I feel at peace. I no longer feel anxious and disturbed. I'm planning to go tonight or Saturday with a method that's about 95 to 98 percent reliable. I'm about to pack up my house now, and I've already written my notes. I also cleaned up my desk at work last week. I'll leave you with a poem, one that may inspire in you hope or a similar peace as I feel. It's self-titled by the first line.
I'll kill myself in spring,
So I may see the earth live one last time,
And like a bird my body will take flight
To darker depths I've only dreamed of visiting.
But if I let the opportunity pass me by,
Or I still cower in fear at the prospect,
I'll kill myself in summer,
So I may feel the sun on my skin one last time,
And like the end of a long warm day
I will fade into the black of twilight.
But if the beating heat means my body will rot in my bed,
Or that Argentinian guy doesn't pull through,
I'll kill myself in fall,
So I may be reminded of the beauty of change one last time,
And like a leaf I will shrink from the bright green of mania
To the dry wrinkled brown of despair.
But if when I tie the rope I still hold onto hope,
And the world still hasn't grown yet bleak enough,
I'll kill myself in winter,
When I cannot stand the stillness anymore,
And when my body stops shaking finally,
The wicked cold will keep the worms out.
But if I cannot leave the bed,
And suicide just seems too much effort,
I can always kill myself in the spring.
I'll kill myself in spring,
So I may see the earth live one last time,
And like a bird my body will take flight
To darker depths I've only dreamed of visiting.
But if I let the opportunity pass me by,
Or I still cower in fear at the prospect,
I'll kill myself in summer,
So I may feel the sun on my skin one last time,
And like the end of a long warm day
I will fade into the black of twilight.
But if the beating heat means my body will rot in my bed,
Or that Argentinian guy doesn't pull through,
I'll kill myself in fall,
So I may be reminded of the beauty of change one last time,
And like a leaf I will shrink from the bright green of mania
To the dry wrinkled brown of despair.
But if when I tie the rope I still hold onto hope,
And the world still hasn't grown yet bleak enough,
I'll kill myself in winter,
When I cannot stand the stillness anymore,
And when my body stops shaking finally,
The wicked cold will keep the worms out.
But if I cannot leave the bed,
And suicide just seems too much effort,
I can always kill myself in the spring.
