Feel like I just can’t do this anymore. Life is too much. I’m not cut out for it. I was never meant to survive in the first place. Even my own body keeps trying to kill me.
I fly home on Saturday. All I can think is that then I’ll be able to kill myself, and I’ll finally have relief.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be saying any of this. But if I don’t say anything, it’s even worse. But when I do say this, I feel immensely guilty. You’re worrying people. You’re stressing them out. You’re making their lives harder. You need to just shut the fuck up. Shut up shut up shut up. You’re a monster.
I can’t survive this. I want to. There’s so much more I want out of life, so much more I want to do and give. But what I’m doing now is not living. You can hardly even call it surviving. Constantly on the knife-edge, the cliff-edge of disaster. Our minds are not meant to live with this constant stress. We evolved to survive the brief stress of a predator attack, to escape and survive. We are not meant to live with the constant threat of disaster
I want somebody to fix this. I don’t want that much. I don’t need luxury, just the basics of comfort. A small apartment–I’ll live with roommates, that’s okay. Enough food I can eat. Good doctors. A good therapist. A few friends. A sense of purpose.
So why do I feel like a monster who’s asking for so, so much more than she ever deserves? Why do I think it’s better to be dead than to beg for help?
I think it’s mostly that it’s easier to be dead than to have to realize every day, over and over, that I don’t matter enough to the people who could help for them to actually help.
I just want to go home so I can die. I’m sorry.
I don’t think I’m even making sense. I’m sorry.