It doesn’t matter how “good” things get… it’s still the same.
With everything coming up, me feeling passion and spark again, the darkness still pervades. I couldn’t get out of bed this morning. Couldn’t get out this afternoon. Overwhelming sadness and pain and sense of dread.
And now I’m behind in my work. And the stress and pressure I knew would follow are here. I don’t think I can actually do this job. This dream job that I’ve been waiting my whole life for. I’m no longer actually capable. And it’s not because I’m not smart enough. But that my brain only has a tiny capacity to be able to deal with, because it is burnt out from just existing at this point.
All day, all I’ve thought about is dying. How it would legitimately be the best option for me and everyone around me. I wish I wasn’t such a coward. Every day is hell. Every day is pure agony. I can’t take it anymore. My heart feels like it just might explode. My brain is the same. My body is physically exhausted. But I’m just supposed to live in pure agony every day for the rest of my goddamn life so other people aren’t a little fucking sad when they think about me? And they say suicide is selfish?
Fuck. I just can’t anymore. It’s just too fucking hard. I’m drowning, and there is no life preserver. There’s no lifeguard. No one is coming to rescue me, and my arms and legs no longer work.
My therapist, psychiatrist, and doctor all say they are running out of options for me. I’ve tried every therapy they’ve got. Nothing changes. I’ve tried every medication they’ve got. Nothing changes. I’m coping, but I’m barely hanging on here. They are now suggesting trying things I’ve already done again. Hoping the second time around will bring success. I know it won’t. My brain is forever damaged. Everything I try is just a band-aid on a mortal wound. It will soak up the blood, but ultimately, it’s not going to change the outcome.
I see him when I close my eyes sometimes.
His face screwed forever into that scrunch I hated soo much.
The way he’d laugh through his nose, and always, always, gleek ever so much in your direction as he’d do so.
The spit wadding in the corner of his mouth. Forming white little spittle junctions.
We were friends, you could say, but by proximity and convenience only.
Prep. Tie. Shoot. High.
That night he tells me, “We should kill ourselves together. This miserable existence is getting me down”.
“Just cut, that’s all it would take. Just cut, right here.” He made a gesture up his arm. “And all this shit goes away forever.”
He pulls a small blade out of his pocket. A red and white Swiss number that had seen a lot of wear and before I knew it slashed at his arm and was coming at me.
“Join me. Join me.”
I ran. Out the front, down the stairs, around the corner and never looked back.