Incoherently Speaking

Old post that I finally finished.

Woohoo! I have finally changed my blog address! in honour of this change, I figured I should commemorate this momentous event by finishing a post I have been working on since forever. Figured it's about time I attempted to summarise me:

Hi, I'm Incoherent Leigh. I'm a tomboy. Or so they say. I haven't worn a skirt since I left high school. My legs miss the Sun. All the women in my life try so hard. They buy me make up, jewellery, drag me to the salon. I am that girl who blithely leaves her house with her hair 3-days uncombed and flip flops on her feet. Once, I changed into my white tee, shorts, and (bathroom) slippers in the toilet at the reception venue of the wedding I had just attended. I was heading home, I didn't need to be dressed up to do that right? My morning regime takes me 20 minutes. Fifteen on the days I don't stop to moisturise. I love braids because they're just so low maintenance. you just get up, get dressed, and go. I never do weaves. What's the point of carrying hair you can't corn row and forget about?! I do like to dye my hair though. I am forever experimenting with colours. My hair suffers but oh well.

I'm a geek. Or so I've heard. I love video games. I hate sports but I love first person shooting, racing, fighter and adventure games. I'm team PlayStation. In fact, a proper Sony Stan. I love all genres of music other than country and blue grass. I love movies that make me laugh or think, or contain gratuitous acts of violence. I abhor chick flicks and romcoms. They're insulting. I read the romantic genre for a bit between the age of 4 and 6. Then I grew up. Moved on to Forsythe, Higgins, Ludlum. 

I love to read. Feel free to recommend books. It's been a while. I still watch cartoons. Love me some Sesame Street, Fraggle Rock, and Legos. And utterly shameless about this love too. My greatest love is cake and all things decadent. Cake is awesome. So are Baby Ruth, Butterfinger, Snickers, Twizzlers.....gawd! Top it off with ice cream and you have found my nirvana. I love food. Food is awesome. We were put on this earth to eat good food. I refuse to deny myself my earthly purpose!

I love science. Science is so bae.

Found this. Can’t remember what else I wanted to say. I guess I also used to believe in the greater good. Fighting for the underdog. Doing right by everyone. But I don’t care anymore. Something has finally broken and I do not believe it can ever be fixed. I don’t know. Anyway, this is me:

Books
Movies
Cake
Candy
Science

I can literally be summed up by five things

Body Autonomy

The first time I went to a therapist, they put me on suicide watch. At the time, I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. How preposterous to think I would want to end it all. My depression got worse, and I finally got my wish (at the time) and got to move on. It felt like things were getting better...ish. Then things happened and one night, I was ready. I planned in my head how I would get sleeping pills the next day. I knew I was done and ready to go. The next morning, in the brightness of the day, I guess with that cliche hope of sunrise or whatever, I jettisoned the idea.

Then it happened again. But again, I talked myself out of it. There was always a reason. They would blame my mom and I would no longer be there to stand up for her. It would be messy and difficult to clean. I didn’t really want to go...

I had a near death experience. Nosy Parkers reached out because they had somehow convinced themselves it was an attempt. This, despite pharmacology categorically telling them it was absolutely not. But I mean, that’s what antidepressants mean, huh? You are taking them so you can... end things. Fucking morons.

Then two years ago, it all became too much. I stuck through because I did not want to ruin my sister’s wedding. Every time I wanted to, I thought of her and what a damper it would put on the celebration. Not to mention all the lost deposits. Gotta hang on. Until one day, I lost my phone. That was it. Horrible things had happened. My heart was in tatters. I had no idea where my life was headed. But I was willing to stick it through the wedding; until I lost my phone. That night, I took all the pills I had. I wrote emails. I typed up a post.

Didn’t send any.

Woke up the next day. Groggy. Disappointed.

That was my turning point. Since then, there was no reason to live. There was no logic to not ending it. The very next day, in my groggy state, a close friend told me that she (too) was ready to go. I told her that I had tried just the night before and failed. We talked about the disappointment of recovering from a failed attempt; the  disappointment of living to see another day. We talked about options. We also talked about going away together so she could get out of her slump. Just a few days later, I get a call that she was dead.

