I’m mildly obsessed with the idea of taking my life.
Almost any way possible if I can do it semi-passively.Â It’s almost ironic that I’m no longer afraid of heights because I’d like to fall from them.Â Right now, I’d like to go back downstairs and take the knife and start writing in my skin with blood.Â Conquer my fear of pain as well.
And I’d jut cut and cut and cut.
And if I accidentally let too much blood flow out?Â All the better.
Lately I’ve been trying to deal with food.Â I’ve been forgetting to eat every now and then and eating things with barely any calories or just crap.Â Food that doesn’t take time to prepare.
And I’ve been letting my insomnia get the better of me.Â I only sleep when I have no other choice and lately my adrenal glands have been agreeing with me that I need to stay up.Â Till 5.Â Till 6.Â Till 7.Â Till noon.
I’m going to slowly edge myself over until I fall.Â Crash and BURN.
Pain and hate.Â I want to crash myself and burn a slow agonizing death.Â I can’t hate others so I loathe myself.
Stepping out in front of speedy traffic has also been a favorite fantasy of mine.
And also killing myself with a pain medicine overdose.Â But I don’t have enough to do that right now.Â Not nearly enough.
I hate myself.Â I deserve this pain and agony and eventually death.