-existent. I kept on asking myself what was it that made me so upset. Finally, I realised that it was not only the content but the tone of it. Barely disguised loathing. Absence of any attempt at understanding. Disrespect.

I can understand peoples' surprise, even shock, when they first come across SS. Especially if they have never come across anything like it before. I remember when I first stumbled upon it. I stared at it in disbelief. But I kept on reading. The more I read more sadness but also respect I felt. I wrote about it in my very first post … back in March last year. I still feel the same.

Disagreeing, opposing SS or similar forums is not the problem. Dehumanising them to forcibly shut them down is.

I intend to update this thread from time to time.

It would be nice to hear your thoughts.

Thank you.
 

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Callie Arcale

Callie Arcale

It’s a tale told by an idiot signifying nothing
Feb 10, 2021
629
Dear Una

During my darkest moments, when the anxiety, pain and broken-heartedness cause me to almost lose my mind, there is only one refuge left: a few excerpts from my favourite novels, some poems by Rilke, a handful of haikus by Basho - bits and pieces of my former life that have etched themselves into my failing memory like slender threads anchoring me to the solid ground of what once was. I (still) love reading. Reading has been my most faithful companion for as long as I can remember. And I love reading all your posts; they are articulate, compassionate and fiercely intelligent. There is such passion, integrity and dignity in ever sentence, I almost get a high from letting your words enter my stream of thoughts.

Dear Una, forgive me for being selfish and hijacking your thread, but today I am stretched thin ”like butter on too much bread”, or a poor sufferer on a medieval rack. I need to tell you that I am drowning, I need to tell you that I’m afraid - really, really afraid. I sat all morning looking at the noose, fitting in on the door knob, taking it off, all the while having this horrendous knot in my throat. I can’t ctb because there is something important keeping me here, something bigger than me. But I can’t live either… I am so afraid and drowning in my own pain.

Thank you for listening. I had nowhere else to go. ”The one unpalatable to its readership. That the suicide forum(s) not only exist but are over-populated by (…) people because, for the most part, those (…) people have nowhere else to go.”
 
D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Callie my dear,

I have been looking for words I can fashioned into a hug ... a big, warm, bear-hug to send you. On the wings of clouds ... frothy, fluffy clouds sailing across the sky. Everywhere.

You are not selfish and there is nothing to forgive. On the contrary there is a lot to admire. Your writing to start with. Your courage. Your humanity. The fine, delicate tremor of your heart. Like Rilke's verses. I too like him. And I too am afraid ... We all are. Regardless of whether we acknowledge it or not. To be afraid is to be human. As is to suffer. 'There is only one thing that I dread: not to be worthy of my sufferings.' (FMD)

A seagull landed on my balcony ... frothy, fluffy clouds have reached you, he said. I asked if he is sure. Positive, he said. Then flew off as if to say - don't you know that I know skies.
 
D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Something is wrong,

Very wrong. I can feel it. Deep down. Where soul hits the bone.

I wish there is someone I could tell. But there is not.

So I put into words and post it here … maybe someone might read it.


They always say you should go for a walk.

By the sea. To breathe the air. Stretch the limbs.

So I went the other day.

The sea smelled of rotting seagrass, fish and winter.

Its colours green and steely.

A flock of seagulls bickered over scraps of food.

At the part where the beach loops the corner, I turned around.

From heavy, wet sand,

A single file of footsteps stared back at me.


footprints.jpg
 
D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Last night, on Christmas Eve, I went to a special place ... sitting in its silence, I wrote a poem about it:



'Under the same dome of summer-blue skies, I walked uphill.

By the same sea, glistening in the breeze like Christmas lights.

As I tucked the holly behind the silver and gold angel and petals of pale-pink roses.

Afterwards, I lit the candle and dug the hole in the soft soil below. To leave the bush-rose of the snow-white hue and my heart in it.

It is all I have
.'
 
