Chapter 11 No Future

It’s New Year’s Eve a typical news years night in my lonely schizoid life. No raucous party no frequenting night clubs no prolonged period of public inebriation or social interaction. I have no friends i have a vacant private life devoid of meaningful human connection. Consequently i spend New Year’s Eve as a sad pathetic thirty something in complete isolation completely sequestered from the human race. Usually on this evening i abstain from any consumption of alcohol. On seldom new years eves i will partake in a copious volume of strong alcohol when I’m in a less melancholic mood.

For most people New Year’s Eve is a buoyant celebration of being alive of being in love. A time of sanguine hope for the future in which individuals make optimistic resolutions for the year ahead. However with me just like Christmas its a deeply depressing time of the year. When my glaring lack of human contact of emotional connection is revealed to myself and my odious family in this arduous holiday season.

On New Year’s Eve I ruminate introspect at the lack of direction the futureless life i am leading. There are dark suicidal thoughts circulating in my damaged mind. I have no reason to be alive no discernible purpose no future just a blank void a forlorn existence. This night which is a tragic encapsulation of my empty life a night which usually transpires with me having no interaction whatsoever with another soul. I spend New Year’s Eve completely sober with not a singular drop of blissful alcohol landing on my salivating tongue. I prefer to be a social contrarian and abstain from all the traditional New Year’s Eve festivities.

I remain alone apart from the world in my private flat preferring immensely the solitude over protracted partying with a large group of vexatious strangers. I close all the curtains turn off all the lights for the remainder of the nights celebration. Hoping my doing this i create the false illusion that I’m out enjoying the night with my friends hoping my neighbours will see I have a modicum of a social life. I’m so self conscious of not being regarded as a loser who eschews the joyous hedonistic pursuits of the night that I perpetuate the facade that i spend the night in complete darkness until 2 in the morning. After 2 i assume its socially acceptable to be inside your private residence that most people are home at this hour.

In a usually sober evening i will either watch a escapist movie or play for hours a absorbing immersive video game. The video game allows me to briefly escape the terminal loneliness of being schizoid being entirely unable to form vital human connections.

On sporadic instances i open up my curtains to observe the New Year’s Eve nighttime panorama. I glimpse a glorious scenery of neon lights a iridescent town landscape filled with ebullient people feeling exalted feeling alive. Whereas I’m a emotional dead outcast imprisoned in my haunted flat with only myself and i for company. A sad frail man with a pallid complexion and a gnarled features. I look in the mirror on New Year’s Eve against my better judgement. I observe in the mirror a grotesque visage a listless creature devoid of colour. A sad tired broken man unable to relate to people who for years he’s been disassociated from the human race.

On this night all my flaws the ordeal of being schizoid are magnified in this one desolate night. Midnight comes around I’m still sober not a drop of alcohol has entered my emaciated adult body. I hear a cacophony of fireworks being ceremonially let off to commemorate the birth of a new year. On television celebrations are depicted with millions of people congregating in major cities across the globe as my loneliness my lack of purpose is elucidated on this New Year’s Day.

On the embarkation of another year i lay down on my bed. In my dingy pitch black bedroom listening to somber classical music as tears slowly trickle down my face as i am faced with the wretchedness of my life. In this depressed state my usually emotional numbness is transformed into private theatrical displays of despair. I cry and ruminate at the person i could have been the friendships I squandered due to my injurious antisocial behaviour. Mainly though I contemplate through the despair about peter about the relationship that we could of fostered. I fantasise About getting drunk getting high and engaging in carnal pleasures with a alluring figure of my past. Peters vivid memory ceases to leave me its embedded in my psyche, in these times when I’m suicidal during the holiday season I constantly think about him. The lost opportunity the neglected friendships my lonely present all these dejected regretful thoughts sank me deeper into a cavernous depression.

The new year the holiday season and birthdays are where my depression my negative personality traits become more prevalent in my abnormal personality. Birthdays and the new year festivities are stark reminders of my mortality the terminal emptiness of my prosaic life. These significant calendar events remind of how little i have achieved throughout the year how meaningless my life has become. The new year a birthday a passing of a year another year closer to oblivion with my body becoming more hideous with each passing year. My face looks tired old with wrinkles grey hairs are appearing on my ageing hairline. My yellowed teeth that appear more grotesque more decayed with each passing year. I’m too petrified to rectify my gnarled deformed fangs due to my aversion my fear of seeing a dentist and my pernicious social anxiety which precludes me from venturing outside of the sanctuary of my private enclave. On New Year’s Day in the early hours of the morning when the my tears have dried when the desolation has subsided i look at my pallid visage in my only mirror in my bathroom. I view this languid despondent creature with a question that lingers in my damaged psyche. A question of why am i still hurt why do i carry on existing what my purpose in this godless inhumane universe. The depression is most acute in these periods of the year when I’m confronted with my perennial loneliness with how much of a alien freak cast out by humanity I’ve become. The severe pain eventually dissipates and is replaced by a numbness. Rather than seeking the psychological ameliorating help of a therapist or confiding with a family member i repress the pain. Never expressing a iota of my suicidal inclinations to another soul. I assuage my suicidal predilections by escaping into a big blue inner dream land that helps me to escape the agony of being schizoid.

