I’m not even sad.

I’m actually not.  That’s the strange thing.  .

I’ve known I was going to kill myself for over ten years, ever since I was 17.  Now I am 28.

If anyone has reasons not to die it is me.  I have a great job with more money than I know what to do with.   I have two little girls, not yet 5 years old.  My best friend lives with me.  My wonderful boyfriend loves me dearly.  I am healthy and, if not pretty, at least very intelligent and fun to be around.

But I am going to die.  I have attempted it almost successfully many times before.  Most recently I took 300 aspirin and almost managed to get my kidneys to shut down before my traitorous body recovered itself.  Now I have the materials for helium asphyxiation.  Now I am going to finally die.

And I’m calm.  Actually, I’m oddly happy.  It’s like finally getting to the last pages of the story.   I feel free.

So this is the way I embrace my end.  I know I must not be the only one who has accepted death and welcomes it.   To whoever else feels this, you are not alone.  And you are not crazy.  But sometimes, it needs to end.  Sometimes no reason in the world is enough to make you keep existing.  Is it really so ridiculous to want to put down the book peacefully once you know the story is over?