Suicide

Suicide, always the touchy subject. Once you mention it, bring it out into the open, you stand out like red against a field of the greenest grass. Nobody wants to really know, but nearly everyone is willing to blame himself/herself for the death of another.

Death has always captivated me, seduced me into its deepest realms. Tonight I sit calmly in its vicinity, considering everything that my unique relationship with death has provided me. Each sweet caress of death draws me closer, making me long for a final connection, making me want to lie with Death in a bed I make for myself.

However, the relationship has shifted dramatically within the last week. I told my Dad I was suicidal. He proceeded to tell my entire family. They are all pretending that it is no different than before. I had been seeing a psychologist for about two weeks now, and during that time he determined that I was in desperate need of help and medication. He contacted my father with my permission, and I saw a psychiatrist and was put on medication two days ago. On that day, I sat in the hospital, because one of my friends had admitted to their family that they were considering suicide. While my family ignored me, and generally rejoiced for my absence, I was thoroughly blamed for my friend's situation and generally attacked by his family for everything that I was. My friend was released from the hell of the psych ward at the hospital in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and is now living under the most strict of conditions. He is like a caged animal. If it were not bad enough, his mother and sister keep poking, trying to see what he will do next. I hate them so much.

My family beats me down. I do not even know why I continue if not for the promises I have made to Dr. Davison and Ian to survive until the Monday after next and beyond. Tonight I was told I was everything, but something good.

I am, according to my family:
"Crazy," "Stupid," "A bitch," "A whore," and an "an Ass-hole."

I would say that I am alone, but if absolutely necessary I know I could call Ian or Matt. I am tired of this bullshit. The worst part?

It is my first Christmas without my Mom. I have to be here for others and am not allowed to admit my insecurities and inner emotional turmoil. Ah Stoicism, the good old fashioned Poker Face that I place on myself today.

At least I learned one thing from Mom. Never cry. Never let them see that they can hurt you. Never give them that power. So I stand strong, and I pick up the weapon that my comrade dropped during the battle. You would be proud Mom, they do not even see the blood, and even if they did, they would assume it was because the red associated with Christmas. I bleed for you today.

I lift the sword above my head and strike the first enemy against me. I may die, but I will not leave a man on the field alone, and I will not give up on something that has a slight chance being won. I got what I wanted for Christmas already, and that was for my friend to make it, and for me to see this morning. Mom, why did you have to leave me? Why are so many people mean on such a religious holiday? What is the real meaning of Christmas anyway?

For God's sake, I do not even believe that Jesus was God, and I have to put up with this shit.
Oh, before I forget!

Merry Fucking Christmas Everybody.