Empty Shell

Something about this so called life that I am living seems artificial. As if I am the punch line to a very cruel joke. I’m overwhelmed more often than not about what it means to take my own life. In my mind it’s simple. Numerous ways to end my suffering or finish the joke before I’m thrown down a whirlwind of continuos pain yet again. I’m suicidal almost daily. When I think I can handle taking my life I know I can’t and I break down at the thought of leaving behind loved ones. I would tell a therapist but that would get me committed and the last thing that I want is to be restricted by four bouncy rubber walls. Isolated. Alone. Feeling even less of a person. Lacking freedom to choose what happens to me. Feeling more like a shell of a human being then the actual person I assume I once was.