June 10th, 2009 by Thoughtless

Tired of the same thing. Every day. Feeling like garbage, wishing I was normal.  

Sick of feeling sorry for myself, thinking about my problems instead of helping myself or others.  I recognize that I am self absorbed, but I can’t stop these thoughts.  I want them to go away, but they don’t.  I’ve tried Diazepam, Ativan, Effexor.  They didn’t help me feel better, they just made me feel like a zombie;  Neither good nor bad.  I spoke to a medical doctor, a therapist, a psychologist, a parent, and a friend. They helped me hang on.  Told me pleasant lies to subdue my anxiety and placate my mood, at least for those moments I was with them.  But I’m still here and these thoughts, this sickness, is still in my mind. 

I’m lonely, but I don’t like people.  They speak with subtle manipulations to achieve ulterior motives. I hate the lies and the games; the judgement from others based on their own imperfect beliefs. 

People use fear to motivate. “Well if you give up now, you will never know what tomorrow may have in store for you.”  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.  More of the same.  But maybe it will get better, right?  Yeah or maybe it will get worse. 

The repetition of these  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 I feel repulsed as if I am some third party reading someone else’s thoughts…but these are my thoughts.  I don’t want them, but I can’t stop them.

I have seen people point out that if you are still alive and writing, that some part of you must still “want” to be alive. It’s possible. Maybe subconsciously I really want a luxury sedan, health insurance bills,  and 10 hour work days until I reach the ripe old age of 76 and die of a heart attack, although, consciously I can safely say “I’m not interested”. 

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.  As long as I continue to do nothing, I will remain alive. I would have to do something to either get better or end it.  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 work myself up to it gradually.

It may hurt others, but why should their grief be any greater than If I died naturally?  We all die eventually, why does the manner in which we die seem to matter so much to some people? 

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.

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