Living is killing me

I can’t help but wonder what it would hurt to die.

Does the relief of the emotional pain ending override physical pain?

I have no path in life. Just children who depend on me and I feel like I’m failing them.

I hate everyone and everyone hates me.  I look like a transvestite, I’ve always been called names for not being hyper feminine. Dyke, transvestite, ugly.

I’ve been most of my life on the streets.

I always feel like an imposition.

My own mother sees me as a mistake. Hasn’t called in years.

My father disowned me after abandoning me for 16 years.

My step dad, who is now on my birth certificate,told me to “fuck [my]self with a rototiller” 7 years ago.

I just want to disappear. Fade.

I don’t know anyone I trust with my kids, or I’d probably give them up and buy a lethal amount of heroin. Not because I love drugs, but because I’m pathetic and weak and no longer want to hurt.

I will never be able to afford everything I want them to have. They don’t have friends because no one likes me and I don’t like people who are worse parents than me.

I feel like they are guilty by association and will always be treated like they’re unfortunate because of me

I can’t even be honest. I can’t tell my therapist that I fantasize about driving my car into a pole after dropping off the kids.

I can’t eat anything because I have allergies and only just now got diagnosed.  Not that I’m hungry anymore.

I think about how quiet the neighbors would be when they knew they won if I blew my brains on the ceiling. I say won because they’ve been in a war with me making false reports to police and cps about drug use and abuse because they want to force me to move.

I have no one to call who would say I’m worth it.   No one to tell me I’m not alone. No one to keep me from drowning under the weight of each wave.

I feel like I’m wearing lead weights. And I feel like I’m without substance. Empty. Torn open. Dry.