Suicide it's a Suicide
Steffon Haaby, May 30, 2005
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It all began when I was ten years old, this fascination with death and the realms beyond. See, I was an imaginative child and had a lot of free time on my hands, so I had time to read about such things as death and ponder such ideas as taking my own life. I was really into fantasy novels like Tolkien and stuff like that and there were so many stories of people being brutally slaughtered and withstanding or coming back to life or being reincarnated and that to me seemed like a whole lot of fun. I knew what suicide was and was taught that if you killed yerself you went to hell. Now that didn�t sound like much fun, not at all. See, I wasn�t sure if I believed in god or reincarnation or nirvana or anything at that point, but I was familiar with science. I had read bits of Darwin (as much as my ADHD addled mind could take) and I was familiar with Einstein�s theory of continuous energy. I truly felt that energy could neither be created nor destroyed, it simply changed forms, so naturally the idea that if a spirit (energy) left a particular body (form) it would be just a matter of moments before it found another form or lump of matter to occupy, a lump of matter which otherwise would be inanimate and dead.
Of course this fascination was not purely scientific, clinical, aesthetic, or what have you, in fact it was mostly just the fact that I wanted to be born again to a different family. I had a lot of problems growing up different, boohoo. My dad didn�t care that I existed and it was easier for him to ignore me, and easier for me to ignore him (whine). My mother was crazy and lived in a completely different part of the country while I sat in my neat little bedroom in San Antonio Texas (whimper). I was pretty alone, and I was actually just content with that, but I had no one person I could consider a friend (sob). I had my books and my music, and that was cool, but it would have been neat to have just one buddy who wasn�t made of cotton paper or plastic (or legos.cry.)
The truth came out one fine family therapy afternoon in a counselors office, because the new paint job and the combination of shitty perfumes worn by my dad, his wife, and the smug little counselor, had acted as a wafting truth serum to my Ritalin addled little head. I told my dad I was interested in death and that I enjoyed playing with knives. The truth shall set you free. I was almost instantly institutionalized and prescribed a drug called meloril (anti psychotic), which actually seems pretty stupid, since I was ten. In the institution I had a really good pal named Eric, and he got me into rock music, which of course changed my whole life.
I went quite a few years without any incidents of suicide thanks to led zeppelin and black Sabbath and metallica and Judas priest and twisted sister. Bands which have been accused of corrupting youth or making kids suicidal. I don�t see it, but hey, are you gonna argue with Reagan or bush? It wasn�t actually until my dad�s little attempted murder fiasco landed him in prison and I moved back to Spokane, WA to live with mommy dearest.
One neat thing about living with my mother was the fact that she didn�t really have any idea what the hell she was doing. She was always marrying different people and taking strange drugs, and screaming a lot, but I thought it was all very funny. She was way too into her husband when I had come back and not focused enough on her sons. I didn�t like this, it was like all of a sudden, I gave a shit that I had a mom, and some prick was keeping her from my brothers and me. I began to get upset and play little games with her and the hubby. Mean games, immature games (I was twelve), fun games. I would go a week or two without speaking and then all of a sudden go all �Harold and Maude� style, with the most real death scene I could manage to create from the cubicle space of a bedroom allotted me as my own private hell. I would wander about in a haze making off color remarks from the side of my mouth about death and after life and Satan. I was just in it for kicks, though.
I had really only seen suicide as a novelty for the fist fourteen years of my life, treating the subject as though it were a loaded gun and just randomly swinging it about in mixed company for shock value and manipulation. When I was fourteen I started to actually have problems that made me think of real suicide.
I lived in a little group home in Spokane for a year and I was treated like a dog in a kennel. I had no freedom, I didn�t get to see my brothers and I was miserable. The way we were treated was enough to make a pacifist snap and start shooting people in the face at point blank range with a very large gun. I knew that I could get what I wanted with my mom by throwing out the S word, so I figured if I tried to kill myself here it would accomplish the same ends. Nope. I was in and out of therapy and psych wards all the way until I was sixteen. By this point I was in Portland and had started taking speed a lot. This fucked up my head to the point of forgetting about suicide for two years. I started taking heroin when I was eighteen and I was just fine with that as well, so I wasn�t dying any time soon. It has been over the last few years that life has held no joy.
I am miserable every day and have been for the past several months. I returned from SF in September 04 and hoped I would be able to get it together for the first time ever in SF. I was wrong. I had started using almost the moment I got back and I had no reasons to live. Nothing was happening with my music, my friends were all gone and I was all fucked up all the time. No job no house blah blah blah cry cry cry. I woke on day with an abscess on my leg and a self loathing I couldn�t bear, and decided that I was sick of it all and decided to try to OD. I got a half gram of heroin and did it all, hoping my lack of tolerance would allow that much to do me in. instead I got really high and sat in one place for several hours without opening my eyes. This to me was good enough for the time being. I have been taking drugs to achieve suicide for a while, but of the past few months I have been using more crack than usual and have become awake again. I hate the way I am living and I know I
am not powerless to over come it, but I just can�t seem to apply myself. My writing isn�t even good anymore. if this is how life is to be, I would much prefer death, but I have just enough hope to go on for another day.
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