December 1st of 2020. It has been a very long year that cannot end quickly enough.
Yet, I find myself stuck between a rock and a hard place. As desperate as I am for 2020 to end, I am not at all looking forward to 2021.
Unfortunately, the one solution to that is one that’s very difficult.
I’m angry I couldn’t do it ten years ago. I find myself resenting the night of my accident didn’t do it for me. I resent the other two occasions I was nearly killed didn’t do it for me.
I do not want to be here any longer.
There is no point. There is no light. I’ve never been someone who was fascinated by dystopian novels and societies (Isn’t that really what history is?), so I can’t share in my friends’ ideas of enjoying the ride. I want to jump off the train.
Or the train to throw me off.
Fear of pain and greater fear of any method failing is what keeps me from trying. Any method that would be nearly a guarantee is inaccessible.
Which means I’m stuck here.
My boyfriend tells me there’s nothing better after life. No one living knows that. More so, there’s nothing in life worth living every day wishing you won’t awaken to see the next.
No, cute animals don’t make up for it.
I won’t buy a calendar for 2021. Unless I somehow finally find the bravery to make an attempt to take myself out, I’m merely going through the days. And no, “choosing to live” is not brave for me. I’m not choosing to. I’m stuck. I can’t not.
I know very well of the notion suicide is selfish. Funny how “selfish” is always said when someone can’t get their way out of someone else.
Perhaps trying so hard not to be “selfish” is part of why I feel this way.
I didn’t choose to create my life. But I got it, it’s mine, and I think I should be able to end it.
“I brought you into this world and I can take you out!”
Well, why didn’t you?