generic suicide note title

i don’t feel as much as i used to. i certainly think more. more than i feel i should. it’s not that there isn’t beauty in this world. it’s just i don’t know how to feel anymore. it’s a strange feeling. the feeling of not feeling. of knowing that you’re supposed to worried, but you can’t bring yourself to anymore mental strain. after the death of my father and brother, both to suicide, my grandfather is ill again. he’s 89 this year. and it’s getting slow for him. i don’t know if i’ll cry when he dies. i don’t know if i can’t bring myself to collapse on the floor again and cry till i burst the blood vessels in my face. no one feels this. i’ve had several friends say, ‘i’m here for you.’ and ‘you can tell me anything’. but, anymore who’s gone through something as traumatic as a friend or a relative committing suicide you know as well as i do how hard it is to talk about their death at times. there’s times where i want to spill out all the little details i remember about my brother and my father. to try and somehow capture those moments and put into words the things that i never bothered to notice. still there’s that voice in the back of my head which was probably in the back of theirs as well, “what’s the point?”. “what does it matter?”. i large part of me is still that 19 year old standing over a grave watch a box of my brother’s ashes being lowered down. an even bigger part of me is still that 8 year old boy crying over his father’s casket. i refer to them in the 3rd person. it’s hard for me to put myself in that situation. i’m a psych student. or a hypochondriac take your pick. but, narcissists have these same issues i do. and i wonder if i’m becoming one of them. something traumatic happens in childhood and there are two selfs created. one to face the world and continue living and one that is the fragile and broken self that is repressed deep inside. because there is this split between the person and the experience of living the narcissist disconnects themselves form reality. which is why many narcissists never take responsibility for their actions. and i don’t know how i can begin to explain how much i hate myself. i find it everyday i become more critical of my appearance, jokes, and voice everyday. and i am really ashamed to admit that i do the same with other people. i don’t think that i’m worthy of life. i don’t think that i was meant to live. i don’t see myself curing a disease, or saving Ethiopian children from starvation. i know i don’t have it nearly as bad as anyone else. i don’t hold razors and think about cutting myself, i don’t sit in my car and wish it kept running in the garage, i don’t tie nooses. it happens to me often that i think am i next? and i supposed to die by my own hand? and i know this sounds cheesy, or almost sad. but i think about movies that i haven’t seen yet. and that normally keeps my thoughts from wandering too far into dark corners. my depression. my heart. i remembers the worst and the best, so i am forever damned to remember that i once was happier. and will never again be there. not to mention my sex life is pretty much non-existent. i know sex isn’t everything. and i don’t think about it on a regular basis when is the next possible time i can have sex. i don’t know how i could possibly be intimate with another human being when i can barely be real with myself. i just someone who will listen really. someone who cares about how i feel and someone who asks me what’s wrong. i guess you can call it love. but, i have a real doubt that love exists anymore today. i just want to feel close to another human being again. so once again i sit here high as shit, clanking out random and almost meaningless words. i’ve been told that depression isn’t a weakness, that it’s the result of trying to be strong for too long. but, i don’t think i’m dealing with this correctly. i just play the last time i saw my brother and father. what they were wearing. what their eyes looked like. how they used to walk. how they smelled. the size of their shirt. the smallest of details that no one bothers to remember, it’s all i have left of them. and i still can’t let go. it’s not that i whine ‘why me?’. i just wanna know why them? never for me, always for you. and what really kills me they will never know how sorry i am. they’ll never know how much i want to hug them again and never let go. how much i cry, how much they’ve fucked me up. and how much i fucked myself up too. there’s no closure. there’s nothing to mentally work out, there’s no secret trap doors or disney endings where snow white magically wakes up from their sleep. i don’t know how much or how little i really care about myself anymore. i wish i was stronger for you.