The depression has been a part of me since i was a teenager. As my atypical schizoid symptoms have become more endemic in my dysfunctional mind the depression has concurrently intensified. As i push away family as I neglect pivotal friendships let important people vanish forever from my vapid life my untreated clinical depression has exacerbated. I abstain from any form of real human contact preferring to exist as a hermit apart from when i travel back and forth to my menial job at TWC. As I exclude more people from my life as i found myself dissociating from humanity. The terminal depression the alienation the emotional numbness that masks the pain has grown more severe. My inertia is only broken with these contractually mandated visits to the TWC warehouse when i at least speak to a few coworkers. At TWC i often find myself fantasising about never having to leave my humble abode to me completely sequestered from any form of human contact.

In protracted depressed states everyday blends into another. Other humans vapid conversations sounds to me like a white noise as my life is experienced in slow motion as i devolve into a limbo purgatory existence. My life of isolation hasn’t alleviated these desolate feelings I haven’t found any real solace in prolonged solitude. The anxiety the melancholia has heightened in my self imposed solitary confinement from the human race.

I walk to work its the same boring route the same dirge day after day. It’s soul destroying its mind numbingly dull there’s no vitality no effervescence in my employment in my life. At work i adopt this robotic detached mask never smiling rarely conversing. Never divulging my private psychological torment to another soul. To be vulnerable to break this frosty exterior is now in my entrenched schizoid disorder virtual impossible. At work i disappear into a seductive fantasy terrain preferring to spend 8 hours daydreaming then interact with my fellow employees. I never broke character never displayed a modicum of emotion in the stultifying ambience of the warehouse. Being so aloof is a way of protecting my fragile personality from my perceived callousness of their people who would deride me for showing a morsel of emotional vulnerability.

Being this damaged unable to express my inner emotions is a horrendous way to live. The terminal loneliness the boredom the desperation to connect to find some affinity with anybody. It’s a vicious cycle of being schizoid of needing solitude that helps to mitigate the anxiety but discovering the endless solitude only results in a deterioration in my psychological condition.

There are moments of assuagement in my life where the black dog of depression evaporates with transient moments where i feel like a valid human being instead of a weird alien visiting from a distant planet. In my private enclosed kingdom i consume a abundant quantity of alcohol which helps to pacify my normal gloomy disposition. The alcohol the sporadic use of a illicit substance enables my body and soul to temporarily escape my harsh reality. These drugs dull the pain of being trapped in a debilitating personality disorder.

Alone in my flat away from the prying eyes of the world i escape online into the virtual reality matrix. I interact with the world anonymously on twitter a social media platform i can express freely my opinions on a myriad of intriguing subjects. On twitter I prolifically opine my thoughts finding the anonymity liberating not being encumbered by the panic attack inducing anxiety of direct in person interaction. Online i never divulge my battle with depression my suicidal propensities. Even with the protective security of twitter with conversing with strangers I will never via a pseudonym twitter avatar find me discussing expressing my mental illness. On twitter I’m able to find these superficial meets of validation of actually conversing with strangers from distant locations. Other twitter users like my tweets follow me. On this one social media platform i am able to use because of the ability to be anonymous the loneliness briefly subsides. As I discover a scintilla of self worth on this addictive social media application

On drunken nights when I’m emancipated from he drudgery the moil of warehouse employment. I discover these fleeting moments of emotional validation of human connection of sexual penchants being fulfilled. In the mire of my self imposed ostracism from society i have discovered the allure of online webcam girls. A form of direct online interaction where my depraved sexual fantasies can be satisfied. Online sex workers for a price indulge my sexual fetishises. When I have plucked up enough courage when i am sufficiently intoxicated with alcohol I converse with breathtakingly beautiful women. Women who I’d never have the moxie to talk to in the flesh. In the seductive domain of online webcam my personal sexual desires to be dominated to be humiliated by a powerful voluptuous dominatrix can be realised. I have held these unexpressed unsatisfied fantasies to be controlled to be a sexual subservient to a domineering sadistic women. Women who can satisfy my depraved sexual appetites for a exorbitant price.

