So, I guess I'm not done with these thoughts. We were talking earlier about getting older, myself, my father, and my brother. My dad was talking about how he was sure he wasn't going to make it to 80 or 90 years old. I said I wasn't even going to make it to 40, to which he replied, 'I used to say that too.'
I almost said the next part out loud, but stopped myself. The next part being, he used to think that way too, but is still alive and kicking, because unlike me, he isn't suicidal.
I keep coming back to the idea that it's not a matter of 'if'. It's a matter of 'when'.
And the thing is, it's not aggressive depression at work. These aren't manic thoughts in times of crisis. The medicine is working. Instead, it's my completely rational brain telling me that someday, I'll end it.
Still not sure why I haven't. I have no reason to stay. But some unknown force still drives me forward. It's the reason why the scar on my wrist is only that, a scar. Nobody stopped me that night, there was no movie moment where some fucking angel showed me that life was with living. And not a single living soul cared about my pain.
And yet, here I am. Still barking in the dark. Screaming into a void that doesn't listen. It only hits a little heart icon and moves on with it's day. If I'm lucky, that is.
On the off chance that someone does read this, I don't need the suicide hotline link, or number, or whatever. This isn't a cry for help. My knife is sitting comfortably in it's sheath. For the time being...
I'm just lonely. It helps to express these thoughts on occasion. It's just that I have no one to talk to, so I'll continue screaming into the void.
It's not madness if I know what the result will be, right?
