Upon a hanging Body
Dead Girl Walking
- Jan 5, 2025
- 1,002
Suicide isn't dramatic unless you let it be. It doesn't wait for a perfect scene or a poetic note. It comes quietly, and just happens like a shadow that has always been leaning over your shoulder, patiently waiting. You don't think of it as heroic or even sad at first. You think of it as the only thing that makes sense as the only option left to choose.
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐑
Death isn't a moment of tragedy. It's a process, a series of motions, a checklist we follow with precision while life slowly slips away in the room. Some arrive too late. Others arrive just in time. Either way, all deaths leave the same imprint.
I've seen people die of all ages from newborns, toddlers,teenagers,adults and the elderly.
The hospital is a place where people will either fight to live or to die .
You see things that will forever change how you see the world and the people who live in it.
But back to the subject at hand,Suicide is its own kind of routine. You see the patient first, then the panic, the tears, the chaos. Sometimes it's obvious: the overdose, the deep cuts, the fall, the gunshot, the poisoning... Sometimes it's subtle...the collapsed body, pale and quiet, like they've been holding themselves together until the last second. The machines beep ...monitors, ventilators, IV alarms...
Stabilize, Intervene, and Document. We breathe for the living while trying to understand the dead. You get used to the motions, the adrenaline, the sterile efficiency. But the truth never leaves you... suicide will always be the final in a way nothing else is. No one leaves a room like that unchanged. Families come and go, some screaming, some silent, some in denial. You see the weight of their grief before they even realize it themselves. Because I would see it everyday.
What people don't tell you is how impersonal it can feel. You hold an arm while the doctor works. You wipe blood off a face that might never smile again. You measure doses, you push meds, you keep people alive who want to die, and you feel the futility in each action. The irony is sharp because deep down I knew I wouldn't want anyone saving me but yet I would help save so many people. So many had the dead eyes I have , so many emotionally numb to everything.
The room smells like antiseptic and plastic, sometimes of blood and puke... like life and death in the same breath. Reports are filed, charts updated, but the image lingers: a face, pale and still; a hand curled into a fist; a life extinguished.
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐞
The body arrives like any other, but suicide leaves a signature that can't be ignored. Pale, slack, hollowed eyes staring at nothing...just like any other... But the skin has the gray pallor of surrender, cold and unyielding under the fluorescent hum.
The occasional marks of struggle in life , from bruising on the neck, burn marks and scars on arms and thighs.The fingers curl as if still clinging to something ... a hope for peace, pain, regret, it doesn't matter. The jaw is tight, the neck tense, or sometimes slack, telling the story of the final act with brutal clarity.
Life's language has been erased. Only silence remains.
Suicide is honest ... no illusions, no explanations, no more pretending. It's the body saying: enough. The world can continue spinning, indifferent, while this one individual has stepped aside.
I always felt the quiet respect for someone who finally got what the living cannot give: peace on their own terms.
𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡
Each attempt no matter how small and insignificant is a attempt, don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. If you are so low that you make any action to stop existing... it's a attempt.
On that note , I've attempted suicide 57 times .
With 17 times being big attempts and 11 having me ending up in the hospital. I've flatlined 2 times and had cardiac arrest 5 times... but this all just to my own knowledge. Being unconscious for most attempts makes it hard to know exactly everything.
Every attempt traumatized me and just made it that much more appealing to try again... in someways I have a addiction with wanting death just like how I have a addiction to drugs and self harm.
With each attempt I became more and more numb to people around me , nothing has ever mattered except for my own death.
Even now I want to feel my heart stop.
Survival doesn't feel like victory. It feels like a pause ...an extension of the waiting, the unbearable weight that hasn't fully been lifted. Every moment alive is another opportunity to die.
And still, I know the truth: there is a finality in suicide that life cannot offer. A kind of peace that is precise and absolute. Something I long for like many of you do as well.
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐑
Death isn't a moment of tragedy. It's a process, a series of motions, a checklist we follow with precision while life slowly slips away in the room. Some arrive too late. Others arrive just in time. Either way, all deaths leave the same imprint.
I've seen people die of all ages from newborns, toddlers,teenagers,adults and the elderly.
The hospital is a place where people will either fight to live or to die .
You see things that will forever change how you see the world and the people who live in it.
But back to the subject at hand,Suicide is its own kind of routine. You see the patient first, then the panic, the tears, the chaos. Sometimes it's obvious: the overdose, the deep cuts, the fall, the gunshot, the poisoning... Sometimes it's subtle...the collapsed body, pale and quiet, like they've been holding themselves together until the last second. The machines beep ...monitors, ventilators, IV alarms...
Stabilize, Intervene, and Document. We breathe for the living while trying to understand the dead. You get used to the motions, the adrenaline, the sterile efficiency. But the truth never leaves you... suicide will always be the final in a way nothing else is. No one leaves a room like that unchanged. Families come and go, some screaming, some silent, some in denial. You see the weight of their grief before they even realize it themselves. Because I would see it everyday.
What people don't tell you is how impersonal it can feel. You hold an arm while the doctor works. You wipe blood off a face that might never smile again. You measure doses, you push meds, you keep people alive who want to die, and you feel the futility in each action. The irony is sharp because deep down I knew I wouldn't want anyone saving me but yet I would help save so many people. So many had the dead eyes I have , so many emotionally numb to everything.
The room smells like antiseptic and plastic, sometimes of blood and puke... like life and death in the same breath. Reports are filed, charts updated, but the image lingers: a face, pale and still; a hand curled into a fist; a life extinguished.
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐮𝐞
The body arrives like any other, but suicide leaves a signature that can't be ignored. Pale, slack, hollowed eyes staring at nothing...just like any other... But the skin has the gray pallor of surrender, cold and unyielding under the fluorescent hum.
The occasional marks of struggle in life , from bruising on the neck, burn marks and scars on arms and thighs.The fingers curl as if still clinging to something ... a hope for peace, pain, regret, it doesn't matter. The jaw is tight, the neck tense, or sometimes slack, telling the story of the final act with brutal clarity.
Life's language has been erased. Only silence remains.
Suicide is honest ... no illusions, no explanations, no more pretending. It's the body saying: enough. The world can continue spinning, indifferent, while this one individual has stepped aside.
I always felt the quiet respect for someone who finally got what the living cannot give: peace on their own terms.
𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐰𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡
Each attempt no matter how small and insignificant is a attempt, don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. If you are so low that you make any action to stop existing... it's a attempt.
On that note , I've attempted suicide 57 times .
With 17 times being big attempts and 11 having me ending up in the hospital. I've flatlined 2 times and had cardiac arrest 5 times... but this all just to my own knowledge. Being unconscious for most attempts makes it hard to know exactly everything.
Every attempt traumatized me and just made it that much more appealing to try again... in someways I have a addiction with wanting death just like how I have a addiction to drugs and self harm.
With each attempt I became more and more numb to people around me , nothing has ever mattered except for my own death.
Even now I want to feel my heart stop.
Survival doesn't feel like victory. It feels like a pause ...an extension of the waiting, the unbearable weight that hasn't fully been lifted. Every moment alive is another opportunity to die.
And still, I know the truth: there is a finality in suicide that life cannot offer. A kind of peace that is precise and absolute. Something I long for like many of you do as well.
