S
Santana Idaho
Member
- Dec 16, 2024
- 22
I'm in my mid-thirties, and I've wanted to die for as long as I can remember. I've wanted to kill myself since I first learned about it in elementary school. "Suicidal" is part of my identity at this point. "Recovery" doesn't exist because there is no "old me." There's no me prior to this version except for the one that had hope. And now she's gone, and here I am.
One of my past therapists asked me if making all of my dreams come true would change anything...whether crying into money was really better than crying into toilet paper... I waffled, but I ultimately thought it would make everything better. I'd always be depressed and anxious, but I'd have space, and food, and time. I'd have clothing and shelter. And a safe place to sleep. I could leisure and only do things I enjoyed. I could go to therapy. (A good one, this time.)
This year, I realized it wouldn't. I hate feeling like this, and money...friends...freedom...love...would ever make it better. At least I can't imagine it. When I think of these things, now, I can't feel them. I used to revel in my constant fantasies of a good life. That doesn't work anymore.
I'm almost at my deadline, and I hate that I feel the need to keep making them. They always pass, and it only adds to my self-hatred. Why, for the sweet release of death, do I still make impossible deadlines that I will fail to meet? Ruining my death with my terrible life habits.
For the past year and a half, I've felt that I'm not gonna make it for much longer than I have. And things keep getting worse.
I don't even know what "getting better" looks like.
One of my past therapists asked me if making all of my dreams come true would change anything...whether crying into money was really better than crying into toilet paper... I waffled, but I ultimately thought it would make everything better. I'd always be depressed and anxious, but I'd have space, and food, and time. I'd have clothing and shelter. And a safe place to sleep. I could leisure and only do things I enjoyed. I could go to therapy. (A good one, this time.)
This year, I realized it wouldn't. I hate feeling like this, and money...friends...freedom...love...would ever make it better. At least I can't imagine it. When I think of these things, now, I can't feel them. I used to revel in my constant fantasies of a good life. That doesn't work anymore.
I'm almost at my deadline, and I hate that I feel the need to keep making them. They always pass, and it only adds to my self-hatred. Why, for the sweet release of death, do I still make impossible deadlines that I will fail to meet? Ruining my death with my terrible life habits.

For the past year and a half, I've felt that I'm not gonna make it for much longer than I have. And things keep getting worse.
I don't even know what "getting better" looks like.