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Dark humour

Tickling ribs by twisting the blade.

Dying? I’ll get to that.

I’ve been thinking about suicide again lately. Not about killing myself. About all the time I spent wanting to kill myself. And about the rising suicide rates across the developed world. And about what help there could be for someone who wants to die.

I blame the Productivity Commissioners. When I spoke to them a few weeks back I was trying to explain how forced psychiatry poisons the well for all users of mental health services. How when I was suicidal I knew I couldn’t seek professional help without risking my physical freedom and medical autonomy. I sure knew being thrown into a locked ward and forced to take unpleasant drugs wasn’t going to make me want to live.

I could have told them what I’ve learned through research. That suicide rates are high and rising. That those who receive mental health services for suicidality are more likely to kill themselves. That it’s been known for almost twenty years that antidepressants significantly increase suicide risk but they’re still routinely given to suicidal people. But why would I tell them what I’ve read when I could tell them what I’ve lived?

What I couldn’t have told them is why I no longer want to kill myself. I can’t tell anyone that. I think I ‘know’ but I can’t articulate it.

Peter Breggin seems right. He often does. When I wanted to die it was because I felt hopeless.

So does giving people hope make them want to live? I don’t know. I don’t have hope. Turns out I didn’t need it. And I don’t want to live. Nor do I want to die. I’ll just take it as it comes when it comes. But I’m not apathetic, fatalistic or nihilistic. It’s more like I’m dissolved. It feels great but I guess I’m coming off a low base.

Sweet dreams are made of this

First Dog on the Moon - smoke

During the Cold War I had dreams that looked like this. Only it wasn’t the bush burning, it was the cities.

I don’t like the Eurythmics. Try the Butthole Surfers.

bushfire dreaming

the death sun descends
the air all blood and ashes
a taste of the end


Not an ideology; a practice.

creation myth

Firstlast there is nothing. The same as everything.

No 0, no 1. No quantity, no quality. No inside or outside. No enclosure, no exclusion. There’s not even any ‘no’. There’s nothing to say.

Then subject and object. The bubbling begins. A fission. A split. Alienation. Creation.

Now things are cooking. Here’s self and there’s other. Bifurcation unbound. Separation, oscillation. Ticks tock. Mirrors multiply. in/out. light/dark. good/evil. right/wrong …

You divide evenly. One for your self, one for the other. Colours cascade across Indra’s Net. Dualism in her fractal finery unfurls, regarding herself with awe.

Something is amiss. It shouldn’t be like this. Halves are astray. Lacerating with jagged edges.

It whirls all around. When you reach out it’s gone. Is it receding or dissolving at your touch?

Inside and outside all looks just like you. At you. Through you. An invisible jelly in the sea of not-self.

I push the waves and they push me. Deforming, defining, drawing front lines. I make the currents. They make me. I can’t float. I can’t sink. I can’t simply be. I swim towards light.

It’s vast. I am my own empty howls. Ephemeral. Unnoticed. Dissolving. Alone.

She comes.

The Other. The Mother. Creator. Destroyer. My madness. My Goddess. I’m embraced. Devoured completed unbirthed.

Firstlast there is nothing. The same as everything.

I yam what I … hang on

When you hear me saying I’m an aspie or a warrior or a hypocrite or a storyteller or an arsehole or a man you can be pretty sure I’m spouting bullshit again, because in that moment at least it’s conceited nonsense.

It doesn’t mean it’s not a sincere expression of the silly historical exhibit in my head that I sometimes mistake for myself. Just that it’s not me. Because right now it’s the objectified, alienated, essentialised bits that aren’t me. I’m the one regarding them, weighing them, labeling them, judging them from my lofty external perch.

I’m doing that to you too, you know.

I’m such an arsehole.

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