I’m not a cadaver cooling in a pink bloody broth. No, not at all. When members of my family fairly objected to my suicide post I deleted it along with many others, and then made the whole site invisible. I started to think of pink water as the result not of slit wrists but of one of those pink, exploding, scooting Lush bath bombs. Same feeling, different result.
One of the reasons I had fantasies of being in warm, pink water with the life going out of me is that I live with a lot of pain from the weird condition called fibromyalgia that sometimes veers towards chronic fatigue. Pain would just drift away from me in the pink water, and I could relax and feel normal. Part of the pain is that I don’t even believe I have it. Most people probably don’t really believe it. Why do I care who believes it? I shouldn’t have written about the pink water, at least not in public. But the pain is mine, I own it and I feel it and I get to write about it. I don’t want to hurt anybody else but I want to write it.
Among other things.