The first time I tried to kill myself I was 8 years old. I don't remember all of the details as to why because there were many reasons. My parents were fighting and, like all kids do when their parents talk of divorce, I blamed myself. I was just beginning the discovery that I was not quite the boy I appeared... and discovering the rejection that came with it. Shame from the parents was intense. My dressing up was so embarrassing, they refused to even once talk about it with me. Even my friends were making fun of me. I was used to classmates (and friends) calling me names, but that summer, I was called a transvestite. I didn't even know what that word meant, and the only words spoken by people that I didn't know were the naughty ones, so I knew it wasn't good. I was really depressed. There were so many reasons I was unhappy as a child, I couldn't begin to list them all.
But I do remember in vivid detail how I tried to kill myself. I even remember finally discovering - 20 years later - why I failed. I remember running away from taunts in the school yard, a full eight blocks, coming home to an empty house. I sat on the floor of the kitchen, which at that time was wallpapered in metallic paisley prints. No shit, my mom could decorate. I sat there in that tin-foiled room and I cried and I cried and I cried.
Finally, thinking I was clever, I left a suicide note scrawled into the cabinet shelving underneath the microwave. Not too obvious, as the shelves were lined with paper... my note hidden underneath the lower-left sheet covering the veneered wood. It read: I hate my life. I want to die.
Having finally worked up the courage, I stood up and opened the microwave door. Now, I wasn't some dumb kid- I noticed that shutting the door on the microwave triggered three latches on the inner door jam. Using a knife and my fingers, I held down the three latches, punched in 5:00 on the timer, full power, put my head in and hit 'start'.
Nothing happened.
Nothing continued to happen.
Now on top of everything else, I felt like a failure. Dejected, I closed the door and went to my room. I was very good at blocking out the pain of life while alone in a room. I don't quite remember what I did, but I know now that I had then stumbled upon a secret of the Zen Buddhists. What I did was absorb myself fully into whatever I was doing at the time. Sounds simple, but if you do it right, hours can pass by in just a few minutes.
And, if you combine that with an active imagination, days can go by. Throw in a little determinism, and decades could pass.
I do however remember dinner time. My little attempt had broken the microwave. Made it short-circuit or something. The parents were pissed. They didn't know what I did to break it, but they knew I broke it. I got grounded. All and all, that day really sucked.
I also remember something like, 5 years later, my mother going into hysterics. She finally had changed the paper linings (along with the wallpaper) and had found my scribblings. I had forgotten to cover my tracks, or, more accurately, I had forgotten I had remembered to cover my tracks. I think there was a shrink involved, but by that time, I had long buried those feelings deep inside and had moved on. I had literally de-evolved and had become less conscious as a coping mechanism. Now I was only interested in things good midwestern boys should be interested in: sports and girls.
Even now, I'm shocked how long that lasted: 25 years. All that time, unconscious.
Funny enough, it was only recently I discovered that microwaves - even those made in the 80s - have a secondary safety mechanism which my 3rd grade education had not yet prepared me for: a magnetic seal had to engage before the circuits would turn on. Of course, in the 80s, no one actually thought the security would try to be bypassed, so when I did it, the resulting effort burned out the circuits. Nowadays you won't break your machine.
Even then, I wasn't as smart as I thought I was.
Now that I have enough education to defeat even the most complicated safety mechanisms, I find I lack the courage to go through with any real suicide attempt. This is particularly ironic, because I know there are some who think I'm exceptionally brave, living as a transsexual and all. They mistake being brave with not having a choice.
Anyway, death is not an option here. I don't want to decompose in Indiana. Since a small child, all I've wanted was to leave this place... and yet... always forced to return. It's like Hotel California here. No, I want to walk out into the ocean.
Here's a fun tip: did you know that drowning in fresh water is different than drowning in salt water? For real!
In a freshwater drowning, the inhaled water is quickly absorbed out of the lungs and into the bloodstream. The water washes away the wetting agent (the surfactant) in the lung air sacs (the alveoli) that helps keeps the sacs inflated... In a saltwater drowning, on the other hand, the inhaled salt water draws blood plasma out of the bloodstream and into the lungs. The subsequent fluid buildup in the air sacs prevents oxygen from reaching the blood, resulting in death. In other words, in salt water you basically drown in your own juices.
Fortunately, if you're out in the ocean, it's cold, so you're probably a little hyporthermic, tired, and disoriented. Unfortunately, there isn't an ocean around here to test out the theory.
