Preparing to Leave

Yesterday I decided to make a list of all the reasons why I need to “Leave.” Within minutes, I’d come up with 18. I could have kept going all day. The list has since continued to expand.

I’ve considered suicide before, but I now have firm plans to make my “Exit” in just a few weeks’ time. Despite having spent the past 25 years in therapy, I haven’t been at all successful in changing my unhealthy patterns; no matter how conscious I am of my issues or how carefully I make decisions, I always end up in crap situations and attracting people who are more broken than I am into my life.

What makes me sad is the fact that I don’t exactly want to die—however, I absolutely can’t live like I have anymore, and as I still lack the social skills/tools, finances, and emotional support to effect any significant change, the insanity plain has to end. For many years, I fully believed I could have a rewarding life despite my abusive/traumatic childhood (I had no doubt); I possessed a staunch determination to be real and genuine with myself and others; to love and respect myself; to share and support my own talents; to be loving and respectful and mindful of others; to believe in myself and not let negativity and fear determine my path . . . and yet none of that “good stuff” helped me change things in any way, shape, or form. I am exactly the same person I was 25+ years ago.

It’s not exactly self-hatred that’s pushing me toward the cliff’s edge—it’s the opposite. It’s the self-respect remaining that’s pushing me to Leave.

I’ve always believed I had potential and a great deal to share with the world. Yet unfortunately, the talents and skills I possess are impractical ones in terms of the current job market. I’m an artist (graphic art, music, writing), but the world doesn’t need another artist or musician or writer or whatever else (at least not one without the means to generate significant revenue)—my artistic abilities are beside the point. And once I’d finally get that full-time minimum-wage job I’ve been putting off finding (or more like two part-time jobs—new employees have to “earn” full-time status these days) where I would earn $800 a month for 160 hours of work, my motivation to do anything artistic would be snuffed out by physical and mental exhaustion and more depression. And to me, that’s not life—it’s a living death.

I can’t bear any more suffering—it has to end.