There is a cornucopia of women available and a variety of options in how you can communicate with these desirable women. You can chat via messaging these women or by chatting to them via your own personal webcam where the cam girl can actually see you. I prefer to be humiliated through the safety and seclusion of online messaging that obscures my hideous physical appearance. In this private method of communication with a online sex worker i find a morsel of validation of recognition of my humanity. Even if the cam girl is viciously abusing me in the bdsm sexual role play it validates me as a human being. I discover a person in this transactional relationship is willing to speak to me willing to be a solitary witness a light in the darkness of my alienated life.

On rare moments of drunken excess where i drink alone i have called sex hotlines where I discover a greater level of intimacy of human connection. I call at the apex of my inebriated state when i has amassed enough courage to converse with a dominatrix but am still lucid enough to carry on with a conversation. I mainly call specialists phone sex services which specialise in my preferred bdsm fetish and when I speak it’s with a dominatrix who is adept in satisfying my depraved degenerate sexual desires. The women can hear my sad frightened voice there is this form of communication a more substantive level of intimacy. A sex worker who is a temporary beam of light that briefly illuminates my isolated alien existence. Yes i am masturbating to a exorbitantly expensive femdom via a mobile phone connection however its gratifying to speak to hear a human voice that pierces through the hollowed out sadness of my forlorn adult life. A transactional conversation that’s validates my humanity that for a transient moment lifts me out of my own valley of despair. A brief inter communication which helps to palliate my long term dual mental illness of depression and schizoid personality disorder.

Despite the various solitary activities in which I participate with other anonymous individuals online through twitter and interacting with sensuous alluring camgirl getting intoxicated with a variety of drugs by mental health remains in a bleak state. These solitary activities conducted from my dank isolated flat provide a instant gratification. A momentary abatement from the relentless torture of my wilderness existence being completely ostracised from the human race. On twitter in camgirl sessions In which i fervently engage in i still conceal my suicidal tendencies. There’s no real creative outlet that can adequately articulate the depths of my severe depression. Writing poetry short stories isn’t enough to heal the pain even if writing effusive poetry can give me a visceral feeling helping to release the repressed pain. Going to therapy seeking the salutary help of a qualified professional is out of the question due to the social hindrances of being schizoid. The paralysing social anxiety and my deeply introverted personality makes speaking to a councillor or therapist a impossibility.

On one fateful night when i had been afflicted with a protracted bout of critical suicidal depression for many months I discovered a new cathartic outlet for my mental anguish. In the midst of another weekend alcoholic binge i was seriously contemplating killing myself i found by chance the ecstasy of self mutilation. It was a desperate act i undertook to make myself feel something even if it was excruciating physical pain, physical pain that was a manifestation of my repressed emotional torment.

The genesis of my self harm began in the early hours of a Sunday morning. After almost a entire day of unrestrained alcohol induced annihilation in a drunken stupor I smashed a pint glass on my kitchen floor. The pint glass separated into a million of individual fragments there was one chard which was perfect for a masochistic act of mutilation. On this night i was paralytic in such a state by delirious intoxicated mind was fragile enough to partake in a self destructive act. I had always been curious about self harm how it would feel having these lacerations on your body a physical manifestation of my suppressed depression. On my induction in to the world of self mutilation rather than take a final fatal act towards oblivion I had concluded to experiment with self harm. I grabbed hold of the glass fragment which was the requisite shape and sharpness to lacerate my emaciated skin. The glass chard i was holding with my hand shacking with nervous trepidation would hopefully leave a discernible mark a physical piece of evidence of my masochistic act. The piece of glass was in my hand that was shaking with nervousness anticipation at how committing self harm would feel. I was hypothesising whether self harm would break open the dam of suppressed emotions of this act would evoke a feeling of euphoria. Slowly and deliberately I drove the chard of glass into my skin as the sharp glass pierced through my ashen scrawny arm. The glass hit my skin perfectly lacerating my hand as blood flowed from the self inflicted wound. I produced several perfect lacerations on my underarm. All the wounds were deep cuts as a profuse volume of blood emanated from the fresh wounds. In this paralytic early morning drunken frenzy the gashes on my arm register not as excruciating pain but as a ecstatic elated feeling. For once in my vapid empty inconsequential life i felt alive. The numerous lacerations to my arm the blood the piercing of the skin was a way of expressing my prolonged subterranean pain. There was no other outlet that satiated my desire to elucidate my unheard silent screams of anguish. No other vehicle of creative expression that i was able to adroitly articulate my suicidal predilections to the world. With every single piercing of the skin from a dangerously sharp object my damaged decrepit body and soul was transformed into a blissed out euphoric state. With a cathartic night of mutilation I’m able to exorcise the demons to feel like a human being for a few hours.

