Fatal Resolution

It was nearly Halloween last time I came on here, and since then I have managed to accomplish everything and nothing at the same time.

I finally got over the nausea from when I consumed what my body demanded was my fuel, but my brain swore was my poison. Only now I seem to be living off of sugar-free bubblegum and diet coke. Only now I cannot seem to break free from the chokehold the white ceramic bowl sitting in my bathroom has on me. I cannot seem to break free from the numbers- the numbers on the scale, the numbers on every package and every box, the numbers of minutes that pass on the clock until I am able to shove my fingers to the back of my throat. Then I sit there, defeated. I sit there and think of all the obsessive calculations I made in order to consume what I had just disposed of, what I had just purged. I sit there and think “this is pathetic”. I was finally recovering, and a few weeks ago all that hard work proved to have been for nothing. Strive for progress, they said. Keep fighting. This is temporary.

Sure, my medication regimen is practically perfect now. There are no unbearable side effects; no hallucinations or severe physical alterations. I was content with what I had been prescribed, now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it is a dosage problem. Why you ask? Well maybe it’s the deep sadness and gut-wrenching anxiety, persistent paranoia and dissociation, or the intolerable desire to transition out of this life and into whatever the hell comes after it. For all I care, after we die we go to a big black void of nothingness. Nothing sounds peaceful, painless.

I managed to pass all of my midterm exams. I got accepted into every college I applied to (despite the numerous absences and hospitalizations tainting my record). However, I dropped out of 4/8 classes. The college I decided to commit to offered me no scholarship money. $0, zilch, nothing. As if I already lacked the motivation to push through until graduation, I still cannot manage my own medications or take care of myself. Finding out how much harder I need to work because of all that debt threw salt in the wound. I have no drive to put any more effort into school. I overheard my mom whispering on the phone to my therapist about how she worries I’m not even going to make it through college. I am too high risk, she claims. The thing is, she’s right. I am too high risk.

Everyone told me, begged me, to fight. Fight? How am I supposed to fight? I listened, I fought not for myself but for them- for everyone who loves me and everyone I love. I did not fight for my own life. When I tried to end my life last year it failed, when I contemplated ending my life a few months ago I got caught. My only regret is that I was not successful. I am going to die soon. I have accepted that. Frankly I already feel as if I am dead, I feel like I don’t even exist. Like I am acting as a spectator in this world rather than an individual, only instead of lingering in the background I’m the thorn in everyone’s flesh. That is what kills me the most.