My closest attempts were when I felt useless. When the sinking I had felt in my chest, when the lack of energy, and utter hopelessness within me had no reason to live.
More recently, I thought I was doing better. I thought that I had won over these feelings, conquered them; sending them back to the depths of wherever they came.
I guess that was probably because I had gotten a job that I love. One that I thought was too much to handle, one that brought countless nights of stress to me… but now, under this quarantine, I feel myself slipping back into old habits.
I expect to still have my job when this is all over. It isn’t that I feel as though I have no future, in fact I feel very much so as though I do. Rather, it’s that no future feels worth living for. Or maybe they all do, but my will to live is just that weak.
I stay for those I care about; for those who I know deeply care for me. I couldn’t bear to hurt them.
But every night, I go to sleep wishing so deeply to die that night. Suicide is something so ingrained in to me, something I want so deeply, that only when I have a distraction that completely exhausts me can I begin to forget it.
It isn’t even always for the pain. Even if I feel fine, I just want to die. I just want to take my own life so badly.
Even with the will to stay alive for those I love, I find myself tempted to make another attempt. Each day, it becomes a more difficult fight to win. Just like it was back then.
I crave my own death more than I crave almost anything else. I suppose there is one thing I crave more… Which is a life of traveling, I suppose. But I’d hurt just as many people, if not many more, if I took that route. I think it would end up haunting me in the end because of that, even if I did decide to go down that path.
And then I’d be right back here, again. In this sinking pit, wishing that the life would leave my body each, and every night. Fighting off the urge to take it myself. Each, and every night.