Slow Suicide

I keep thinking that I should try to write something, and then ignoring the thought again because I don’t have anything to talk about
Just to have someone help me feel more shitty about it.
I’ve quit therapy.
I’ve essentially cut all people out of my life, because I get less and less patient for eking out polite, small talk or listening to offered solutions that are more impressive in their actual application than they are in simply offering such cliche words. I haven’t seen anyone in months and really couldn’t care less.

If worse comes to worse and I have to have a conversation with someone I mostly try to reserve it to them talking about whatever they feel most compelled to. If pressed much to speak on my own behalf, I typically keep it to a minimum without pretending to be positive anymore. I don’t care what people think of my attitude.
Since giving up, “surrendering”, and killing everything left inside of myself- things have reached an epitomally miserable, boring hum. I get up, feel sick, do the things anyways, hold my breath, try not to cry or smash any more appliances, take more stimulants, work on classes, barter with God for the courage to off myself or get hit by a bus, smoke, go to bed, wake everyone up screaming,  and Repeat.




Before I know it it’s been another month.

And another.

And look at that it’s been a year since such and such happened.

It would seem that things are quite settled into a rhythm of loathsome, inescapable misery. Dear Lord do I wish I had the fucking guts to actually end everything for once.

The hum goes on.

Life passes by.

I hate it more than words will ever be able to do justice, and it only compounds by the day.

But by the accounts of the few people who do regularly see me for whatever reason- I’m doing better than I have in years.

“See, I told you things would get better.”

“Yeah,” I reply, laughing inside.

I’m spending more time out of the house than I have in a long time I suppose.

I “look good.”

I’m continuing with treatment for Lyme disease, despite the numerous accounts that most of the time it’s incurable.

I finally went back to college to become a Master Herbalist. Just like I had such a passion to do all these years ago.

I’m driving and have a car again. Its even the color I wanted since I was a kid.

But it all makes me even more sad inside because I don’t want any of it and nothing feels the way it did. All of it means nothing to me.

I feel nothing. I want nothing.

I do it all for absolutely no reason but to attempt to eventually somehow repay my parents for everything  they’ve done for me for the past 4 years.
Even if that’s only by giving them the false hope that I’m finally ok.
I see that even the little steps encourage them. Yet they can’t seem to fathom why I don’t get any people in my life, much less any romantic relationships. I can’t tell them its because I can’t possibly see myself sticking around that long or that I can’t possibly care anymore. I can’t tell them that I’m only attracted to people and things that will slowly kill my soul- that I don’t have to commit to again. I  can’t seem to do anything lately that requires any kind of a genuine enthusiasm or emotion.

I’m already so dead. So tired. Tired of always being in pain.

So sick of feeling sick.

Resentful of dragging myself though the same pain everyday.

My body is sick. My heart is sick. There’s never been so little hope inside despite good-looking external circumstances.

What good are all of those things when I don’t have my mental, emotional, or physical health.

I’m sure they’re all somewhat connected, but the prognosis feels increasingly grim. Sure, I can work to obtain anything I want in life- yet I desire nothing anymore but to finally fucking die.

          Life is like having every awesome cd known to man, a Walkman, but perpetually no headphones. Those goddamn things were always tangling anyways.


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