After the tears and the guilt (did I push her? I had not done enough to talk her off the ledge. Should I have told her family? Did I push her?)  had petered out, came the envy. She figured it out. She went through with it. In all honesty, she had always been that way. Every single one of the dreams she had, she made come true. Her legacy was, and still is, quite a lot of something.

So who was I, to cling to life? What was there to cling to? What is there to cling to?

This desire to go is not a constant. It is an ebb and flow. But every time it returns, it comes back stronger. No argument for life makes sense. I’m old. I’ve fucked up so much there is really nothing I have to look forward to. Nothing redeeming. I am a fuck up at work. I am a fuck in my family. I am a fuck up. I’ve been rejected and unwanted whether platonically or romantically. Only one person would care that I was gone and he’s gay. There’s also that. This unreasonable and frankly idiotic desire to be wanted and loved. The unnecessary need to be all open with someone and be loved back; in both body and soul. To be touched, and fucked, and loved.

Dumb, stupid, desperate shit.

Him, I do feel bad about. The one person who I know for whom I have a purpose. Everyone else will be fine. They may (or may not, I do not fool myself about my relevance)  be bummed for a little bit, but life will go on. I am not that much. And that’s okay.

I am really sorry, L. I love you but I can’t stay. It’s too much and there is no end in sight. There never will be. The same things cannot be happening over and over and it always be everyone’s fault but my own.

And it isn’t just that. It’s not the rejection(s) from employers nor the one from the asshole who feeds his ego with my adoration. I am just done. There is no point to anything.

Now, it is about the planning. I had not really thought a note was necessary. I still don’t. All that mushy dramatic bullshit about being tired or done or whatever. Or being sorry. I’m not sorry. I do not care. I know people will deal. As it is when a person dies, their significance is exaggerated for a brief time, then it will all go back to normal. However, I owe people. And I would really like them paid. It would be awkward to think of money when a person is gone but bills do need to get paid. The amounts are written down. The closest thing anyone will get to a suicide note (other than this).

It’s a lot. If there’s a funeral plan, dispense with that bullshit and use the money to pay these people. Donate my organs and burn the rest. Pour my ashes wherever it suits you and get on with life.
It’s funny, hey. My response to the usual arguments about suicide is that you’re dead. Whatever people are feeling will not matter. Still holds true. But somehow, I would really rather not be in debt. Please pay these people.

I obviously have not worked out the how yet. I pray a lot of nights for an aneurysm or even a stray bullet through the window to end me. I hope I get on a wrong bus and get kidnapped and sacrificed. I stare longingly at traffic and worry that I will inadvertently survive stepping in front of a truck. I have tried to contract corona. I am no longer squeamish about glaringly unhygienic food preparation. My hope for a death I do not actively cause is high. Because, lazy.

I am working harder at designing a proper suicide. I was thinking of starvation, but I would live for 3 months. That’s too long. Although, I could use the time to finish all the books and series I have accumulated over time. But that may lull me into a false sense of positivity. There’s nothing positive.

In this world of “body autonomy” and “consent”, it’s amusing how people balk at allowing others the choice of how they die. We have neither choice nor part in any other thing. Not our birth, not who we love, or loves us back. The continuous expectation is to “accept what life gives you” and “make the most of it”. You must “take the L”. When absolutely nothing is working, you must “look to the future” and “stay positive”. For what exactly? If not to just continue to fuck with you, there really is no reason why society does not let you choose how you want to end things. Understandably, assisted suicide is a bad idea. Murders and abuse can be safely committed under that. But somehow, euthanasia - essentially someone else making a decision about the trajectory of your life is still more acceptable than you taking control yourself. Ain’t that a bitch?

Why do I write this despite my dissing the (*cue thundering voice complete with melodramatic background sound*) suicide note? No one cares why I did it. No one longs for closure or a finality with me. I have no delusions of who I am and what significance I (do not) have. It’s fine.

Anyway, this is for others like me. It is not fair that suicide - ie the taking full control of ONE aspect of your life is not allowed. Can we please choose how and when and where and what way we die? Can you all just allow us one fucking thing? (Oooh! Look at me speaking for someone. Super woke)