The day my life ends is pretty much the only thing I look forward to.

About four years ago, my life fell apart with no catalyst. I suddenly realised just how futile my existence was. I was in a job I didn’t enjoy that fed nothing but the pockets of some well seated theatre types, I lived on my own and was miles away from any of my friends. All of my life I’ve felt I’ve never really contributed to anything, materially, socially or emotionally. I was utterly isolated and I knew nobody missed me. Right now, I’m in a different job, living in a flat with a friend who, since moving in with me, has made it patently clear that he regrets it and avoids my company at all costs. This was my moving on, and look where it’s got me. Same shit, different carpets.

I’ve thought about doing myself in many times, but realistically, I can’t imagine there’s anyone whose mind it hasn’t crossed, however fleetingly. Until a couple of months ago, I’ve thrown those thoughts into the very back of my mind, telling myself that as long as I didn’t dwell on it, I’d get over it and, anyway, how could I do it to my family and friends? Well, as it is, I don’t see any of them enough for my absence to make any impact on their lives. I know they’ll be upset, but I seem to upset and antagonise people with my very presence, so I might as well do it once more and then never again. They have their own lives and those will continue. I have nothing.

I’ve sought help and found it, but it hasn’t worked. I no longer need help or solace; I just need to not be alive anymore.