CuddleHug
Back, but with less enthusiasm. Hugs~
- Feb 22, 2020
- 259
I'm tired of everything. Tired of life, tired of trying to recover, tired of living for others. Yet I'm also tired of contemplating my own death. Tired of planning, preparing, worrying about failure. Why can't I just... die? A freak accident, getting hit by something heavy when walking past the construction site nearby, having a deadly aneurysm rupture or slipping on ice and hitting my head in just the right way. Something. Anything.
Why does it matter how I die or whether it's by my own hand or something beyond my control? Because I'm ashamed of myself for wanting to end my life. Because, somehow, dying with the knowledge I am going to hurt my family intentionally, scares me. Well, not intentionally, of course, but through an action I chose to take. That somehow makes me the villain, the weak and feeble-minded woman who gave in to the dark thoughts in her head, who didn't care about the pain she caused everyone around her. To all those who wanted her to live.
Who wanted her to live. I'm honoured, but no thank you. I've lived for others long enough, isn't it time I took my life in my own hands... and extinguished it? Because that's what I want to do. Yet I can't bring myself to do it.
It's like I'm too tired, too indifferent, to actually bother doing it. Like most things in our universe, I'm taking the path of least resistance. Because for some inexplicable reason, doing nothing is easier than killing myself. Suffering through my pain is easier than ending it. After all, I'm so used to it by now that one more day doesn't make a difference. Or two, or three... and then I forgot where I was and it's just another day again.
I'm rambling. It's what I do best in these moments. Crack my head open and let the incoherent thoughts spill out. That way I make room for new thoughts, at least for a while. I'm done for today, thank you for reading, whatever that's worth.
Hugs~
Why does it matter how I die or whether it's by my own hand or something beyond my control? Because I'm ashamed of myself for wanting to end my life. Because, somehow, dying with the knowledge I am going to hurt my family intentionally, scares me. Well, not intentionally, of course, but through an action I chose to take. That somehow makes me the villain, the weak and feeble-minded woman who gave in to the dark thoughts in her head, who didn't care about the pain she caused everyone around her. To all those who wanted her to live.
Who wanted her to live. I'm honoured, but no thank you. I've lived for others long enough, isn't it time I took my life in my own hands... and extinguished it? Because that's what I want to do. Yet I can't bring myself to do it.
It's like I'm too tired, too indifferent, to actually bother doing it. Like most things in our universe, I'm taking the path of least resistance. Because for some inexplicable reason, doing nothing is easier than killing myself. Suffering through my pain is easier than ending it. After all, I'm so used to it by now that one more day doesn't make a difference. Or two, or three... and then I forgot where I was and it's just another day again.
I'm rambling. It's what I do best in these moments. Crack my head open and let the incoherent thoughts spill out. That way I make room for new thoughts, at least for a while. I'm done for today, thank you for reading, whatever that's worth.
Hugs~