In the words of Jean Luc Picard, “…there are fewer days ahead than there are behind.” Thank goodness. I’ve probably experienced 400,000 suicides/violent executions over the years. There was a 20 year period where I would run scenes in my mind anywhere from 20 to 100 times a day. I stopped for awhile, and restarted somewhere between five and ten years ago. Sometimes the target is my head; sometimes my heart. Once in a while, it’s a whole body total annihilation thing.
I have multiple keys to exit. I can leave any time.
I’m employed and am employable. For all of my complaints, I work on interesting problems that require creative solutions. I’m paid well and paid fairly. Family is somewhere between functional and good, if imperfect; there are no issues of abuse. The bills are small, there’s money in the bank; finances aren’t an issue. From an objective perspective, life is good.
I hate my life. I wish I was dead.
A little while ago I was ready to leave. There was nothing dramatic about it, just a feeling this is it. There’s no reason to continue. Leave.
My mental health is good. Physical health is good. IQ is in the gifted range. According to others, I function well socially. Although an introvert, I can approach almost anyone I want for conversation, including intimidatingly attractive people of the opposite sex.
I don’t lie, cheat, steal. I don’t envy. I’m happy when others succeed. My locus of control is virtually all internal; I control my destiny.
An hour ago the thought in my mind was that it was time. I knew how to go. It was no big revelation, wasn’t some bit of insanity, just, “It’s time to go.” It would have been easy, would have been quick. There’d have been no interruptions.
It isn’t that life sucks. Life is just boring and pointless. We’re born. We grow up. We make babies. We grow old. We die. Rah. We’re no more than moss in the forest.
I’m not leaving by my own hand, not today anyway. At least I know the end is closer.