Everything is so dark.
I keep wishing I would die. A car accident, a murder, my colon suddenly rupturing. I don’t really care, as long as I don’t have to do it to myself. Eventually, if I don’t die, I will do it to myself, once the election is over.
I wanted to live, but I can’t.
I tried, I really did. I tried so hard for so long. Sometimes things were better, but now there’s no hope of that happening again.
The three hotlines not answering last night was my breaking point. I can’t try anymore. I’m sorry. I’m not going to survive this. I’m mostly okay with that. I mean, it makes me angry because I want to be able to survive. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can’t, at least as much as anyone can come to terms with that.
I’m not crazy, and I don’t belong in a hospital. Suicide is a logical response when faced with hopeless, unlivable conditions. All the rhetoric around suicide (driven mainly by organizations funded by drug companies that get filthy rich by selling us antidepressants instead of addressing the socioeconomic and traumatic origins that underlie many cases of mental illness) says you can’t be suicidal and sane, but I am perfectly sane. Lack of societal acceptance of a behavior doesn’t mean that those who demonstrate that behavior are insane. Not that long ago, homosexual acts were seen as an indicator or insanity. I’m suicidal and sane. It’s the only real choice left to me.