Lovequenel

Lovequenel

Elementalist
Sep 21, 2020
806
I never particularly liked reading and my family dynamics only aggravated that situation. I had an older kapo str8 As sister who served a POS bio father's obsession with judging me if I didn't read the right literature. The saddest part of it all is that the abuse and neglect they inflicted upon me left me with nothing to do in life other than sit around by myself, so now I read. It's sad to say but most of the time I feel more emotional stirrings from novels than anything in my real life. I mostly read French books so as to maintain the language since I'm stuck in anglosphere. Anything to get my mind away from this reality and it's harmful, irresponsible hypocrisy. I read books by 'far right' authors and right now I'm finishing something by LF Céline. My life has been so destroyed that reading about a suicide in that novel was an emotional event that made me cry. Thanks 'dad'.

Please carry on. I'm enjoying the thoughts and poetry.
 
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D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
I never particularly liked reading and my family dynamics only aggravated that situation. I had an older kapo str8 As sister who served a POS bio father's obsession with judging me if I didn't read the right literature. The saddest part of it all is that the abuse and neglect they inflicted upon me left me with nothing to do in life other than sit around by myself, so now I read. It's sad to say but most of the time I feel more emotional stirrings from novels than anything in my real life. I mostly read French books so as to maintain the language since I'm stuck in anglosphere. Anything to get my mind away from this reality and it's harmful, irresponsible hypocrisy. I read books by 'far right' authors and right now I'm finishing something by LF Céline. My life has been so destroyed that reading about a suicide in that novel was an emotional event that made me cry. Thanks 'dad'.

Please carry on. I'm enjoying the thoughts and poetry.

Dear @Lovequenel

I am very sorry to hear about your ordeal ... having to endure abuse and neglect is horrific. At any age but especially when young. I am sorry.

It has long been my view that words matter. They make our inner most thoughts and feelings visible, recognizable to others. Others that are not us. To that end they serve to reflect our common humanity. It is their primary purpose - to make an impact. To stir the emotion. To provoke the thought.

Although I write in English, it is not my first language. I only learned English as an adult, from necessity.

Thank you for reading.
 
Callie Arcale

Callie Arcale

It’s a tale told by an idiot signifying nothing
Feb 10, 2021
629
I thought of you yesterday, dear @D&D What could Christmas be like, or even mean, to someone who has lost the most precious part of their life? I was wondering whether you’d go to the beach. I see you have, from reading your poem. I have a Christmas candlestick with four red candles, I will light them in an hour or two, as soon as it gets dark outside. I want you to know that when I lit the first candle, I will say your daughter’s name and bless her and you.

Sending you candle light ❤️
 
D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Summer afternoon.

Warm empty hours stretch like an overheated dough between the bed and the balcony.

Sea shimmers in the distance. Dissolving into misty hills and frothy white clouds.

I am waiting to die.

A brown and grey robin landed on the edge of the iron railings. It turned its little round head towards me, then squeaked a couple of times before it flew away. As free as the air.

I smiled. I cried. Asking myself 'why' … over and over again. Endlessly.

Why am I still alive? What am I waiting for?

I know there is nothing and nobody to wait for. I know I am the sole dweller of my own world. The world, my mind constructed as a refugee from the outside world. The world I never found my place in. In either country. But I know it is not sustainable. This sheltered life. I know it is only a pause brought by the slowness of government bureaucracy that has decided to dispose of me some months ago but is yet to finalise the process. When it does, it will likely sever my only income. I will no longer be able to afford the 'room with the balcony'. The room my girl slept in last time I saw her alive.

Why wait for it to happen? Have I not always strived to maintain dignity? At least some of it. Have I not always said that there is nothing nobler than departing with dignity? Including, and especially without being 'pushed' in any way.

But the voice inside my head pipes in again. Reminding me of the letter from, apparently, prestigious writing faculty. Where entry is competitive. They offered me a place. Starting late February. Why? Why do it? I can hardly walk there. I tried last night. After the sun went down and the air cooled a bit. Gasping for air while climbing up the steep street. A flock of girls in summer shorts passed by. They were laughing. As they should. I sat on the edge of a brick wall separating two walkways and cried. For my girl. For the laugh she had. Cascading. Like a waterfall.