The following day i awake with a mild hangover and arms seething in excoriating pain. The alcohol which dulled my senses allowed me to harm my arms with a minimal pain had worn off. The deep lacerations i made in the apex of my inebriated delirium now in the sober light of the morning rendered by body in agony. The pain was a reminder of the pain of depression a physical reminders of my psychological torture. Rather than abstain from self harm or take powerful opiate painkillers i let my body fully experience the agony. The wounds are a constant visual demonstration of being perennially depressed a demonstration of my isolation of seeing myself as a deformed subhuman creature. These visible lacerations that will hopefully form into scars will remain as deep cuts on my arms for weeks until they healed into scar tissue. A visual metaphor for my untreated mental illness.

Even though its a visual metaphor of being caged in unexpressed psychological suffering i resolve to keep my self harm wounds a secret. For weeks after a night of masochistic mutilation I wear long sleeved shirts concealing the visual cries for help. Nobody can know my suffering my injurious behaviour. Strangers would only excoriate would chastise my abnormal troubling behaviour. I want my psychological torment to remain private, proclaiming it to the world with other humans would cause me to being vulnerable. I can’t abide letting the protective mask of aloofness slip to reveal a sad damaged adult.

I have maintained this pernicious habit of self harm for years as I’ve been enclosed in extreme isolation. It’s a masochistic purging of my demons when I’m experiencing the overwhelming urge to end my life and vanish into nothingness. The self harm is a desperate therapeutic act that conveys my decent into the abyss. It’s inconceivable that I will ever divulge my dark suicidal thoughts to another human to trained professional who may aid my recovery from a prolonged depressed state. The unburdening of my agony is unachievable with my schizoid personality who’s doesn’t possess the emotional intelligence to explain lucidly my pain. Poetry or any form of writing which i have habitually committed to delineating my thoughts on daily basis isn’t a sufficient method to articulate my mental illness. Cutting myself scaring my arms my body several times a year as I experience a physical and spiritual bliss followed by weeks of agony. Reminds me i am a human that still emits a flicker of light.

In my short insipid life there have been episodes when the depression has been all consuming overwhelming to the point when suicide seems the logical option. As the symptoms of being schizoid have become more prevalent in my asocial personality the bouts of black dog depression have become increasingly brutal and protracted. Now it lasts for months at a time where everyday i wake up with a crushing sense of dread a constant ache in my soul. Waking up not wanting to leave my protective secure bed to face a indifferent cold world. Being held captive by this illness this unrelenting pain that swirls around my consciousness. There’s no abatement in the misery of being so alone having nobody to talk about my suicidal inclinations with.

Then one day you arise from your blissful slumber and discover you cant survive any longer living with this cancerous illness that is infecting your body. On this particular day when the pain felt like acid in the pit of my stomach i survey my surroundings the bleakness of my secluded living quarters. I look at the same dingy stained walls the worn out furniture. There’s no colour no vivaciousness in my decor in the atmosphere of my haunted enclave. Lethargically i wander to the bathroom look for minutes at this those like visage in the mirror. I see a grim deformed creature with hollow cheeks and a haunted vacant expression. Teeth gnawed and deformed eyes that are bloodshot red no beauty in my ravaged face I’m ashamed to look at my bedraggled weary appearance. Today i have surmised will be my last day on planet earth. No more existing no more consuming oxygen i will get to experience the sweet release of physical eradication from a planet I don’t belong to. There’s nothing in my life on this day that is preventing me from sustaining this meagre hollow life no reason to exist any longer. No hope if love or friendship on my bleak futureless future only the dirge of a robotic emotionless prosaic life. On this fateful day i have decided to terminate my life with a brutally painful method of slashing my puny wrists with a sharp blade of glass. The same piece of glass i use to scar to lacerate my arms in a pure act of masochistic desecration of my limbs.

Today is a Saturday therefore I don’t have the ordeal of facing the outside world. I don’t have to endure the moil the drudgery of another 8 hours in purgatory at the TWC warehouse where i perform menial but pointless tasks for the benefit of a amoral corporation. A day off from work hence i set in motion a day of excess of uncontrolled alcoholic intake. I want to numb my senses before the act of self execution is controlled on my frail body. I drink heavily over the course of the day drinking from the moment i awake as i knock back shots of whisky and rum. Occasionally mixing the potent shots with coke that elicits one last euphoric interaction before i severe my vital arteries.

For weeks I have been contemplating ending my life and rigorously planing the fateful date of my suicide. I’ve planned today meticulously planning every hour every minuscule detail to the drugs i will be ingesting to the music which will be the soundtrack to my suicide. I had arranged in my mind to commit suicide to render my sacred body lifeless by slitting my wrists in the most violent bloody method of suicide. I envisioned this grisly macabre scene of my mangled mutilated corpse being discovered after weeks maybe months of decomposition. When I die nobody would notice by absence no soul would darken my inhospitable door. This sad vision of my demise with a rotten corpse with blood on the walls from the severing of a vital artery. With my ravaged body after I successful kill myself was one a person with hopes with a bright auspicious future that was crushed by being stricken with a socially debilitating personality disorder. This grisly vision of the end of my life was played out endlessly in my fatalistic imagination. A imagination that romanticised suicide that by killing myself tragedy all alone my life would find some poignancy some meaning.

