There is a kind of confusion that doesn't feel like thinking. It feels like drowning, not because you know what you want and can't get , but because you don't know what you want at all. Every day feels like standing in the middle of a storm where the wind keeps changing directions, pulling you one way and then another until you don't even remember where you were trying to go.
The weight of existing when you no longer wish to be is heavy. It's like paradox ,you are moving through the world, breathing, drinking water, and hanging out with friends, yet every cell in your body feels as though it is already pulling towards its end. Living with chronic suicidality isn't always a dramatic cinematic crisis, it's a quiet exhausting endurance. It is the act of waking up and feeling a profound sense of disappointment that the sun has risen again, forcing you to perform the role of a human being for another day.
Some mornings I wake up convinced that I'm done fighting and whatever this weight is,this constant heaviness sitting somewhere inside my chest,has already taken more out of me than I had to give. The idea of continuing feels impossible, like being asked to run a marathon on broken legs. I lie there and wonder how many more mornings am i supposed to wake up and have the exact same argument with my own self. Life feels like a lonely architect ,building a life i don't intend on finishing, decorating a room i hope to leave, and maintaining a heart that beats against my will.
other days something inside me hesitates. It's not exactly hope, its smaller than that,a whisper that says maybe not yet. Maybe there's still something here that I haven't seen, something that could make staying feel less like a punishment. Its mainly FOMO(fear of missing out).
Recently the confusion has become even heavier, because the question of whether I stay or leave is no longer just an abstract thought, its reality.
( i have SN now)
The option exists now in a way that feels frighteningly real and no longer just a distant idea that my mind drifts toward during the darkest nights. It's a door that is actually there.
For a moment, there is a chilling sense of relief. The exit door, which i have been clawing at with bare fingernails for years, has finally been unlocked for me. I no longer have to fear a "failed attempt" or the messiness of a desperate act. The system has offered me a bridge to the quiet i've been craving. I hold the power of the end in my own hands, and having that power has made everything more complicated than I ever imagined.
Some days I think about it and feel a strange sense of calm, like maybe the suffering could finally have an end point. Other days the reality of it terrifies me,I find myself wondering if choosing that option would mean leaving behind things I didnt even realize still matter to me.i stand on the threshold of the ultimate "maybe" , i find myself looking at the most mundane things,seeing a loved one, laughing with a friend, and wonder if this is the last time i will see them.
The uncertainty isn't necessarily a sudden burst of "hope" , it's more of a profound hesitation. It's the weight of the permanent vs the familiar. I am caught in a liminal space between two worlds, one that has caused me nothing but exhaustion, and an unknown silence that i cannot take back once i enter it. Am i keeping myself alive out of a lingering spark of desire, or simply out of the sheer habit of surviving.
I keep asking myself the same questions over and over again. What if the pain never changes? What if it does? What if I leave too soon and miss something that could have mattered? What if I stay and spend years feeling exactly like this?
The uncertainty is almost worse than the pain itself.
I walk through my days like someone carrying 2 opposite truths at once. One voice inside me says I'm tired, that I've already endured enough, that I should let go. The other voice is quieter but stubborn, keeps asking for more time, as if something inside me isn't ready to disappear yet, survival instincts is a bitch.
I exist in this strange limbo. Alive, but unsure. Breathing, but unconvinced. Standing in front of a decision that feels bigger than anything I've ever faced, trying to understand my own heart before I take a step in either direction.
I am 24 years old, and my life is a masterpiece of grief. I hold a permission to die in the same hands that should be building a future, a devastating irony that pulses in my throat with every breath, a young man with a ticket to silence and a heart that hasn't quite stopped fighting . To be this young and this finished is a tragedy I carry alone. I stand infront the exit and the entrance, waiting to see which version of me finally closes the door.
The weight of existing when you no longer wish to be is heavy. It's like paradox ,you are moving through the world, breathing, drinking water, and hanging out with friends, yet every cell in your body feels as though it is already pulling towards its end. Living with chronic suicidality isn't always a dramatic cinematic crisis, it's a quiet exhausting endurance. It is the act of waking up and feeling a profound sense of disappointment that the sun has risen again, forcing you to perform the role of a human being for another day.
Some mornings I wake up convinced that I'm done fighting and whatever this weight is,this constant heaviness sitting somewhere inside my chest,has already taken more out of me than I had to give. The idea of continuing feels impossible, like being asked to run a marathon on broken legs. I lie there and wonder how many more mornings am i supposed to wake up and have the exact same argument with my own self. Life feels like a lonely architect ,building a life i don't intend on finishing, decorating a room i hope to leave, and maintaining a heart that beats against my will.
other days something inside me hesitates. It's not exactly hope, its smaller than that,a whisper that says maybe not yet. Maybe there's still something here that I haven't seen, something that could make staying feel less like a punishment. Its mainly FOMO(fear of missing out).
Recently the confusion has become even heavier, because the question of whether I stay or leave is no longer just an abstract thought, its reality.
( i have SN now)
The option exists now in a way that feels frighteningly real and no longer just a distant idea that my mind drifts toward during the darkest nights. It's a door that is actually there.
For a moment, there is a chilling sense of relief. The exit door, which i have been clawing at with bare fingernails for years, has finally been unlocked for me. I no longer have to fear a "failed attempt" or the messiness of a desperate act. The system has offered me a bridge to the quiet i've been craving. I hold the power of the end in my own hands, and having that power has made everything more complicated than I ever imagined.
Some days I think about it and feel a strange sense of calm, like maybe the suffering could finally have an end point. Other days the reality of it terrifies me,I find myself wondering if choosing that option would mean leaving behind things I didnt even realize still matter to me.i stand on the threshold of the ultimate "maybe" , i find myself looking at the most mundane things,seeing a loved one, laughing with a friend, and wonder if this is the last time i will see them.
The uncertainty isn't necessarily a sudden burst of "hope" , it's more of a profound hesitation. It's the weight of the permanent vs the familiar. I am caught in a liminal space between two worlds, one that has caused me nothing but exhaustion, and an unknown silence that i cannot take back once i enter it. Am i keeping myself alive out of a lingering spark of desire, or simply out of the sheer habit of surviving.
I keep asking myself the same questions over and over again. What if the pain never changes? What if it does? What if I leave too soon and miss something that could have mattered? What if I stay and spend years feeling exactly like this?
The uncertainty is almost worse than the pain itself.
I walk through my days like someone carrying 2 opposite truths at once. One voice inside me says I'm tired, that I've already endured enough, that I should let go. The other voice is quieter but stubborn, keeps asking for more time, as if something inside me isn't ready to disappear yet, survival instincts is a bitch.
I exist in this strange limbo. Alive, but unsure. Breathing, but unconvinced. Standing in front of a decision that feels bigger than anything I've ever faced, trying to understand my own heart before I take a step in either direction.
I am 24 years old, and my life is a masterpiece of grief. I hold a permission to die in the same hands that should be building a future, a devastating irony that pulses in my throat with every breath, a young man with a ticket to silence and a heart that hasn't quite stopped fighting . To be this young and this finished is a tragedy I carry alone. I stand infront the exit and the entrance, waiting to see which version of me finally closes the door.
