This quality of self-loathing is not unfamiliar to me. It was a force in my adult life, the allure of which has, at times, been utterly irresistible.
What do I mean the allure of self-loathing? It feels nearly impossible to explain.
It is seductive.
It is a lover’s hot breath in your ear, whispering of dark, sadistic delights that make the hairs on the back of your neck prickle in painful anticipation.
It is a blanket of the blackest black that descends upon you and soothes you while it suffocates you.
It is a voice that promises a sickening satisfaction, a perverse euphoria in the radical embrace – and the radical punishment – of your innate worthlessness.
This self-loathing is inexorable. But there would be no resistance anyway. It is most welcome. You could say it feels almost redemptive.
For me, the ultimate demonstration of devotion to my own suffering was not death.
It was annihilation.
Just the idea made me shudder with simultaneous terror and elation. To hear the word uttered quietly from my own lips was wholly intoxicating.
But I didn’t know what annihilation really meant, or what it looked like. Instead, death was the closest approximation I could imagine.
And that’s why I jumped.
Of course, I wasn’t able to explain all of that to the officer when he asked me why.
Instead, “Because I hate myself” was the best I could do.