On this fateful day which i had been meticulously planning for weeks i hit shot after shot of whisky which was mixed with coke. The coke helped to soothe to mitigate the harshness of highly potent shots of whisky enabling a copious devouring of alcohol throughout this fateful day. As i was gradually getting intoxicated as my senses were being dulled by the alcoholic cocktail i played the entire discography of joy division. The bleak suicidal music reverberated across the confines of my humble flat. The music blared at a thunderous volume the haunting sounds of joy division penetrated the thin walls of my flat till the point I’m certain neighbours could clearly hear the music. Joy division was my favourite band who seminal music comforted me in dark lonely times. Their music encapsulated what it feels like to be alone to be lost in the wilderness of clinical depression.

Whisky and rum was ingested with fervency as i was cognisant this was my last opportunity to get drunk. The alcohol pulsated through my bloodstream numbing my pain receptors. The time was fast approaching my own personal doomsday clock for my life was slowly running out. I was though apprehensive about carry out the fatal deed to be nothing more than a fading memory. There was doubts floating in my intoxicated feverish mind. All week i had been desperately searching for a reason to carry on existing. Hoping for a glimmer of light to enter the dark caverns of my tortured soul. A kind receptive conversation a smile a hug a shared joke a random act of kindness any of these things would dissuade me from killing myself. I searched diligently in my life over the week for a morsel of humanity from the outside world I searched for a scintilla of compassion in this frosty indifferent world. There was no hope no love only abject misery from me as I found no flickers of light nothing to preclude from committing a injurious act. As the week progressed I became cognisant that i was better off dead that not a single soul cared for me. That i was effectively a phantom wandering through the world having no discernible impact on the human race. All i am now is a living gollum creature waiting to become extinct to become worms food leaving being no permanent legacy no joyous memories.

With these desolate introspections on my pathetic inconsequential life i surmised i was better off dead than to carry on consuming oxygen. The end was nigh it was midnight when I had a arranged according to my suicide itinerary to slit my wrists. The alcohol had substantial dulled my senses as I mixed more alcohol this time with powerful addictive codeine painkiller. The painkiller medication had elicited a ameliorating side effect of getting be high and further numbed my pain receptors. Then midnight struck the time had arrived when i was going to commit the grisly act. As I prepared myself to end my life joy division seminal album closer was booming at a boisterous volume. I anxiously knocked back a large glass full of whisky that hoped would assuage my nerves my doubts. I removed my shirt to reveal a lean emailed torso. I glanced for one last time at the deformed grotesque visage that appeared in the mirror. Then tentatively i moved into the kitchen area of my flat. It would be the kitchen where I would make the fatal laceration to my wrists and hopefully severing a vital artery.

The haunted melancholia of Ian Curtis’s voice pierced deep into my intoxicated consciousness. I held firmly in my right hand the blade of glass which I had used on incalculable occasions to engage in deleterious midnight self harm. Masochistic self harm which scared my under arms with the effects of constant lacerations from a sharp blade. Before conducting the lethal act i would for one last time disfigure my arms by taking the blade for a final session of self harm. The blood flowed as i repeatedly effusively took the blade and pierced my skin drawing once again a profusion of blood. As the blade cut into my fragile ashen skin i felt no real pain just the spiritual elation of exorcising the pent up suppressed despair. Then after 10 minutes of savaging my body i hesitatingly prepared myself physically and emotionally for the final act before I disappeared into oblivion. By now tears cascading down my hollow cheeks as I wept uncontrollably in these fits of hysterical despair. I wandered in the midst of my suicide attempt how i had sunk so low to reach this psychologically impoverished state. There was once in the sweet bird of my formative years so much promise. I had illusions of a bright illustrious future then i sunk deeper and deeper into isolation into physical and emotional inertia. The depression had metastasised like a cancer growing more severe as I existed in extreme isolation as a consequence of my deeply introverted personality type.

I wiped the tears from my broken face grabbed hold of the sharp deadly blade of glass. My hands shake as the blade grazed by left wrist. A mark was made not a deep cut I was hysterically my arms were shacking hysterically as i was procrastinating in streams of doubt whether i could actually perform this injurious act. Tears flowed down my face as I searched for a singular reason to not severe a vital artery. My frantically shacking hands put down the dangerously sharp blade on the floor. I looked intensely at my disfigured wrists with the lacerations my arms soaked in blood. On my lino kitchen flooring i laid prostrate for minutes in a state of paralysis still undecided on whether I could take the courageous nihilistic action to end my sad life. Once again I looked at my hideous reflection in my bathroom mirror as i moved from the kitchen to the bathroom. I saw this hideous outline of a man who had bloodshot eyes and gnarled broken teeth. Eyes that appeared so haunted so listless a body and mind wanting to die wanting nothing more to end the pain of schizoid. In a moment of revelation with once again the menacingly sharp blade in my right hand I realised that I wanted life. That no matter how bleak how painful my life had become its considerable more advantageous than vanishing forever into dust.

