“The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets through many a dark night.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

I wasn’t much present today in session. My mind felt much like a fogged in harbor. Thoughts, like ships, were lost, unable to navigate the impenetrable miasma. I knew Beatrice was speaking to me. I saw the words form on her lips, yet somehow they got lost. My mind was unable to process a response. It was frustrating. The whole process painstakingly difficult for even the most simple of answers. We talked about the shame, and the guilt about the gun. I could not put into words what I knew and what I felt. I know it will be difficult to let go, as that is what she is asking me to do. In a brief moment of clarity it became clear, I feel sorry I did not remain lost in the psychosis right up until a bullet pierced my skull. I know that is how I feel. But I am ashamed and saddened by that. Is it still just my jumbled lost mind feeding me the wrong answers? Am I really sorry? Do I want to be dead? The answer is yes. I do not wish to struggle any longer. I have reached the limit of my ability to swim against the current which is my life. As the Nietzsche quote makes clear, suicide has always been my consolation. It allows me to go on, when everything is coming undone. It allowed me to purchase and keep a firearm, knowing full well it was the last thing that should be in my possession. I did it anyway, and is gave me solace. It may well have been that feeling which guided my hands in the softest of caresses. I touched her like I would a lover, with passion and love. She was my savior. But she never had the chance. In that single moment, the sound brought me back. I was no longer stroking her. No, I was aiming her stout short steel barrel at my temple. The kiss of cold metal unleashing a firestorm of fear and worry. But most of all, it was sorrow. She could not be my savior, not then, not ever. My heart and mind understood in that moment there was no going back. I could not let her be. I tried to get myself together. to soldier on, and place that barrel back against my skull. But I could not finish it. I wish to god that I had stayed in whatever world I was lost in. I would have left this place, none the wiser. Just poof. gone. all the years of pain, all the times I spent on my back spread at the mercy of men, all the times those who loved me harmed me. It would all be gone. I would not be left in this horrified place, losing completely what little trust I had in myself. I can sit and listen, and try to understand how this is only a reaction to medication. That it is only a matter of time. They say it will get better. But what of the experience I just had? That doesn’t disappear. we cannot pretend that did not happen. Terrified does not even begin to describe how I feel when I replay the memories of that late afternoon. I lost control. Complete control. I have a number of hours unaccounted for. Gone. I found my way into my room, no recollection of how. I held a gun, on my knees caressing every inch of her. In some bizarre ritual. No rush, nothing but the breath caught in my throat and my pale fingers touching her. She was laid out before me, in all her sleek beauty. My heart bounding in my chest, so full of love and desire. I brought her to me. Holding her close against my chest, my lips brushing the front sight. I was ready. We would be together, intimate in the coming moments. I felt the magazine hard and angular in my hand. Pushing it deep into her with a click, She was ready and waiting. My heart was racing. sweat rolled in icy tendrils down my back. I wanted her, more than anything. I could not wait anymore, I was ready. I pulled the slide and released it. SNAP. the round was live in the chamber. Just a trigger pull away. But I recoiled. The sound. It was so loud in the dim silence. I wasn’t aware of anything around me. Nothing, Only that I was holding a gun, my gun. I was holding the barrel to my head and my finger was wrapped around the trigger. My breath caught in my chest. I felt as if I were being squeezed. The room was closing in. Everything was getting smaller and smaller and it was just me and a gun. I wish I had pulled that trigger. But I did not. The voice in my head endless this week, never ending barrage of hateful messages. I know I chickened out. I know he thinks I’m a pussy. how hard can it be to just pull the trigger. I would not have this fear, or this hate, or the self loathing. There would be no questions, no shame, no guilt, no sadness, no disgust. I WOULD BE FREE……


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