I keep looking for words, but they won’t come. Even poetry and quotations, which can usually break through the fog in my head and provide inspiration, fall flat. My own thoughts are too morbid to voice, too dangerous to speak out loud. I speak candidly in yesterday’s therapy session, regret it almost immediately.
I spend half an hour last night with a friend, taking inventory of all the pills I’d been saving, listening to her flush them down the toilet, then call my therapist.
I’m pissed. I am skipping the gym for this. I am scaring my friend. I have made her cry.
And my escape route from this hell has just been taken away to boot.
Inevitable. That’s what I told my therapist yesterday about my committing suicide. It’s always just been…inevitable. I’ve known it for years. Everyone has. It’s something of a small miracle that I haven’t done it yet.
My therapist tried to convince me that it would be hurtful to those around me, selfish to kill myself. She asked what I thought their reactions would be and I stared blankly at her before muttering, “They’d get over it.”
And I wonder if dragging it out, slowly killing myself by starving, isn’t making it that much worse. Is it not better to just get it over with and done and let people move on? Is it not better to just be dead already and stop worrying people and sending my parents into debt for treatment that clearly isn’t doing a whole hell of a lot?
My sister and I planned a trip to Disney in two weeks. I don’t want to go.
I don’t want to think about having to live another two weeks.