The day I almost died

Something tells me it’s a bad thing when the only thing that stopped me from attempting suicide the other day was that I couldn’t find the cable I intended to hang myself with. Sometimes, it pays to be too depressed to give a damn about cleaning.

Hiya, folks. ChildOfRagnarok back, still alive and kicking.

Now, you might be a little bit alarmed after the first paragraph. I don’t even remember what it was about, I think it was my friends wanting to do some fun activity normal people enjoy that puts the fear of God in me due to my social awkwardness and insecurity. Before I knew it, I was back down in that spiral of self-pity and depression, and without consciously knowing it, I was turning my room upside down in my hunt for a cable I couldn’t find. I longed to find it so I could end my pathetic existence. No suicide note, no explanations, no last messages for my loved ones – nothing. “Leave ’em wondering,” I figured, “they’ll think I’m a selfish bastard for doing this, I might as well prove them right”.

I couldn’t find it. At that point I just lay down on my bed, too exhausted to even cry. I’ve tried. Whatever deity you want to believe in knows I’ve tried. The tears just won’t come. Some hours later, I came to the conclusion that I need help. But I don’t think I can confide in anyone I know with a matter of this magnitude. I’m not sure how my friends will react, and I’m afraid of losing them. I can’t afford therapy at the present. My family must not know. I can’t handle fighting this on my own, but if I tell anyone, the stigma will kill me.

I hate myself. I hate myself with every fiber in my being. I hate what I’ve let my depression turn me into, I hate what I do to my friends, and I hate what I do to myself.

I’m afraid of death, but I’m more afraid of life.