How can I even think to put it into words …? I the woman that caused all the harm. It makes no difference whether I was aware of it or not at the time. No difference at all. The voice inside my head asks if I am not too ashamed to wallow in self-flagellation. It sneers. It tells me to smash my skull with a large rock lying on the side of the street. I reach for the rock. The small boy runs from the house opposite. He is chasing a new looking ball rolling down the hill. I watched him catching up with it a few steps further when the metal cover of a water hydrant stopped it. The little boy picked the ball up. It has black and white pow prints all over it. Like from a story about 100 Dalmatians. I remember reading it to my girl before bed when she was tiny. The boy's father is coming towards him. The little boy is smiling.

I walked down to look for a bus. But there were none. The empty city streets lying open before me. Curving in every direction like snakes. Baking in the last remaining heat.

My limbs felt as if filled with liquified iron. Walking home, I cursed the voice in my head, my words and my traitorous, cowardly heart.
Then wrote a letter to my favourite (dead) poet.

As dawn started to break, the voice returned. It told me to check on N. It cost lots of money after all. It is a privilege to have it. I must not let it go to waste.
 
Callie Arcale

Callie Arcale

It’s a tale told by an idiot signifying nothing
Feb 10, 2021
629
This sheltered life. I know it is only a pause brought by the slowness of government bureaucracy that has decided to dispose of me some months ago but is yet to finalise the process.

I find myself in a similar situation. I still live in my comfortable apartment where everything is familiar and exactly as I want it. I remember the day I went downtown to choose the flowery papperwall, I remember buying the bedroom velvet curtains at the department store in the city center, and even unpacking and putting together the IKEA shelf. I was healthy then.

Things don’t really matter. I can’t take things with me when I die, but I’d like to spend what time I have on this Earth in the comfort of my home, where I feel sheltered

Alas, that might not be possible as the Insurance Company is threatening to cut off my benefits, despite having received all the papers from my doctor’s office stating my disability. They claim ”I cannot prove” I am as ill as I am, because ME/CFS can only be tested in research centers. So in January or February they want me to make a two-hour journey to their headquarters so a doctor can ”test” me. I will be asked to carry a 5 kg weight and walk up some stairs. Just to give you some perspective: most days I can’t even stand up long enough to brush my teeth, I do it lying down… I understand there are people who abuse the system, but it still feels like torture and quite frankly an insult to my human dignity, to be asked to collapse in front of a medical professional in order to prove something. I am deeply distraught and I don’t think I will do it. The trip there will be enough to deplete all my energy, so I probably won’t even be able to talk. The only problem is that all effort makes me feel very, very sick for weeks and months afterwards. It’s the hallmark of my diagnosis, something called post-exertional malaise. So going there is sure to cost a very high price and even lower my already low activity level permanently.

They offered me a place. Starting late February. Why? Why do it? I can hardly walk there. I tried last night.

If the situation were any different I would offer you my congratulations. But now I am not quite sure what to say.



I sat on the edge of a brick wall separating two walkways and cried. For my girl. For the laugh she had. Cascading. Like a waterfall.

… I am so sorry for your loss, dear @Una…
 
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D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Dear @Callie Arcale

I wish to thank you for taking the time to read and write and to sand you all the strength I can for the painful journey ahead of you. If you decide to do it.

I know how hard it is to have to prove yourself to the medical profession and its busy, detached professionals. I am so sorry you have to go through this ... I wish I can do/say something more, something that could make some actual difference. But all I can offer is a genuine hope that you would have someone who cares with you to help you with it all.

Sending you hugs.
 
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D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Death Is Nothing At All (by Henry Scott-Holland)


Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Nothing has happened.



Everything remains exactly as it was.

I am I, and you are you,

and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.



Call me by the old familiar name.

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.

Put no difference into your tone.

Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.



Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.



Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was.

There is absolute and unbroken continuity.

What is this death but a negligible accident?



Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval,

somewhere very near,

just round the corner.



All is well.

Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.

One brief moment and all will be as it was before.

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
 
Live Free or Die

Live Free or Die

A wise man can always be found alone.
Jan 12, 2022
37
I enjoy your thread here. It makes me feel not so alone. I enjoy writing poems too, but didn't know where to post them. I posted one in the arts megathread a few days ago. Thank you for sharing your writing and thoughts with us.
 
D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Thank you very much @Live Free or Die

It is one of the most meaningful things to hear ... that the words I wrote make someone 'not so alone' - thank you so much.

