A high school friend killed himself.

He did it this past Christmas.  I found out about it about a month later.  I reacted by being intensely jealous.  It was his first attempt and he succeeded.  I’ve made three attempts already and am still here.

Right now, I’m fine with that.  I’m not particularly suicidal at this moment.  But I believe that I’ll ultimately take my own life, whether it’s this year, next year or twenty years from now.  I’m just so tired and life (my life, anyway) is meaningless.  It makes me so sad that I have people who care about me who I will totally fuck up when I finally do it.  I don’t want to hurt anyone.  I really don’t.  I wish I would suffer an accidental death all the time.  I yearn to be mugged so I can get myself killed an not feel guilty about it.  Or have a heart attack.

I almost starved myself to death last year and was gung ho to do blow while already high on heroin and/or oxycodone (hence, my username), but somehow I came through it, started eating (a little) and stopped using.  But I really thought I’d die last year.  I told my therapist many times over that my anorexia and drug use were explicitly an attempt at ending my own life, but I’m still here.  Fuck.  I guess I’ll just have to keep on living, for now.