It’s days like these that I am infuriated to find that I’ve woken up. Here it is all over again, and it’s not going to go away any time soon. I’m not going to get better. If I stay, this is what it is going to be for the rest of my life. I’m going to be in a job I can’t stand, in a relationship with someone I don’t even like, and spending every moment having to hide my crippling problems and deteriorating sanity.
And every damn time I pick up a gun, I hate that I’m too weak to make this just stop. I don’t want to inflict pain anymore; I want to end this mindless existence. I can’t say that to the fucking therapist, I can’t say that to my friend, because deep down it scares them and they don’t want to hear it, and they’d do anything just to get me off their hands so that they never have to come into contact with my problems again.
I hate you. I hate you for running away, and I hate you for being indifferent to my suffering. I laugh and am glad that you don’t know what it’s like. I take comfort in knowing this is too dark for you and I’m the only one that has any chance of coming back from it intact. That is the only strength I have.