Sometimes I sit and stare at the pill bottles laid out on my dresser, each meant to serve a different purpose, all contributing to keep me sane. They're doing a terrible fucking job might I add. I stare at them wondering what would happen if I could just take and swallow them all, would have happened if the first time I had tried to overdose it would have worked. I wonder. I often contemplate if I should just end it all here and not worry about what's coming next. I wonder if swallowing the pills is the best way to numb the pain of me hating myself. To numb the pain of existing.
Over the past couple of months I have tried to relinquish my purpose, my reason for being alive. I have tried to take the little fire and passion I had left in me and make it bigger. Instead the fire has burned out completely. I see no reason to push forward, for I cannot handle everything life continuously throws at me, I cannot handle the fullness and emptiness in my chest. I feel dead. I feel drained. I am tired. So I sit and I contemplate. I stare at the pill bottles and I stare at the bleach and I stare at the razor blade. Every time I get into my car, I contemplate driving off of the bridge, crashing into the water and drowning to death. Drowning to death is one of my fears, but even that seems better than the never ending storm I am in.
I am too afraid to kill myself, too afraid to become my own murderer, but I know that I have given up, and I am completely ready to die. I have given up, I am letting my demons win, I am letting my depression win.
