This is my narration of some suicidal thoughts I had and as a result, spent a weekend in detox. I tried to give an as accurate account as possible and capture some concrete examples of what I was feeling.
I thought about using this experience as a framework for a fiction story instead of this narration, but decided against it for now. I may redo the narration and embellish it with some fictitious accounts to make it more dramatic, but probably not — that would make for bad fiction — the reader would most likely hear the lies.
So, read this as a factual narration. Some dramatic elements are present, such as; my thoughts of killing myself, putting a rifle in my mouth, I was sent to a detox facility, and I kept the situation from my wife.
The narration is still in progress, this may be a bit of risk to publish prematurely being much editing needs to be done, but I wanted to publish it to get feed back as I went along and hopefully attract more readers to my blog. I will make announcements with each update.
Logistics
I am sitting in a dark bar parking lot, it’s closing time and I am heading home. But, before going home I wanted to test something — the most non-brutal way I can put this is: I wanted to see what the logistics of shooting my self with my rifle were. I had always thought I would have to pull the trigger with my toe, or it would be a stretch for me to reach it, but to my surprise it wasn’t difficult at all. As I dried fired the rifle (no rounds in the weapon) in my mouth, easily reaching the trigger, my next thought was “too easy”, which I said aloud as well.
I have had many suicidal thoughts in my life, but this…this is as far as I have gone — to actually make a plan, to feel the cold steel against the roof of my mouth, the black metal pushed against my teeth, imagining the percussion of the shot and the projectile traveling through my head into my brain. I spiraled into more thoughts of the end. I loaded a magazine with twenty rounds and snapped it into the weapon. I let the bolt slam a round into the chamber. I cleared it causing the round to fly from the rifle into the seat of my truck — picking up the round I roll it between my fingers, feeling the cool steel and appreciating its destructive powers. I perform this ritual in the parking lot for the next half-hour and decided to go home.
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Filed under lostwhitemale, Narration, Works
Tagged as .223, AA, alcohol, Alcoholics Anonymous, ambulance, ar-15, bar, beer, detox, emt, narration, police, prevention, rifle, social worker, state, suicide, The Art of Fiction, ward, works