Wendell Berry used that title originally, bless his agrarian soul, but I had to use it again.
1) One of my suicide plans is to kill myself by exposing myself to freezing temperatures in a local forest. Since I’m typing this I obviously haven’t done it yet, and lately I have been stable (God only knows why, I need my medication changed badly and no psychiatrists will return my calls. They wanted to observe me for six weeks in therapy before they changed it. Six weeks of night sweats, dizziness, suicidal thoughts, etc — yeah, no. I need to find something else.)
Drawbacks to this method: wild animals will probably gnaw me apart before anyone finds me. That’s distressing. I don’t want my death to upset anyone in an “oh my God I can never unsee that I’m traumatized for life” way. In spite of said method, one of my favorite activities is walking in the woods. It seems to me the best way to vanish.
2) The prime driving suicide thought I have is that I am worthless and of no use in this world. I am a cog fallen out of a machine and have no actual place IN that machine. I produce nothing of value to the system. People on my facebook and in America in general continually rail about how they have to help pay for healthcare for people like me. Psychiatrists do not see me as worth calling back. There is no return on any investment in me. I am not good for Capitalism and thus am totally expendable. I need help but I don’t want people to feel forced into helping me. I matter to two people in this world: a 4-year-old and a 7-year-old, and they are the only reason coyotes and raccoons are not gnawing what is left of me to pieces in the middle of the woods.
So you might think that walking in the woods triggers these suicide thoughts, but actually I feel like it is the only place where I can belong and feel at piece. The brutality of production and consumption and privilege and ability don’t fucking matter out there. At least in a self-deceptive way I can step into something else that lies outside the system. The forest is more complicated than that. It was originally an estate owned by a very wealthy federal judge who donated it to the public good. The trails are former carriage roads where gilded-agers went on hunts and jaunts. I can force it into a different shape, though. When I walk past the spot where I have planned to go when or if I do kill myself, I can gain a sense of power from the fact that I have walked past it once more. I can control that decision. No one can see it, hear it, or honor it, and it probably wouldn’t matter at all to the system, but I have embraced something outside of it that in a way embraces me in return. So fuck the world.