So this is kind of a very belated response to my last post.
I wanted to say thank you to everyone that responded to it. I was in a very dark place. Still am, actually. But it helps to know that there are people who actually took the time to acknowledge someone who is quite literally facing their own mortality. I won’t say I have it as bad as other people on here, but I’ve never been an emotionally sound person to begin with, so I guess this just hit me harder than it should.
I’m still going through with the plan. I know a lot of people won’t understand this, given that I didn’t specify my reasons for setting a deadline for myself. That said, I don’t feel as scared as I did when I posted last time. I feel like the emotions have numbed. I wonder if I’ve entered the stage of acceptance yet. Or maybe I’m still in denial. Who knows? But a few things have happened in my life lately that have finalized my decision. I realized that in the real world, I’m alone. Not for lack of trying, but every time I reach out, I only seem to get hurt. Or I hurt someone else. My family doesn’t seem to want to discuss my problems, or they just make me feel like an idiot for feeling this way. I don’t know if I can fault them for that anymore. It’s not that I don’t love them, or that they don’t love me. But lately, I feel like my love has tethered me to them. It makes me feel guilty for standing up for myself with them when I probably should. It makes me ashamed for upsetting them when they themselves probably should have been more supportive and understanding. For some reason, I always end up being the bad guy. I know I’m not perfect, but it hurts when I’m left to cry on my own. I thought family was supposed to help you. I thought they were supposed to be by your side. But lately, it feels like my family members are just fairweather friends. Like I have to force a smile whenever I’m around them. Or they’ll tell me to stop being so down all the time. They don’t know I cry almost every night in bed. They don’t know most of my panic attack happen when they’re not around and I have to deal with them myself. (And when I do have a panic attack around them, they treat it more like an annoyance than anything else.) And they definitely don’t know about my plan to off myself. I’ve just grown to accept that this is my relationship with them. A complicated one that I feel guilty ending, but unhappy staying in. I wish I didn’t love them back. I wish they didn’t love me. That would make this whole thing easier. If I knew they didn’t love me, or if I didn’t love them, I probably would have ended my life a long time ago. I wish things were more black and white between us. That way, I wouldn’t be unhappy with either decision.
So, I made a compromise. I’d kill myself after I leave home. Not directly after, of course. I’d leave home, slowly drift away from my family, until they give up on trying to contact me. Then I’ll just wait until my 35th birthday when I’m supposed to off myself. I’m still not sure about the method right now. A gun would be ideal, but who knows what the political climate around gun control will be by that time. So, if that’s the case I’ll go with either hanging or jumping from a building. I’ve been trying to hold myself back on any unplanned suicidal urges. The more spontaneous the suicide, the more likely it is to fail after all. I just repeat to myself how many years I have left. Over and over. It was always oddly calming. It helped me sleep, it calms me down. It’s like a weird meditative mantra I have now. Probably not a good one, since it means I’m going to end my life, but hey. Whatever helps me sleep at night.
You know what’s weird? I’m way less emotional with the thought of ending it all than I am with anything else. Like, to give you a little behind-the-scenes information, I was crying while typing about the stuff involving my family, but I calmed down while I was writing about killing myself. That’s almost funny in a depressing kind of way.