Therapy

So my therapist asks me today what I’m going to do when my mom is gone.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I am counting on the end.  When that happens, with any luck, I’ll be dead too.  How cowardly, though, to not be able to say what I’m thinking.  A boy ought to take pride in his plan if he indeed is dead-set on it… right?

That’s the problem; I’m not sure enough.  After suffering for many more years, I could be too weak to do it.  After all, I’ve been too weak up to this point.  I should explain my story.  About five years ago I decided that I had had enough.  It felt good to be at that point, no care about the future, school.  All I imagined was someone finding me dead in my room.  So I tried depriving myself of food and water.  It felt good not to care.  It only lasted two days before I reneged on my decision.  And so many times before that, I had set certain cutoff dates where I’d go if things hadn’t changed.  When those came around, obviously I chickened out.  Maybe I’ll wait another six months, I said.

Not that anyone cares about this.  It’s peanuts compared to what other people go through.  I could be a whiner, my mental fuckitude not worth talking about.  That’s probably the case.

I never told anyone about any of this.  I’m used to keeping secrets.  I mean, where do I begin?  I’m such a social screw-up and I’m tired of driving everyone away.  Everyone goes away in the end.  I’ve been isolated more than half my life now and it’s far easier to give up than it is to hope that one person, one person out in this vast world can understand me.  Won’t be put off by me.  I’ve had more than enough people stab me in the back or otherwise up and disappear.  What chance do I have out in the world?  Not to mention the tedium, the lack of ability.  But the loneliness?  It crushes all.  I’m so tired of being a ghost without a voice.

These days drift inside a fog that’s suffocating.  I wanted to die before my niece and nephew were old enough to realize what I am.  How I dread that day!   Like I dread years and years more of pointless therapy and medication.  Nothing’s going to change this world.  I feel it.  I always have.  I used to think I wouldn’t make it to 20.  It seemed unreal to me.  That was before I actively wanted to exit this world.

But enough about irrelevant old me.  Nothing about me is worth discussing, remembering.  I want to erase my existence.  How about the holidays?  They’re coming on fast.  I wasn’t going to write again until then, but I felt a need to do so (forgive me).  They’re going to be even worse for me than they usually are.  My great aunt died not long after I found this place and so it’s going to be even emptier than usual.  Holidays exist for people without gaps in their families.  Or friends.  Any type of support.  Meh, they’re all hollow, consumerist things anyway.  How are you going to get through them?

Barring a fortunate accident, it looks like I’m going to crawl through

This is for the people planning their own exits.  May you find the courage to not do it… or the strength to put an end to suffering.  I never know what to say.  I want to take all your suffering unto myself.  Let it sink this dead soul, no one else.  While I crawl on like a freaking cockroach in the fallout of a personal holocaust.

I’m sorry to waste everyone’s time.