It’s not that I don’t love my friends or my family. I think that’s one of the biggest misconceptions about people who commit or attempt suicide: that they’re not thinking about all the people they’re leaving behind. In fact, if it weren’t for my mother, I don’t know if I would have made it this far. But it’s getting to the point where I need more than just the occasional phone call or lunch date or study session, and I have no real reason to expect that there will ever be more than that.
At this point, I still get out of bed every morning. I still get dressed and go to class, go to work. I still eat regularly and generally take care of myself, and I still pull decent grades, and I still go to bed and try to sleep through the night so I can get up tomorrow and do it all again.
But the more I try to engage in this painful existence that I’m supposed to find sacred, precious, worthwhile, or whatever else, the more pointless it seems. I don’t think I see what’s so special about it anymore.