No matter how many times I try and rationally weigh up the idea of ending my life, and decide it’s not time yet, a stubborn part of me just refuses to accept this reality. I just don’t want to live in this world, where I’m this pathetic broken thing. It’s pointless. There’s nothing here for me. I don’t have it in me to be happy anymore. My primary reasons for staying are not wanting to devastate family and fear of death.
But I don’t actually want to live anymore. Not like this. I’ve ruined my life, ruined my self, and there’s no fixing it. I’m just running down the clock, waiting for my loved ones to die. I can do another 15 years, right? Break it down into small chunks. Indulge in a tonne more addictive behaviour. It’ll fly by! But I don’t actually want to. I don’t want to be me, in this world. There’s nothing for me here. I’m wasting space. Wasting life. There could be a functional person in my place, enjoying life, not fucking everything up. Instead there’s me.
Being this hurts. Being me hurts. I don’t know how to live with it. So instead I waste my life away, numbing the days away, looking for any way to escape.
2 comments
This is so me right now
Very relatable post