Here's a story for you, i don't expect you to read it...but here's a story for yens Suicide Timeline By Neill McGrann Today, I find myself asking about my past. Today, there’s a gun in my left hand as I write to find a good reason to kill myself. This is the 3rd time this year that I’ve tried to kill myself in the past year. Nothing, God won’t let me die. God keeps telling me, “No,” that’s not good enough. Find a good reason and try again.” Green. It’s green everywhere, green all around me. Perfectly cut one-and-a-half inch blades of green grass. Twenty-seven acres of green grass. There’s a house off in the distance that looks pretty small, but it’s actually a fifteen-bedroom mansion. There are two dogs running around by me on the huge lot my mother and I live on. One of them is a Soft-Coated Wheaton Terrier named Cato. Yes, my mom named the dog after the ninja in the famous Pink Panther movies who attacked Inspector Cleaseau. She was fluffy, for a lack of a better word, and an off white almost cream color. The other was named Riley. He was a Bearded Collie. There’s not much to say about Riley, I don’t really remember him too well. That’s my first memory. Playing with my dogs on a huge estate living in a huge mansion. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it? It may seem perfect, but this memory reminds me of everything I hate in life. Twenty-four years before I write this, I hated that life. And now, I’m holding a gun to my head and I write. My first suicide attempt was seven months ago. When I wrote the suicide note I thought only of my childhood. Nothing more came to mind. My first memory. I hate animals. The day of my first memory was the day my parents split up. My dad was wealthy. Is wealthy, he’s still alive, I just haven’t talked to him in ten years. He let my mother and I keep the mansion and the land it was on, he took the New York flat. He also gave us “child support” each year. 7.2 million. He’s been trying to buy us off. Each year 7.2 million. Who needs that much money in a lifetime, yet alone a year? As a kid I had everything I wanted. Well, I didn’t want any of it; my mom wanted me to have it. I hate money; it brings out the worst in people. My father has money and acts like he’s superior to everyone when he earned none of that money for himself. My grandfather was a self-earned billionaire. Not sure how y grandpa got his money, but he split up his estate to all of his kids…all thirteen of them. My dad got about 500 million, just like his twelve siblings. For twenty-four years now I’ve gotten an annual 7.2 million dollar packet of false love. I have 172.8 million in worth at twenty-seven. I’m a cashier in a grocery store. That’s my life now. I missed my dad as a kid. My aunt ended up living with me in the mansion after my mom killed herself. I was nine when she died. I don’t know why she did it. I never got over my mom dying. Sorry about the lack of detail. Those were my thoughts when I overdosed on pills. But God said “NO!” Someone called the cops, and I was “saved.” After I was released from the hospital I was under suicide watch and was forced to go to therapy. I was forced to pay for my therapist’s corrupt business. Miss Lied doesn’t help anyone. She charges ridiculous amounts of money for thirty minutes of her listening, but she’s not really listening. Money ruins everything. Money has ruined me. At therapy they asked me why I wanted to kill myself. I didn’t mention my childhood. I didn’t explain the reason for why I wanted to kill myself, well, I did. Instead of explaining my childhood, I thought of high school. Isn’t it funny that I go to therapy to have them help me stay alive, but I just think of more reasons to die? I think that it’s hilarious that Miss Lied is my psychiatrist’s name. “Tell me, why did you want to kill yourself?” High school was bad. It really was. “You graduated from high school ten years ago.” So…shut up and listen. That’s why you’re here, to listen, and take my money. High school was bad. My aunt raised me as a fundamental Christian. Kind of like how the puritans went about religion. God meant for everything to happen. If you had a bad day, it was God’s will. If your cousin died, it was God’s will. God decided your life for you. As much as I hate my aunt, the fundamental Christianity stuck with me. Sometimes you need the faintest feeling of hope. My aunt was also a really strict “grades mean everything” bitch. Grades don’t mean shit. My cousin went through high school trying to fail. Up until his senior year he had below a 1.0 QPA. His senior year he decided to try and got a 4.271 and graduated with a 1.24 QPA. He’s now the top professor at the University of Pittsburgh in micro engineering. If I came home with a B+ I was grounded for the next grading quarter. I brought back C’s just to piss her off. I spent the majority of my time stuck in my room. No music, no TV, no nothing. I loved it. I had a girlfriend for 3 years. I loved her. I still love her. She was the coolest woman in the world…and yes; she was a woman. She was the only thing that mattered to me. I didn’t care about my grades, about sports, just her. “That’s a great high school love story,” she said politely. I told you to shut up and listen. You’re here to listen, do your job. She was everything I had, my girlfriend that is. She was gorgeous; the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met. She had short brown hair past her ears with amazing green eyes. She was very cheerful and elated. She was always smiling and was always there for me. When my grandfather died, she was there. I never mentioned my grandfather; I try not to because I get too emotional. My grandfather was basically my dad. He was there to teach me how to walk, talk, drive, how to be a good person in life. When he died it was the last person to die that I truly loved other than my girlfriend. She was there for me when I cut for the first time. She helped me live…she gave me something to live for. When she died, my life became meaningless. There was nothing left for me. The reason I didn’t kill myself then is that her last wish was for me to live a happy and long life. “You should follow that advice now…just because she’s dead doesn’t mean she’s gone.” Would you please be quiet, I’ve not been happy since she