Rango Finito

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So you want to kill yourself. That’s good. That’s PURPOSE. I’m not going to try to change your mind. I trust you: you’ve thought about it and really know what you’re getting into because, let me tell you, death is not easy, nice or final. It hurts like hell and you feel, trust me on this one, that it will never end (and in a way it doesn’t—the agony is eternal). Thus I assume you’ve considered your options and after some analysis you’ve come to the conclusion that dying is the only way out of your current (and most certainly tragic) situation. I am actually kinda proud of you for being so mature and rational about this. I respect you. Most folks come here saying that they want to kill themselves and when I ask if they’ve gone over the prerequisites they’re like what the fuck, boet, I thought you were gonna help me, so I have to tell them that my services are only for those who have done the deeds. I am not really judging them nor doubting their sincerity. I understand my position: they pay, I facilitate their demise. I don’t care if they’re dead or alive, but I want to minimize the chances of regret. It’s happened to me before: they die and then they come back complaining about the aftershit. It’s not as good as they hoped it would be. There is no heaven. I hate the food. The music is cheap. What did they do to my grandmother. That sort of crap. Or they’ve just realized that there was a trivial solution to their stupid personal dilemma but now it’s too late for that and they hate me for having so effectively done my part. That’s what I try to prevent. I don’t like ghosts flying around my room at night, screaming in sorrow and calling me names. It’s exhausting. I already have my wife and children for that.

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Obsesión bidireccional

Le tengo miedo a morirme. La muerte incluso en abstracto me angustia como si al mentalizarla la conjurara. Me atormenta ser incapaz de predecir la sensación física. Odio saber que un día dejaré a Mónica sola. Dedico mi ansiedad entera al rumiar la idea por semanas y pensar opciones. Cuando era niño rezaba para no morirme mientras dormía porque no quería que mi mamá llegara a despertarme y me encontrara frío. Quería controlar las circunstancias de mi partida a detalle tal y como pensaba que controlaba mi vida. Cuando pienso ahora en mi muerte pienso también inevitablemente en el impacto que tendrá en mi familia cercana. Mis esquemas de suicidio, cada vez menos frecuentes, se sumergen por lo general en árboles de decisión insondables para resolver el problema de minimizar el daño emocional producido a quienes quiero. La incapacidad de anular el dolor ajeno me protege de mí mismo. Supongo que eso es común.

También está el terror físico a que los otros se mueran reforzado por la consciencia (estampada a lo bestia) de que la amenaza es real y no hay nada que pueda hacer para prevernir que pase. Ese no me deja ni dormir ni estar despierto.