This first suicide attempt had been a failure in the bleakness of the cavernous night I discovered i wanted to remain a living sentient being. I become fully conscious that there were aspects of my life and the world i still cherished. In this world of humans there was music great art great entertainment billons of humans who could imbue me with a rekindled love for life. I had miraculously survived a brutal attack of severe depression in which i assiduously planned by suicide. I found in the abyss of my depression a flickering emblem of hope.

Despite me failing to bring my suicidal desires to fruition my melancholic disposition the suicidal predilections persisted in my morbid personality. I never actively sought the psychological beneficial therapy i continued to refrain from confiding with a paid professional therapist. Despite my life threatening critical attack of depression never did i break open the walls of desolation and reach out to another person about my personally pernicious behaviour. The idea of confiding with a counsellor or a psychiatrist was terrifying was antithetical for me to be that open that emotional vulnerable with my damaged asocial personality type. Nor did i approach a family member a work place associate and disclose my long term battle with untreated mental illness.

After my brush with suicide i withdraw further into the walls of my utopian fantasy world. A private world i found solace and comfort in the escape from the brutal reality of being terminally depressed. Also i found superficial validation online with voracious tweeting of my non personal thoughts on twitter. Twitter uses responded to my opinionated political charged tweets by liking them retweeting by tweets. I got in long drawn out effusive conversations with strangers i will never meet in person but who gave me a superficial validation by engaging with me. Even with the walls of anonymity of being a twitter user i found the idea of divulging online about my failed suicide attempt my daily struggles with mental illness too onerous.

In the weeks that followed my first sort of suicide attempt I persisted with my habit of paying online camgirls. These cam sessions were the only real form of tangental human connection in my vapid unbearably dull life. Never would I reveal my repulsive face my damaged psyche to a luscious camgirl. Not wanting to experience a morsel of vulnerability wanting to remain enigmatic whist i interacted through messages with a voluptuous camgirl. The camgirls i frequented online were mainly dominatrixes who specialises in humiliation in findom in a array of sado masochistic fetishes. Fetishes which satisfied my perverted sexual fantasies.

There was one particular femdom camgirl who I became enamoured with. A women who became my primary dominatrix who i habitually patronised online. The name of this domineering seductress was goddess canna a voluptuous red headed American girl who specialised in a myriad of bdsm fetishes. Goddess canna was the embodiment of female perfection. She possessed all the physical attributes i fantasise about in my overactive schizoid imagination. Goddess canna had long flowing cascading auburn hair the sensuous red lips the ample breasts. In one towering domineering curvaceous redhead was a women who electrified me sexually who i connected with online in a transactional relationship. I engaged extensively with this bewitching redhead over a number of years who enraptured me she was the physical manifestation of the perfect female form that existed in my fantasy world. Goddess canna was how i imagined my fantasy lover corrina to have looked with the red hair the generous physical proportions the sexual magnetism a charismatic extroverted personality.

Over the years I’d have short sessions with her maybe once a month dependent upon how precarious my financial situation was. It was exorbitantly expensive but was worth the price of a cam session for the physical and emotional validation I received. In this brief window of time I felt like a human being instead of a repulsive alien freak. Even as goddess humiliated me called me pathetic ordering me to lick her boots telling me when i was permitted to masturbate i felt alive i felt human. Canna became a solitary witness in my isolated life as these sporadic cam sessions acted as sexually therapy. Online cam sessions that alleviated my suicidal tendencies. It also mitigated the alienation that has permeated my entire adult life as this pernicious personality disorder has become more severe over time.

Goddess would satisfy me by making me her sexual sub her slave in this online sexual fantasy. She groomed me into other bdsm sexual fetishes introducing me into the enticing world of chastity of sexual abstinence. Goddess controlled my sexual desires for weeks months at a time when I wasn’t permitted to achieve a orgasm or masturbate in the online chastity role play. This relationship was sustained for years as this voluptuous redhead took me to new levels of sexual ecstasy. Occasionally we even engaged in friendly small talk before the bdsm session began. Usually i participated in these camsessions as a avid customer with myself extremely intoxicated with alcohol. The alcohol which allowed my socially crippled personality to become uninhabited enough to engage in a sexually explicit conversation with a intimidating camgirl such as goddess canna.

