Tired of the same thing.Â Every day. Feeling like garbage, wishing I was normal.Â Â
Sick of feeling sorry for myself, thinking about my problems instead of helping myself orÂ others.Â Â I recognize thatÂ I amÂ self absorbed, but I can’t stop these thoughts.Â I want them to go away, but they don’t.Â I’ve triedÂ Diazepam, Ativan, Effexor.Â They didn’t helpÂ me feel better, they just made meÂ feel like a zombie;Â Neither good nor bad.Â I spokeÂ to a medical doctor, a therapist, a psychologist, a parent, and aÂ friend.Â They helped me hang on.Â Told me pleasant lies to subdue my anxiety and placate my mood, at least for those moments I was with them.Â But I’m still here and these thoughts, this sickness, is still in my mind.Â
I’m lonely, but I don’t like people.Â They speak with subtle manipulations to achieve ulterior motives.Â I hate the lies and the games;Â the judgement from others based on their ownÂ imperfect beliefs.Â
People use fear toÂ motivate. “Well if you give up now, you will never know what tomorrow may have in store for you.”Â OK, that’s true, but based on what is observable: my past, the present, and the foreseeable future I’d say I can make a fairly well informed guess as to what tomorrow will have in store for me.Â More of the same.Â But maybe it willÂ get better, right?Â Yeah or maybe it willÂ get worse.Â
The repetition of theseÂ thoughts in my head every day is maddening. I feel like I’m slowly losing my mind. I read the thoughts I have written and IÂ feel repulsed as if I am some third party reading someone else’s thoughts…but these are my thoughts.Â I don’t want them, but I can’t stop them.
I have seen people point out thatÂ if you are stillÂ alive and writing, that some part ofÂ you must still “want” to be alive.Â It’s possible. Maybe subconsciously I really want a luxury sedan, health insurance bills,Â and 10 hour work days until I reach the ripe old age ofÂ 76 and die of a heart attack, although, consciously I can safely say “I’m not interested”.Â
I think the fact that I’m still alive can only indicate one thing for sure: It’s harder to do something than it is to do nothing.Â As long as I continue to do nothing, I will remain alive.Â I would have to do something to either getÂ better or end it. Â It will take initiative, conviction and even courage to go through with suicide. I’m in no rush, but I’ve made up my mind. Since I’m a coward I just have to workÂ myself up to it gradually.
It may hurt others, but why should their grief be anyÂ greater than If I died naturally?Â We all die eventually, why does the manner in which we die seem to matter so much to some people?Â
Writing does help reduce the intensity of the pain and the feeling of my mind racing for a little while. It’s something. I’m hanging on and I’m still here, but I’m not happy.