On the night of February 6th, I placed a mirror against the wall of my room, sat down on my bed in front of it, looked at myself straight in the eyes, and very calmly slit my own throat.
Earlier, on the internet, I reviewed the essentials; where the jugular is, how long it would take. A mere 1 to 3 minutes, it was written. I bought a very precise tool for the job, an insanely sharp Japanese Santoku knife, it seemed fitting since I was about to perform the honorable ritual of Jigai. I was so indescribably sick and tired of this world, of feeling nothing more than pain every day, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
It took 4 hours. Very calmly slicing one vein after another on both sides. Watching the warm, sticky blood spray across the mirror and running down my chest. I found it both surreal and darkly hilarious when, around 2:30 in the morning, I realized that not a single drop was left. I stood up, looked at all of the red mess everywhere, at the dried-up blackness of my own hands. I had peed four times in a bottle during the ordeal.
I couldn't believe I was still alive. I couldn't stay like this, it was an impossible horror show. I went to the bathroom to get a brand-new bottle of 30 very powerful sleeping pills, which were lethal unto themselves. I finally fell asleep, holding a picture of the redheaded goddess I once loved, thinking it was over. I would wake up somewhere else.
In my last moments of consciousness, there was a vision of Pan. His most abysmal of eyes were hypnotic. As I admired the finer details of his big beautiful horns, like endless spiral stairways, I wondered if this was the afterlife.
I woke up two days later at the hospital. The doctors told my parents that they didn't understand how it was possible for me to still be alive, I had lost nearly all of my blood and then irreversibly poisoned myself. As they transferred me to the psych ward, the female police officer accompanying me gently whispered: "You must have an angel watching over you." No shit.
It took them three days to determine that I wasn't crazy. All they gave me was Tylenol and anti-biotics. I first looked like Frankenstein's monster with the staples keeping my neck together, but the lines are becoming less and less obvious with every passing day. The shrinks were concerned with how "cold and rational" my suicide attempt was, they said it took a "terrible willpower". First time I heard of someone officially being held in a mental hospital for being sane.
One of the more interesting patients here believes himself to be locked into an epic David versus Goliath struggle with every single public labor union on Earth. He also believes that Walt Disney's frozen brain speaks to him telepathically through his quantum computer, a quantum computer he built at home using a solar-powered crystal cube of Atlantean origin, given to him by a Native American member of the Anti-Illuminati Movement. They let him out early without his medication, a whole week before I even got to breath some fresh air. He is now suing the hospital for violating his privacy when they wouldn't let him masturbate naked in his room in front of the window. I'm quite serious.
But I'm free now after merely three weeks of waiting, my trust in the Universe is renewed, and the pain (both physical and emotional) is almost gone. I followed in the footsteps of Alexander, taking a sword to the inner Gordian Knot, which is quite exacting since both Alexander and I believed ourselves to be the Divine Achilles reincarnate. But seriously, now that I'm out of my own personal Arkham, you wanna know how I got these scars?