Our transactional online relationship remained superficial despite the length of time i was a regular customer of canna. The majority of our verbal exchanges never strayed from the sadomasochist sexual role play into more personal intimate interactions. I paid her money to dominate me to humiliate me to control my sexual desires it wasn’t a genuine friendship goddess never saw my deformed face. Then suddenly i stopped participating in online webcam sessions with goddess after been afflicted with another protracted bout of severe depression I retreated away from any human contact. The depression the suicidal inclinations got so bad i was unable to partake in webcam sessions finding the sexually satiating activity to arduous in this fragile a mental state. My mental condition had deteriorated to the point I had serious thoughts of suicide. I contemplated planned for the second time to end my pathetic life I searched once again for a slither off hope a reason to carry on breathing oxygen.

I had concluded to engage with goddess canna for one last cam session in the hope that I’d discover a ray of light in my darkness maybe just maybe goddess could change my mind. I planned to confess to goddess my grievous mental state in the forlorn desire she persuade me with her feminine charisma to stay alive. This divulgence of my inner emotional torment would be a cry for help. I can recall this extensive cam session almost verbatim. As it was a indelible memory when in contrary to my aloof introverted personality allowed myself to be vulnerable to be candid abut my inner pain. In this session goddess canna was a unexpected revelation offering myself sage compassionate advice.

The session commenced after another long day of complete isolation from the human race and excessive drinking over the course of my day off from work. I had prepared a suicide note in the likely event canna was unable to persuade me to reverse my calamitous intentions to end my life. Also i prepared a cocktail of sleeping pills and opiate painkillers which i surmised would be of sufficient potency to kill me. The abundance of prescribed medications would permanently damage my vital organs if i ingested them after a day of voracious drinking. After i made my diligent preparations for my suicide i logged onto the fetish website with the knowledge goddess canna would be available at this specific time. I saw this enchanting image of a crimson goddess awaiting a customer. She was there in a tight low cut black dress that revealed her ample breasts. She displayed a beguiling beautiful visage that wanted to satisfy the deprived insatiable sexual appetites of her subs. Her luscious sensuous red lips and cascading crimson hair elevated her bewitching appearance. Goddess on this instance wore long black boots that came to her knees. These were stereotypical dominatrix boots that subs would salivate over as they worshipped before the altar of their favourite femdom. Canna sat on her throne adorned in her immodest gothic attire that portrayed her voluptuous body when i in my suicidal drunken state logged on.

On this potentially fateful cam session I obscured my hideous face canna could only communicate with me via my messages. I entered her private webcam chamber paying for a exorbitantly expensive private session. This needed to be private with the disturbing information i was going to disclose to my dominatrix. I started the private conversation with some awkward small talk. Goddess recognised it was me and responded effusively “well hello Patrick its been a considerable long time since since we lasts spoke”
Goddess was sitting on her thrown looking imperious as she crossed her legs as the camera was positioned upwards. Canna looked down on me enticing me to be dominated treating me like a pet a inferior being. I was hesitant not yet deciding on whether i was going to partake in a sexually explicit domination ceremony or would cut to the chase and divulge my dark intentions to end my vapid inconsequential life. Minutes passed away goddess patiently awaited my reply to here enticing conversation starter to our private session. I made the bold choice to refrain from engaging in a sexual interaction and have a poignant cry for help. I responded as I entered uncharted territory being truly emotional vulnerable with goddess
“goddess I haven’t come here to pay homage to your divine beauty. Rather I’m here in a dark moment of emotional torment”
Goddess was shocked that a long time loyal peculiar client had started a session in a non sexual uncharacteristically emotional manner. Her entire demeanour altered she sat down from her throne. Canna removed the mask of this sadistic dominatrix character and her countenance appeared more compassionate. She replied
“whats wrong this is so unusual for you. You seen so bereft of life today”
Goddess had ascertained from my melancholic verbiage that my mood wasn’t that of a usually ebullient submissive. I responded to cannas compassionate considerate words with a elongated message in which i delineated the depth of my decent into thoughts of suicide.
“goddess its been a long time since i last paid for the privilege of a private viewing. In that time my psychological condition has slowly deteriorated to this desolate point where i am seriously thinking about ending my life. For weeks I’ve been trapped in a vicious cycle of terminal depression. It’s come to this where one day i said to myself why i am still here. There is nobody that cares for me nobody that cherishes my company. I have no friends no sex life i exist in extreme isolation you’re my own real from of contact. You are a tiny ray of light in a life eclipsed in total darkness. Today i am messaging you to say goodbye to articulate to you how you’re validation of my peculiar sexual desires meant to me over the years. You’re divine breathtaking beauty kept me alive in the wilderness of my life you kept me going through the pain of being this mentally tortured. Now the pain has grown so severe that tonight with a deadly cocktail of alcohol, sleeping pills and painkillers I intend to end my time on earth”
This verbose message was met with shock and dismay as cannas entire mood visibly shifted. Her angelic porcelain face began to shed droplets of tears. She ascertained this was a despairing cry for help that this faceless anonymous devotee wanted to be persuaded to stay alive that his life had purpose had meaning. My suicidal pronouncement left her frozen shell shocked. Never before had a customer made a candid confession of their battle with a mental illness. Canna rose to the occasion and responded by offering a unexpected eloquent advice that she hoped would assuage her customers suicidal tendencies.
“ Please don’t kill your self your life has meaning there are people who care for you who love you. People who will be devastated if you successfully end your life. You may think you’re all alone in a godless universe but there are good kind people out there in the world who can help you. Please realise that your life isn’t pathetic or worthless that you are beautiful. I know you’re suffering but please as your goddess your femdom I’m demanding you abandon your plans to end your life so abruptly. Understand i care for you i treasure your company your patronage you have bestowed on me over the years. I wish i could hug you meet you in person i wish I could dissipate the pain that’s in your heart, I’m begging you please don’t die tonight”
Goddess canna was sobbing uncontrollably after that poignant pleading for me to stay alive. No longer was she playing a character she became in this session a confidant a friend a therapist a scintilla of hope in the darkness of my universe.