died. Anyways, thanks for the interruption. Back to my reasons, if I may. The reason I didn’t kill myself then is that her last wish was for me to live a happy and long life. But I wasn’t happy once after she was killed. She died on October 6th, 1994. It was a Friday night after the football game. I was tired that night so I decided to go home instead of out with my girlfriend and some of her friends. A drunk driver coming home from the local bar hit the car she was in. The drunk driver was my father. I was seventeen and my whole life was in ruins. My mother committed suicide after my dad walked out on her, my grandfather died, and my girlfriend died. And my dad…I wanted to kill him. My life was in the hands of God. My first day of therapy was a joke. The last page and a half is word for word what happened. I went home that night…a month after trying to kill myself I tried again. A month after I was “saved” by God I drank. I drank and drank and drank. Vodka. Beer. Wine. Jagarmeister. Goldschlagger. Tequila. Rum. Whiskey. Brandy. Liquor. EVERYTHING. I drank until I had nothing left to drink. The next day I woke up in the hospital with a great pain in my stomach. The night before I drank myself into alcohol poisoning. I had my stomach pumped. Twice. For the second time God “saved” me. God told me to try again. Death of others is not reason enough for death for me. A Challenge from God must be met. My shrink gave up on me after I tried to kill myself the second time. The one thing meant to keep me alive gives me more reasons to die. College. There’s not much to say about college. I was pre-med. My grades are still bad. My professors constantly tell me I’m a smart kid and all I need to do is work harder. Why should I work harder when I’m rich? I hate money…I’ve hated it all my life yet it still has me under its belt. I am corrupted as much as the next guy. I didn’t need to work hard because I had no need for more money. I was satisfied with the money my father still gave me. 7.2 million. Why? I flunked out of school. I bought a condo. I bought a TV. I bought a microwave. I bought food daily. I bought a guitar. A bass. A rug. My condo was worth more to me than my life. Like Chuck Palahniuk wrote in Fight Club, “the things you own end up owning you.” Material possessions with a monetary value meant more to me than a life of someone else. My aunt died when I was in college and I didn’t go to her funeral because I needed a new sofa for the condo. I spent the day cruising the Internet for funny shirts, quirky furniture, and new instruments. I’m rich, and I can buy whatever I want. It didn’t seem like much then, but it affects me now. This brings us to about where I started. There’s a gun in my left hand; a pen in my right. I ask myself now for a good reason to kill myself. Pills-Childhood. Alcohol-High school. Gun-My adulthood…college to now. Once I bought my condo my life has been worthless. Well…not worthless. I’m worth 172.8 million. I work in a grocery store packing groceries into bags. Paper or plastic? Paper or plastic? “Paper.” For Christ sake, save the damn trees. You’re taking away my oxygen. “Jesus, plastic then.” Oh, and kill whatever bird swallows it after you forget to throw it away. Very thoughtful, jackass. “Fuck you.” Since I owned the store, they couldn’t fire me. This store is where I bought the pills. Where I bought the drinks. Where I bought the food I eat. It’s amazing what you can find in a grocery store. My life means nothing. I made no effect on the world. I have one bullet in this gun, pointing to my head as I write my life to the world. This is my timeline. This is my suicide note. I’m pulling the trigger in ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two…ONE! For the second time this year I wake up in the hospital. I remember pulling the trigger, why am I still alive? Did God “save” me again, or is God torturing me by keeping me alive. I can’t see too well. “The gun you shot backfired blowing off your left hand…well, the majority of your left hand.” I look down at my left hand…no middle finger. No pointer finger. No ring finger. No thumb. My first thought was how am I going to open the door to my condo. I always used my left hand to open doors. Just my pinky remains. The waste of an extremity reminds me of the waste my life is. “I’m Dr. Addison. Your neighbor called 911 after she heard a gun go off. You’re lucky. A piece of the shattered bullet went into your iris. I thought you might have been wondering why your left eye is a little blurry.” Thanks doctor. God “saved” me again. Is there no reason good enough to die for? Is there nothing in this world I can die for? Is there nothing for me but life? Am I meant to live in my condo and pack groceries until God decides it’s time for me to die? Why can’t I decide when I want to die? One. Two. Three. Four. Five months ago I held a gun to my head. A year ago today I took an overdose of pills. Eight months ago today I drank myself to near death. Five months ago today I shot my hand off when my gun backfired. Ten years ago today my high school girlfriend got in a car accident and died. Eleven years ago today my grandfather died. Eighteen years ago today my mother killed herself by slashing her throat. Twenty-four years ago today my dad left us. Twenty-seven years later and I’m no closer to death than when I was born. Maybe I’m meant to live for another twenty-seven years. Maybe longer. I have no control in my life. God dictates it. Maybe that’s a good thing. I’m alive. And I will be alive. Today I’m leaving my store, paper or plastic? I’m carrying home the cash from the sales of the day, over $20,000. Today I’m lying dead on the sidewalk with no money in my wallet, but a knife in my arm and heart. All I can think about…nothing. God, please save me again. You answered my wish to die after I wish to live. Today I was happy for the first time since high school. I’m dying for the one thing I hate most. The green of money, it’s like my dad’s lawn. Too much green grass, no need for it, but it’s considered beautiful. I die for the money that corrupted the minds of my murderers. And the only thing that remains of my past and me is this note. This letter. This story. Today, I die as light glares off the polished knife that pierces my skull and cuts into my brain.