Maybe if I cared I’d make some attempt to pick up the pieces. Mostly I’m just angry and confused. I don’t want to go to work, and honestly, the only alternative that goes through my head is blowing it off. Wrapping a towel around my head and pulling the trigger. But then I think about who’d find me (my mother) and it makes me hesitant. A woman at work has walked in on two family members through the course of her life. Both with self-inflicted gunshot wounds. She tells me she’ll never get over it. I don’t want that to be the last memory she has of me, but I’m also tired of restraining myself when it comes to this. I’ve almost overdosed a few times, late at night, when I’m all alone. What do you do, really? How am I supposed to handle these thoughts in any way besides the way that was intended?
I’m not living for much of anything, maybe just out of habit. And loving someone else hasn’t changed anything—yet another thing I suspected and came true. Even being held and talked to changed nothing, because at night I’d wake up and get out of bed, and sit in the bathroom trying to rock myself to sleep. Maybe it all means nothing, because whatever monster was there is still there and isn’t going to let go anytime soon. I feel like I’m so damaged that nothing can be done for me anymore. I think even if I had constant attention I’d grow weary of it until I’d forsake it completely. I could be lying; I’m not sure anymore. Maybe it’s just being left behind that makes me bitter.
I don’t want to go to work. All I think of is hurting myself, if only to avoid work, to avoid life, to avoid having to do any of this anymore. I’m living for everyone else and it’s not enough, and it won’t ever be enough. I’m not sure where I plan on going with this, only that I’m afraid. What if I fail, and I live? Can I deal with that? Would I be strong enough to finish what I started?