Giving Up – For The Umpteenth Time

After living with myself for years upon years, I figured out how much I can handle. I surpassed that limit long ago.

I started to succumb to the agonizing effects of depression and suicidal thoughts. I don’t try to fight it when it pushes itself into my mind, infiltrating my thoughts. It makes me lash out. I have become less than a person. I ruined a friendship with someone I have known for more than seven years. I fell out of touch with everyone else. But that’s good, right? I don’t have to worry as much when I pass on. Not that I will anyways. Worry. I will be dead.

I do worry, though. I’m not in a position where I think people don’t love my existence. I do know that. Which makes everything much harder. You can’t exactly lose connections with your family – when you’re me, anyways. I love them. I love them so much that I would rather stop breathing than to see them suffer. It hurts me when they come around. They hurt me. Why? Why does it have to hurt so bad? Why does loving someone hurt so bad?

I can’t stop thinking. I can’t stop wanting to kill myself. I want to die so badly but how? How can I finally do it without stopping, like I did in 2016? What if I fail again and I have to see the angry look in my mother’s eyes? My big sister’s eyes? It terrifies me. I’m scared.

Being scared of death and wanting nothing more than to embrace it is tearing me in half. These conflicting feelings grab me by the arms and they are only going to tug even stronger until I have to do something about it. But what could I do?

How do I overcome this fear?

When does it all stop?