I don’t really have problems. My life is pretty awesome. I am surrounded by people who love me, I am likable, I am cute, and I make other people happy. I can’t really ask for more.
But there is a hollowness to all of it. An emptiness that I have felt for many years. And under that, a pain that I have been pushing down and burying deep, deep inside.
I don’t know why it hurts, just that it always has. When I think about it, I can feel it. I’m always aware of it. This terrible sucking, aching, vacuous throbbing that beats inside my chest and travels along my bones. It’s killing me. It makes me want to die.
I wish I could excise it. I wish I could just cut it out. For the last 17 years, the best I have been able to do is pretend it isn’t there. But it has been with me this whole time, telling me to kill myself. Presenting suicide as an option. Conjuring up gruesome images of what it would look like if I just turned my steering wheel, or stepped into traffic, or walked off a cliff.
It would be so easy.
And then it would be done.
And I want to be done. I want this feeling to be gone. It’s not that I want to die, or that I deserve to die or anything. I am a relatively good person living a relatively good life. But I’d give that all away, in an instant, to just stop existing anymore.
I often feel like it’s just a matter of how.