I have been imagining it. It’s more real to me than ever before. I have a method and a vague plan for how to get there. I don’t think I’ll live to be old. That being said, I’m not ready yet. My affairs aren’t in order. But I took a step today. I found the best life insurance policy I can get covering suicide. An apology to my family. They are going to be pretty wealthy. I have to wait a few years till it will cover suicide, but I have to wait anyway to pay off my loans. I’m going to get rid of a lot of my stuff. And make sure I don’t reproduce. I also have to figure out a will, though I don’t have much to will.
I also discovered, perhaps realized is a better word, that a long list of family members very obviously have and had mood disorders. Unsurprising that I turned out this way. The realization has also cemented the hopelessness for me. I’ve been suicidal for a while, I’ve hoped for a while that it would improve. But it was never an anomaly. This is long-term. I have no way out.
I’ve done much of what I’ve been prescribed. Meds, exercise, some sleep, good food and often. Washing my hair. Talking in therapy. Staying sober. Calling someone up when down..eh perhaps I didn’t stick with that one. They have helped, undoubtedly. I’m a more functional person than in their absence. I have a career and stable relationship. But I’m still on my way to an early death.
Family has been the biggest turd in my way. Every time ever I’ve wanted to go through with it. Or disappear living to find some beauty to die in..they’re still around. Breathing and calling and talking about the crap they’re eating. Friends get to choose you. Family will show up till you die. I’m lucky, I know it. But I wish I weren’t. This would be easier. Wish I’d never got in a relationship too. It’s just more people to hurt. But hey, at least he gets some money out of it.
I have been stressed of late, so I’m well aware I’ll feel good again in a few weeks. But I will come back here. So I’m ready for it to stop. I used to believe the good times would last. I don’t have that anymore. I’m immune to the hope and glory of those times. I know every thought I come up with is a lie.
I’m really spiralling here. And I know exactly why, this godforsaken weather I thought would bring me good, and I know exactly what I need to do to bring my reality back to bearable. But I don’t want fucking bearable. And now I would rage for a paragraph (against the machine that is our economy and society and whatnot) but shit, having done it so many times before, all the words I have to say are said. I look at my journals from 2014-15, some months since, and they are so full of words. I have nothing left to say. It doesn’t change a fucking thing to say I’m dying and I want pain relief not help.
I’m just waiting for something terrible to happen in my vicinity. My brain might just fall low enough to convince me to get out- now. I don’t have access to my preferred method yet, but I’m rational enough to pick a good alternative should this ever happen.
Now, after the first new words to come out of my mouth in months, I’m going back to my bullshit work-for-bearable living strategies. Tomorrow is going to be..a shitty day if there ever was one. But I’m going to make it bearable. And the day after will be good because I decreed it be so.