It’s been almost a year since I tried to kill myself. 

I still remember it really clearly. I remember walking into the bathroom and locking the door, taking the rusty scissors that I’d irresponsibly used to trim my pubes every now and then, and that I’d used for my art projects in high school before that, and dragging the blunt blades across my skin and watching the blood trickle out. It didn’t feel particularly bad and it didn’t feel particularly good when I cut myself. It barely felt. There was comfort in that, I think. 

I’ve had to get reading glasses since then, and I was trying some on in the shop and I grabbed some round, circular frames and as soon as I put them on, the shop assistant was all like, “mmm, no they don’t suit your face at all” and why cut yourself when you can cut ‘Gus’ from Bupa optometry? 

This feels like a psychological breakthrough.

I threw away those scissors the other day, and I feel bad for the life they had…they saw the worst parts of me, they saw the underside of my balls the poor fucks. But the scars on my arms are fading now and you pretty much can’t see them anymore. Also, you can just use a disposable razor to shave your balls much more successfully. Efficient scrotal grooming practices are just one more reason to stay alive.

I feel like I exist in a space between wanting to die and just not being very impressed with living. In the week I ran in student elections, I was watching some porn and it was called ‘The Farmer’s Uncle’ and everyone was fucking on bales of hay and in barns and then a nephew fucks his uncle and that’s a fantasy I’m not okay with. And then the next day I was chatting to some of the Liberal candidates and one of them said that “there are plenty of closeted conservatives you might like” and on the List of Things That I Want to Do, spending time with young conservatives comes right under ‘fucking my uncle’. 

When people find out you tried to end your life they always offer you tea, and I remember one person offered me peppermint tea because it “stops bloating”, and I said “thanks for the tip, when I finally work up the courage to end it, I’ll drink some of this and won’t leave a bloated corpse”. And I laughed, but they didn’t and said that was insensitive and that I shouldn’t joke about these things and I’ve deleted them from my phone now, so fuck them really. 

I saw a guy in the law library and we didn’t have time to have coffee that day but he said that he’d like to have coffee with me when “we’re both less busy and scattered”, and I wanted to tell him that I’m never less busy and I’m never less scattered, and that it’s just how I work now, and scattered is me on a good day, but I didn’t. I just smiled and said, “Yeah, sure. Good idea”.

Sometimes I forget to take my meds and it feels like everything is fading in and out of focus. It’s like that feeling of having a rug pulled out from under you, but all in your head. And you feel like you’re being pulled apart, like your personality is being ripped off of your bones. When I forget to take my meds my head is a sack of pulp. When I forget to take my meds my head is a mess. When I forget to take my meds it feels like that time my boner wouldn’t go down so I jacked off four times in a row and almost passed out from dehydration. 

I remember we talked about suicide in religion class at school and my teacher spoke about how “suicide was so selfish” and I thought about how he taught that whole class with snot hanging from his nose and it seems relevant to mention that he literally had snot hanging from his nose for an entire hour without noticing, so let’s everybody just talk about how my private catholic education was definitely worth the money.  

When I was prescribed my medication the doctor asked me to describe my irregularities and I talked about my shit-schedule for a good ten minutes before she stopped me and said, “no, no, Anthony not that” and the doctor looked so disappointed in me. I was disappointed in me, too. I hadn’t shit properly for two days.

Sometimes I bake when I’m feeling anxious or low or I start to slip again, because it’s comforting to know that you can put things in a bowl and they will just work. It’s nice to make something that works. It’s a good reminder that you’re not as broken as you think you are.