Almost at the breaking point
I'm coming to a point now where I'm seriously considering suicide. I think about it all day long; the ways I could do it. How I would spend the last few days or hours. It's become an obsession. I write about it constantly. I write suicide notes and revise them obsessively, but I usually end up throwing them out. I don't think I actually would leave one. I don't want anyone to know the reason, when I don't even truly know the reason. I just know that I'm exhausted with myself and with my brain and how it's always over working and worrying and picking things apart. I hate not understanding why I am the way I am, why I'm so hopeless. Why I feel like I'm just meant to be unhappy. I feel like the only reason I'm here is just to be a cautionary tale that would be called "this is what happens when your head is in the clouds". I've always dreamed too much, and wished for too much. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be in love. I wanted someone to hold my hand and tell me that I'm not as bad as I think I am. I'm not bad, but I feel like I am. I feel like I've wasted too much time on dreaming and writing my silly little stories and poems to get me through. I'm becomming so out of touch with reality, that I sometimes feel like I'm in another world. I convince myself that I'm not me; I'm someone else. I talk to people who aren't there. I'm not hallucinating physically or anything, I don't see something visibly there, I only pretend. But I answer myself. I pretend I have someone to talk to who understands. That I'm in love with someone. That someone loves me. I've been in a mentally abusive relationship for three years with a guy: before him I didn't have a boyfriend. He was my first, at 21. I'd dream of a boy who would love and care for me; who I'd laugh with and tell all my secrets to and who would hold me at night. I remember wanting a kiss more than anything in the world. I met him and everything got worse. Before him I was severely depressed. My young cousin was killed by a car riding his bike and I held him as he died broken and covered in blood in the street. It killed me inside. I couldn't sleep. The guilt was unbearable. I tried to take my own life twice and failed twice. I finally got out of the habit and convinced myself to wait for love. I wanted to see what it was like. I thought it could save me. I didn't find it though. I just found more grief and misery. I won't go into details because it doesn't matter now. All that matters now is that I'm almost at my end. That I can't take this anymore. That no longer will music or books or poetry I love save me from this. Nothing will save me: and when I attempt it the last time, I won't fail.