Blog entry by Alan Chapman
I realise that my blog posts are a sort of suicidal diary, and that anyone who cares about me (goodness knows why anyone would) might be disturbed by some of what I write and attempt to process.
Perhaps my writings will be helpful to others in the unlikely event that I am able to climb out of the hell I've created for myself.
It would be a miracle for that to happen. If it does, then other people in similar hells might draw some hope for themselves.
Meanwhile I assure you that I am not seeking sympathy or kindness. On the contrary, I'm keen and happy to reinforce and justify my self-loathing.
Importantly too, I'm not looking for suggestions or advice for how I might 'get some help'.
I've earned my fearlessness and peaceful preparedness for my dying. Why would I want to sacrifice that, if that's the price of becoming a 'normal' person again.
Many people fear death, so that they, and their loved ones left to grieve, are not ready for it when it comes.
I've earned my preparedness for my dying.
Part of this is that I'm much more comfortable despising myself and everything I've been and done, than wanting or hoping for a recovery.
Recovery to be what?
For what purpose or point?
I see none.
I continue to live because I understand the distress that suicide causes those affected by it.
One moment at a time.
And so I live with my inward loathing and hopelessness, keeping a smile on my face for the outer world, except for highly destructive episodes of attempting to explain myself to people who imagine or remember me to be someone else; to be someone capable of good.
That's not me; good. Never was. Never shall be.
I have however become extremely skilled at being closed to any kindness.
It's how I keep my inward peace.
For over sixty years I tried to live to standards of goodness that ultimately ruined me.
I prefer my new standard of uselessness and hopelessness, knowing that I can comfortably achieve it.
Being nothing. Is the lesson I must learn.