After canna searingly emotional speech I immediately left the cam session and fetish website with myself not knowing whether i would acquiesce to her request to stay alive. There was this dissonance in my mind as I remained unsure whether i would heed cannas advice or carry out my nihilistic plans to end my life. I started to cry as I viscerally felt my pain, crying at last as i expressed my emotional torment. As i cried profusely I looked at this emaciated figure of a man who was clinging onto life. Still i was unsure on my next course of action would i once again relent on my plan to become a ghost. As i was ruminating on suicide melancholic classical music reverberated at a thunderous volume inside my decrepit one bedroom flat. I held the bottle of sleeping pills and painkillers in both my hands. I had a shocking revelation if i swallowed all these pills I’d never wake up again. I held these pills in my hands for nearly an hour as my mind meandered between life and death. I listened fervently to the meditative haunting classical piano music of Chopin that permeated by intoxicated fragile mind. Cannas kind empathetic words were circulating in my brain as her poignant words and made a indelible impact on me.

After an hour the tears had dried her kind words acted as a potent remedy that averted temporarily my critically depressed state. She had been successful in preventing me from succeeding in a act of self destruction. The next day i emailed goddess canna with a short succinct small simply saying “Thank you for saving my life I’m still alive”

Despite the impact of this cam session we would never communicate or interest again in any medium of communication again. The vulnerability i showed the pain i revealed to her meant that we could never converse again. The experience of divulging intimate secrets to a online cam girl was traumatic. So traumatic that I withdraw i abstained from engaging with any online cam girl even without the sex worker seeing my deformed face. Rather than using the nightmare of that night to cultivate new relationships or become a more gregarious person. I retreated into a fantasy life as I succumbed to a life of isolation.

My second kind of suicide attempt which was i persuaded by a buxom redhead from carrying out was a pivotal moment in my life. After that night I completely removes myself from the world. I made a declarative decision to remove myself from twitter from any social media platform where i found brief moments of superficial validation. Now this pernicious schizoid personality disorder took over me like a virus infecting my entire being. After that night i became a hermit wanting nothing to do with a cruel vicious indifferent world of humans. Goddess canna tried assiduously to contact me relentlessly over the next few months. Like before i ghosted her until the vehement emails stopped and I fade away into nothingness only existing in my private utopian inner world.

The ordeal of baring my suicidal tendencies to a cam girl was reminiscent of when i made a stoned declaration of my love for peter. On both occasions it caused a trauma in me that left wounds that would never heal. These events caused a schism in my mind being psychological damaged by that night wanting to retreat inwards and desperately needing real human connection. The need to withdraw to exist in solitude was far greater than my unfulfilled desires for love and enduring friendships.

From after the night when i exposed my ravaged soul to goddess canna I had sporadic bouts of depression. I alleviated the pain of being schizoid by disappearing further into the alluring wall of my fantasy universe. I numbed myself to the depression almost denying the reality that i was depressed utterly miserable with my sad empty life. Indeed the depression remained untreated and slowly mutated into a permanent state of melancholia. I never confided with anybody again I denied myself the glorious possibilities of friendship denying the cathartic experience of therapy. The detrimental schizoid personality traits had solidified in my adult consciousness and permanently impaired me causing to become a social leper. Now i will remain this way until i die alone without people without love. Only surviving mitigating the loneliness by creating a big blue dream world a alternative existence in which friendship love and happiness are attainable.

One thought on “Chapter 11 No Future

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