I don’t even know what to say. I feel like I’m already dead. I have no desire to live any more. I have no motivation to do anything. I want to be anything other than alive; anywhere other than here. I hate myself. I hate my life. Even my kids aren’t enough to keep me motivated any longer. I feel like I’m just barely holding on. I was sober for nearly eight years before I drank again and now I can’t even put together a week without drinking–I’ve a glass of crushed ice in the kitchen awaiting a heavy pour of bourbon from the bottle I have stashed in my truck. Last month I was in hospital on a locked ward because I couldn’t stop drinking and wanted to kill myself and here I am, still in the same fucking place. On meds. Can’t sleep. Can’t work. Want to drink. Don’t want to drink. I just lay in my bed asking the Universe to please kill me. I hear about someone dying from cancer and I think “lucky bastard.”
god, this is such an awful way to exist. I won’t say “live” because I don’t feel like I’m even alive. I feel like I’m in some strange purgatory devoid of any kind of pleasure. Food is bland. Sex isn’t interesting. Sleep doesn’t come to me or comes at inopportune times. I’m angry all the time and I just want to smash the world to pieces and burn it to bits. I can’t even cry. I’m just fucking dead inside. At this point suicide feels like a redundancy, but I think it’s the only way to end the loop I find myself in. Killing myself feels like it would be a logical step to take since I’m already dead.
for those I leave behind all I can say is I’m sorry. I feel like I was set up to fail from the beginning. My life has been a long and endless series of abuse and disappointment and, perhaps worse of all, I became the abuser in my adult life. I’ve left a trail of disappointment and hurt. I’ve done a lot of harm to myself and other people. I never really learnt how to love or be loved, opting instead to just play at human emotions and act the parts I was offered in life. I sincerely regret that my boys will have to go on without their father, but in the end I think it’s for the best. At least they won’t have to explain me to their friends or hide the ugly truth of my past.
to everyone else, what can I say. Champagne for my real friends. Real pain for my sham friends.