Murder Me

Photo courtesy of Doug88888 / flickr.
Photo courtesy of Doug88888 / flickr.

I murdered myself today. It’s nothing that you plan, like a bank robbery or shoplifting. It’s something that happens, the heat of the moment, that one moment in time where instinct and emotions spiral out of control. You’re on the defense. You never plan it. That’s why there is a special word, a frame of mind; a whole field of doctors, scientists and psychology, a legal system built around the ones who do. Those ones who murder with conviction are labeled serial killers. I’m not a serial killer. I’m just a murderer. I’m a murderer, because I’ve murdered myself.

I’ll be honest. I’ve contemplated and thought of suicide many times. There’s been a few breaking points where life and/or whomever you believe the higher power is (for mine it’s God) stepped in and re-directed me back onto the path of breathing in this lifetime. Today, however, didn’t end that way. Today, I let emotions take over and now I’ve killed the old me and moved on to something else.

It first started with spilt blood. The tsunami of emotions, the lack of being able to rely on someone else, the disappointment and full realization that you are on your own and there’s no one else there whom cares enough to help you. It started with emotions and transpired into spilt blood. Regardless, if it was an accident or not, it quickly spiraled into something out of range. I felt the skin cut, the veins becoming loose. Something that sort of looked like blood plasm, or the insides of a jellyfish spilled out. I didn’t know what it was, and then I became weak and light-headed. I did my best to cleanse and cover the wound. I did what I could, but what I could was not enough. It couldn’t cover the heartache I was feeling in my chest, the anxiety that constantly drums in my most inner, deepest thoughts, the ever existent worry “this…” and/or “that…”. I’m at a loss for words, and I’m at a loss for anyone to share them with.

That’s why when it happened, the accident, I let it transpire. I went through all the right fields of doing my best to save my own life. However, there was no true passion, no real sense of urgency. There was no gusto, or the thought that I was going to lose someone I love (myself) because in reality how I could I love me when everyone is always so readily to cast me away? There must be something wrong with me. Thus, I let myself bleed and went off callously, looking for bandages, the right first-aid cream. I took my time, I glanced at my wound. What was the worst thing that could happen, I thought, if I could murder me?

The animals I am so fortunate to have known and be with, would still be taken care of. The friends I have would gasp, maybe one or two would shed a tear at my end-of-life ceremonial. My family would go about for years, maybe even using my death as an excuse to gain sympathy. Work would find a replacement. The associates I know, and the ones I have networked, with would think that it was awful that I had died. They would go home that night, to their family and/or friends. They would tell them my story, and in the next morning I would be forgotten, most likely, before their second cup of coffee.

In many ways I am non-existent as it is. You, as a reader, are just meeting me now. You will forget my story next week. You will think what a pitiful person, whining about their ugly life on an invisible network that we call the internet. I am not whining. I am telling you how it is. Imagine when you will die. What legacy will you have left behind? How many will show up at your funeral or life celebration party? How many of those that you know will actually think of you consistently throughout the year that you died? How many will shed a real tear; and then from those people who have shed tears how many lives can you honestly say that you have touched for the better in an impactful, powerful way?

I would like to say many, but my answer is probably none. It’s not due from lack of trying. I give, but it depends on the individual what they take back. Everything is intention. When I’m coming from a good place it would be nice to say I gave back and helped others for the better, but that is not always the case. It is quite similar to giving a homeless person money. Will that homeless individual put it to good use? Or will they just buy a fifth of Vodka and be out on the corner before their hangover has even began, begging for more supplies and riding off the resources from hard-working individuals, like yourself? It is all about intention. I go out, most days, with the best intentions. I don’t always get good feedback or receive the best rewards, most times I suffer for it, but I know my intentions are good, genuine, and true. If anything I would like to say that I made a better impact in the world, even if no one sheds a genuine tear at my end-of-life celebration.

I’ve been thinking about death lately, because I have another surgery coming up. When I woke up from my last one I had permanently lost half my voice. My breathing capacity has been cut short. I’ll never be able to yell, sing, or talk over traffic. It’s difficult to talk to a cashier in the grocery line. You can forget about going through a drive-thru. That won’t ever happen. Ever.

So when I had an accident today, I let it be. There was no rush. No sense of urgency. Death will come. Today, tomorrow, next week, maybe even a year from now. Presently, I just try to live in the moment. I appreciate little things, like the time I went hiking and found a tree decorated by others with personal trinkets. I like the times dogs come up to me and lick or sniff my face. I love how the wind feels and the rumbles and tumbles of a babbling river. I enjoy the sun shining through the slots of an open window, or when my boyfriend goes out of his way to wish me a good morning. I think about Death and know that it is coming soon.

Every day that we live is another day closer to the end. One day I will murder myself: I’ll have an accident, or my own body will mutate a few cells which in turn will kill me in a form we call “cancer.” One day, I’ll die. I don’t know when, or how many people will show up at my death ceremonial. I do not know how many lives I have touched, and if anybody will ever remember me. All I know is that I appreciate life and that I live with good intentions. I also know that if I am blessed to wake up the next morning and a homeless person asks me for money, I will give him the last of my change along with a pen and a note. The note will state, “We write our own Destiny”. This I believe. I live to breathe and believe.

Skye Stiles wrote this piece for Flux, a forum for those of us encountering adulthood. A recent Seattle transplant, she is a sarcastic, self-deprecating creature who is on a never-ending quest to revive her drunk and slumbering muse. Her best friend is 2 feet high and 3 feet long.


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