Teen Encouraged Friend to Commit Suicide, Police Say : People.com Mobile

http://www.people.com/article/teen-encouraged-friend-commit-suicide-police-say

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If this is true, this girl is one sick puppy — and should be vehemently prosecuted. WTF? And btw, I would argue that you can’t say the girl is his “friend” when she’s ENCOURAGING HIM TO OFF HIMSELF, including telling him to *get back in the car* after he got cold feet (he killed himself with CO poisoning in his car) and got out of it.

The Evil Albino:

I guess I’m torn about this, because part of my wishes I’d had a friend like that. I can’t help but to see it as a form of loyalty. He might have convinced her he wanted this and she helped him through it.

Social Network:

Evil Albino. No friend EVER tells you to commit suicide even if they think you “want” it *except* in cases of “death with dignity” where people help other people Kevork themselves because they’re rotting away with some terrible illness. This kid had his WHOLE LIFE in front of him. If you think a friend would do this, you gotta re-evaluate your idea of friendship, seriously…

I think people have a right to decide to live or die. If I was convinced someone wanted to die, I’d help. I wish the reverse was true.

I’d stay with you in the present but I have a date in my head

In her suicide note, Virginia Woolf writes about the voices in her head:

“…I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices…”

I always presumed the voices were auditory hallucinations, but there are other kinds of voices. Erica Jong writes about

“…the subtle beating of her mind against her mind…”

And then, there are the story tellers, whose fairytales of love and happiness and trials and tribulations bleed right through the invisible membrane between the real and the imagined. I live those stories and I feel those emotions.

And they are real.

Then when reality asserts itself the loss and grief leave me curled up in a ball.

Who is to say it wasn’t those voices that killed her?

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I tie the daydreams up and fill their mouths with rags while the sun is up. I let them out after dark, after I’ve gone to bed, because I’ll be dammed if I won’t allow myself a bedtime story.

But they get loose, maybe I wasn’t quite motivated enough and the knots were little lose. And they come to take me away whispering at first.

Sometimes I shout them down, “stop!”

But after a moment the conversation starts up again, louder. At first it’s just me working through a thought with myself and then, if it’s a love story, I’m having a conversation with him. And it’s lovely.

But of course, incredulity always wins in the end.

These are things he’ll never say, moments that’ll never happen. This love will never be made. Silenced, the world is colorless, empty and lonely.

And I’m ashamed because my life is a fantasy and I wish I had a stream and coat with pockets full of rocks and the courage to start walking.

Yours sincerely, The Evil Albino.

I don’t know what to tell you

I’m angry and sad, and for what? There are no closures to be had. That intensity is just energy meaninglessly burning me down.

I had decided to cut. I had decided that when I got home and I had filled my prescriptions I’d bring out the scalpels and the razor blades and find somewhere discrete to cut.

I bought 20 Cadbury eggs, managed to eat 10 while I finished Blindsight — not the easiest read.

Earlier, before getting the eggs,, when I asked for help, my lies that everything was OK were accepted, no questions asked. Of course they were. That’s how it works. The distance to the other is great enough that it hides your grimaces. It shouldn’t feel like being let down, but it does anyway.

I logged out of everything and no one noticed and no one called.

Because, that’s how it works. You’re invisible even among friends and yet –

I filled my prescriptions and I filled the pill organizer –

It could be hope but it could simply be that I still have to inhabit me no matter how much it hurts. Maybe the drugs will finally cure me of my need to be noticed.

If there was an easy way out, would I take it? If there was a staircase to a tower tall enough with no one guarding its foot and a rail that could be easily climbed, if this tower was courteously avoided to leave existential decisions to be pondered privately and acted upon up to the individual, would I go there?

Would I jump because that option was available with no one shouting me off the precipice and no guilt except what I’ve already taken upon myself?

The part of me that really hates me says I wouldn’t even visit the tower.

Unable to make the decision to improve myself and stick to it, I’m unable to even commit to walking up the stairs. I’m too apathetic to even check out the view.

Suicide would actually be an accomplishment for me.

So really, I’m sorry, I know you don’t get to pretend to be suicidal if you don’t give it a proper go.

Crying and hating myself and thinking about how I could change things and how I don’t, I get to do that.

I don’t get to think about the Caltrain tracks if I don’t at least walk along them for a while. And I certainly don’t get to share those thoughts. Such pretense is pathetic and unforgivable and selfish.

“Hey, I know you wouldn’t call me, but I’m thinking of offing myself, could you, even though I really have no serious intent of going through with it, just humor me and give me a ring?”

I don’t know what to do with myself. Who do you tell and how do you answer “what happened?”, “what set it off?”, and how do you explain that it’s not about the tall guy? How do you not just give up and go home?

How do you say, “Ok, I’m not dead yet and I probably won’t be dead tomorrow either, but I really am having a bit of trouble with wanting to live”?

I wish –

Yours sincerely, The Evil Albino.