Within the pantheon of suicidal ideation, the action of the suicide itself holds a far lower position than it should. It’s normally the last consideration of the would-be self-killer. My newest fascination has been revolvers. A shiny, silver cowboy gun which I would put under my chin, or possibly in my mouth, and pull the trigger.

“In the mouth or under the chin” is important, and is a much better suicide bullseye than the temple, because if you shoot upwards and slightly back through the brain, you have a far better chance of severing your spinal cord at the base, snipping the brain stem. Hitting the lizard brain which keeps all your organs ticking and your blood pumping. Going sideways through the head is much riskier because it carries the very real risk of surviving, or at the very least prolonging the death.

JFK survived several hours after his head was nearly cleanly destroyed by a rifle round. He was probably given whatever secret vampire-medicine presidents have. Some Secret Service Dr. Frankenstein was probably sewing kids’ pineal glands onto his fucked-up head stump until he finally died. But even without black-site doctors, people survive insane head injuries. I read once about a man who through some insane luck had a metal pole driven cleanly through his head and made a full recovery, with the only change being he became more aggressive and unpleasant to be around. That’s why the brain stem is important.

Upon the moment of death, time presumably stops existing. As soon as you die, everyone and everything else also dies, as you’re not there to perceive the time passing before those things happen. In the same way, your final moment is eternal because it’s where time freezes forever, given that you will never feel time moving forwards past it. That’s one of many things holding me back from making my childish fantasy of blowing my head off a reality. I know my last feeling would be anxiety, as I slowly add milligrams of pressure through my finger and into the trigger. My last thoughts would be when will it happen? When will it go off? What will it feel like? and then a freeze-frame on that for eternity. That’s what Hell is.

So then maybe not the head. Maybe the heart or something. Something fatal, but with enough time passing between the action being carried out and its success-state (my death) that I can sit back comfortably and think okay, it’s done now. I can just wait. But again, that loops ‘round to the anxiety issue. What if I had just put a bullet squarely through my own heart and then instantly regretted it? That has to be common for many suicides. I cannot imagine that a hanging victim solely thinks “this is good” as they asphyxiate, or a jumper doesn’t question his actions as the sidewalk rushes up to meet him. I think, fundamentally, this is why the method of suicide is the least considered part of suicidal ideation for many people. Suicide itself is a grisly act, an act no one should commit. It is murder, after all.

It’s much more fun to think about the moments leading up to the suicide. For me, personally, I picture myself being around a few people. I think that’s innate, the desire for your death to be witnessed, particularly if your death is one final act. The idea of my body being found, bloated, covered in my own shit and piss is obviously undignified. Similarly undignified would be making my death some form of detective mystery where whoever found me had to, through tears, try to figure out what had happened.

I would be in a public space, possibly with a few friends around. I’d say, “Hey guys!” or “check this out!”, then as they were turning, I’d produce a tastefully long silver revolver from an under-the-shoulder detective-type holster and blow my mind away. It would have to be fast so as to avoid making anyone think I had any intention of hurting anyone else. If they saw me pulling a gun out, I think a lot of their final impressions of me would be fear. I’m sure that among that is some sort of spite deep within me, but I can’t quite place it. I love the people in my life, and I know they love me, too. To traumatise them would be horrific, and there’s no doubt in my mind that forcing them to witness a man’s death would traumatise them. Perhaps it’s a desire to “unmask” more than it is a desire to harm. To show them that the real me is the kind of person who would kill themselves for some pointless, bizarre stunt.

Or perhaps the reason why this has remained and shall remain in fantasy is because that “unmasked” version of myself doesn’t really exist. Maybe I want to be the kind of guy who would kill himself in some pointless bizarre stunt. Maybe, fundamentally, I think that if I displayed that kind of weird lack of care for my own well-being, it would make me more interesting than what I am. A kind of poetically tragic figure, like a kamikaze pilot or the monk who immolated himself. But why should I even care? Once the freeze frame hits, I wouldn’t know how people gushed about my interesting performative suicide.

Maybe suicide isn’t for me.