The best version of self-harm, is the kind where no one notices you're doing it. That way, no one can interfere. They can't interfere, because they don't know it's happening. Even if it's happening right in front of them.
Gaara pauses. He knows those thoughts are extremely fucked up. He knows that, he's been in therapy long enough to recognize that. At the same time though, he doesn't care. It doesn't matter. Nothing does. Three or four suicide attempts failed, years of off and on therapy, and he feels like he's made very little progress. He can see that he has, in fact, made some progress, but it doesn't feel like enough.
But what would be enough progress?
He doesn't know.
Largely, he's all right. Comfortable enough, but the desire to die is still always there. It probably always will be. A convenient out. A permanent solution. It mostly fades into the background of his life though. He's unmedicated and doesn't really want to be medicated. Given most things are under control, it's merely a matter of changing his thinking patterns. Perhaps his thinking isn't changing because he doesn't want it to change. Because there's relative safety in the known patterns. He admittedly doesn't like change overly much.
But does he want to continue to feel this way?
He acknowledges that, no, he doesn't. However, at the very same time, he doesn't want to change. He can recognize the errors in thinking, but they seem so very logical and correct, he doesn't know how to replace them or whatever his therapist would say to do.
A frustrating situation.
His next attempt, whenever it comes, will be his final. He will not fail again.
He is sure no one will care overly much when he's gone because he does not matter. He will have done what he wanted to do, and finally achieved his ultimate goal. Hospitalization doesn't change anything. A few days removed, only serves to ignite more anger. A useless endeavor.
Meeting with his therapist more frequently, also likely, would not help much. Well, maybe again, it would. If they meet weekly. Less time to ruminate alone. More effort expended in the effort of change rather than stagnation. Perhaps he will bring it up at their next session.
Though, he really wonders whether any of these efforts will make the slightest difference. Life goes on. With or without him. A job, bills to pay. Why should he continue if there's barely any enjoyment?
And so he sits, as he always has, torn between continuing and his solution.
It's been a very long time since he's partaken in self-harm. As he's sat, thinking, the desire has mostly subsided now, but his thoughts still drift to the different methodologies. He also considers some of the advice he's heard regarding what to do if you feel like engaging in such activity. He can understand how it could potentially help someone, but doesn't feel any of the methods would ease his desires. Perhaps the ice cube, but the marker wouldn't. He had always been admonished for writing on himself with anything. He considers getting an ice cube the next time the thoughts rear. He wonders, if he will remember that though. Probably not.
The problem with life, is getting comfortable. Used to routine. Blinded by those factors, little things escape notice. Little things pile up eventually, becoming an insurmountable wave.
Thoughts receding, he sits and lets music wash over him. Enjoying the songs, the relative alone time.
A single answer isn't the only answer. He knows that.
Not for the first time, he wonders the point of this. This struggle to exist. There is no purpose. Sure, we are free to create our own meaning, but to what end? In 100 years or less, the majority will be but dust, un thought of, unremembered. So then, why? If nothing matters nor ever did, why bother? What does experience do? If given the slightest provocation a want for death is borne anew?
No answers are forthcoming, but he didn't really expect them to be.
He feels adrift, friends, a boyfriend, but still the same thoughts, the same existence. He stares at nothing, Under Your Scars by Godsmack playing softly in the background. He wonders once more, if everything is always doomed to come back to this. Every single time. And why wouldn't it?
Change takes effort. Consistency. None of which he's very good at.
It always comes back to the same things though. Always. Regardless of how many years pass. He's just going in circles at this point. And he's exhausted. Self-harm just doesn't fulfill it anymore. Granted, it might, if he gave in. For a time. But he knows neither of those thought paths are the answer. Irritation pulses through him, but what is there to do but accept that this is life.
Radical acceptance right?
He needs to manage distress tolerance, but is unsure where to begin. Can't remember if he brought that up in therapy with his newest therapist or not.
So much for them to discuss in the very short span of fifty minutes.
A sigh, and he went to make himself a cup of coffee.
The trip wasn't long and when he returned nothing had changed. Small acts.
He gripped his mug and stared at nothing once more. Small acts indeed.
His eyes drifted to his coffee, not really seeing it though.
Caffeine. An indirect self-harm. An accepted-by-society drug.
Second cup of the night. How many more would he have before the end of the night? Another at least. Perhaps two.
He finishes the mug without thought, eventually setting it upon his desk and settling back into his chair.
The same thoughts. Same impulses. Everything is the same, more or less. Few, minute differences. They don't seem to add up to anything significant. Not for the first time, he wonders, when will he make the decision?
It usually goes away. After a bit.
All things fade, after all.