Went to the loo, Broken Hearted, Paid a penny, All I did was farted. Hmmm, ok, maybe that doesn’t sum it up, but it was fun. 14th July, I took 112 paracetamol, judging by past experince, I thought that would do it, alas not. Because of this attempt, my tenancy was ended, thus making me suicidal and depressed even more, yet somehow I’m not bothered. Coming close enough to dying for my liking made me realise a few things. Mainly, I’m accountable to no one but myself, I carry no guilt, no wrath, no nothing. That brings me to the negatice - I carry nothing. I feel nothing, I’m numb, shell-shocked, I pulled the pin on a grenade, it went off, smashed walls and made me feel free, yet constrained. I cannot say sorry enough to the people close to me, yet I don’t know if it was worth it. Almost worth doing again, might get myself this time. but then having attempted it and seen the effects of people who care about you, I don’t think I could. Suicide is by no means an easy option, I took weeks formulating, planning and implementing mine, just the method wasn’t sure. But mentally, you have to be as tough as anything out there to do that, I have a new-found respect for those that tried, not because they did it, but because it took bollocks. You may laugh, but you try hanging yourself, slittling your wrists, over-dosing (more than 112 paracetamol btw) or otherwise trying to kill yourself. You’ll meet your survival mechanism - overcome that and you know your feelings are strong. Maybe not true, but strong. I always thought suicide was a cowardice way out, it’s not, just different, and we see it as cowardice because we have to clean up after. Well, it’s not noble, it’s not majestic, but fuck it, it’s hard and it’s a way out when all others are closed. The only good thing is surviving, having blown all walls to smithereens, I can rebuild.