I thought for a while that I might be okay. I thought I was getting better and managing.
I am. I really, truly am. Compared to how I was, I am doing so fucking well.
But even when I’m better, I’m not. The thoughts don’t go away. The thing that changes is the immediacy; I am suicidal, yes. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to live day after day after excruciating fucking day, I don’t want that, nobody would.
I spend every single day fighting the desire for things to fucking stop.
I do not want to live a life like this. I feel like a burden. I feel like the thing that holds back the people I love. I feel like without me, the people I love would be so much happier, so much freer. My partner could find somebody else, somebody able to look after her rather than her constantly needing to look after me. I wouldn’t be the focal point.
I want to vanish. I want to stop hurting every second of the fucking day. I want to say “I’m okay” and actually mean it. Just for once.
Because I don’t. I’m never okay. I am never, ever okay. I am managing, I am coping. Even when I’m “well” I’m not ‘okay’, but I have lived and survived and even occasionally thrived while not even a little bit ‘okay’. I know how to deal with my life and my world while so not-okay it’s not even funny. I live my entire world and life and future knowing there isn’t a huge amount of it; I don’t see my life spanning that far. I do not see myself with a ‘forever’ and that’s the hardest thing in the world, trying to plan for a future that is not mine.
Now, bear in mind that I’ve drunk alcohol tonight. That anybody with half an ounce of intelligence will look at somebody with mental health problems and alcohol and go “well it won’t be that bad in the morning” but they do not understand.
It is precisely that bad in the morning. It is always that bad in the morning. I am just as close to killing myself the next morning as I was the night before, I’ve just had more time to think about it, more time to be subtle. More time to work out how to do kill myself where nobody can see it. Where nobody can interrupt or stop me.
If I decide not to, that is a success.
And every single fucking morning, I make that decision, and that is my success. Every. Single. Morning.
I make the decision to wait it out another day. I don’t decide to not kill myself, and that’s the thing I cannot express: my decision is not to stay alive. My decision is to wait. Another minute, another hour, another day, another week. I decide that I will keep myself alive just a little bit longer, and hope that something appears that makes my decision worthwhile.
And I live in constant terror that tomorrow morning, it will not be enough.