I always thought that whatever we create, words, art, music, etc. is only worth if it touches, in whichever way, another human being. If it leaves an imprint.

Words are what I turn to ... to write poetry and stories. In English and sometimes in my first language.

I did not know there is an 'art megathred' here but will sure look for it now.
 
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A

anxious_depressive

tired
Dec 21, 2021
12
Death Is Nothing At All (by Henry Scott-Holland)


Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Nothing has happened.



Everything remains exactly as it was.

I am I, and you are you,

and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.



Call me by the old familiar name.

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.

Put no difference into your tone.

Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.



Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.



Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was.

There is absolute and unbroken continuity.

What is this death but a negligible accident?



Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval,

somewhere very near,

just round the corner.



All is well.

Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.

One brief moment and all will be as it was before.

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Such a beautiful poem.
 
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D&D

D&D

Write something, even if it’s just a suicide note.
Dec 3, 2021
188
Tuesday, 18 January 2022. Seventeen minutes past two in the afternoon.

Both irrelevant - the date and the hour.

The edge of curtains shimmer in the breeze, birds chatter in the tree outside, time seeps through like sand in an hourglass.

As I sit and stare. Motionless.

An old notebook by my side ... filled with words I no longer remember writing. No longer recognise.

But for handwriting ... it is mine. I have written all those words. I may not remember them, but I cannot disown them.




Before the Dawn

Eventually, it happens.

Usually after a poetry reading in some obscure venue.

Some smartass corners you in the ridiculously small space between the sink and the door in the public lavatory to ask, like it is the most ordinary thing to be asking perfect strangers, '… what would you be doing if not writing?'

It catches you unawares like when you were little, and your drunk cousin sneaked up on you hiding under the bed and pulled you out by the leg dragging your bare bottom to his lap.

But this is a public toilet, after all.

You can see your face in the mirror above the sink you are jammed against.

Lips painted crimson and stretched in a smile as far as they would go. Almost wrapping themselves around your neck. Like a noose.

So, you keep on smiling and say something like – 'Oh wow, such an interesting question' – because you have no clue what to say. Your brain is frantically searching for something smart and witty. Like a real writer would say.

Still nothing.

Before you could come up with another cliché, a bunch of girls in painfully tight jeans bursts in, squeezing the smartass out.

You wait a few more minutes pretending to fix your makeup.

Then quietly pushed the door open to slip onto the dimly lit pavement.

Walking home, you choose side streets and take your shoes off straight after the corner where the city gives way to steep, narrow roads walled with Edwardian looking homes.

It is then you remember the smartass' question.

One by one, images of all the things you could (would?) be doing if not writing waltz into your vision as lightly as droplets of dust in the sunshine.

Dancing till dawn in sultry bars wearing nothing but a feathered boa, the hue of deepest midnight blue, and purple suede shoes with a ribbon of black taffeta tied in a bow that makes your calves look long and slim.

Drinking red and amber cocktails from exquisitely crafted glasses, so delicate that the tiniest sounds escape from them every time the waiter, rather aloof and sporting long sideburns, passed them to you.

Making love to men whose names you cannot recall but know them only by the smell of their cologne and the way they try to pronounce your name, or the name of the place you told them you are from, which changes as the mood takes you.

Gambling large sums of foreign currency in the company of ageing gentlemen who pass themselves off as members of once distinguished but now almost impoverished, aristocratic families.

Reading poetry on the street corners to passers-by, downtrodden members of the working-class, protesters marching against all-out consumerism, Jihadists, climate-changes, and any number of other mind-boggling things, none of which is within their influence.

Travelling on barges across the old continent searching for the last remaining palaces with princesses still living in them, translucent with innocence.

Running across summer fields full of sunflowers and tiny insects in a yellow muslin dress with tiny forget-me-nots dotted all over it, delirious with joy.

Oh, all the things you could (would?) be doing!

The streetlights are not working again, but you can see your flat's door in the moonlight.

Your feet hurt, and you are glad to be home.

In the same old room, somewhat shabby and lonesome, with silence nestling in corners and only rain knocking on the windowpanes.

Then you put the kettle on and reach for your notebook, dog-eared, and smeared with tears, and ink, and unnamed substances to write it all down.

Before the dawn.