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- Sep 12, 2020
- 1,043
I don't know why I'm writing this. Apparently, I feel the urge to let the whole world know that I'm really fucked up.
I came so close a few hours ago. I don't know why I didn't just stand still and wait for the problem to resolve itself. For me personally, I have found that it only takes just one straw to break the camel's back. I don't know if I can plan long enough when it comes to the worst.
Every time it gets worse, I get closer to it. Mentally and physically. I have never been there so long and so close, and I was barely afraid. It was close enough to be crushed. How close exactly I was there and how long I stood around, I don't remember. My memory is a little holey, but I didn't touch the metal, even though my leg reached out for it. Today on the gravel, next time on the track.
It would be a reprehensible act. I am reprehensible, even though, naive as I was, I have always adhered to goodness, adhered to the law. Who would have thought that I would be where I am today. And no one except my therapist knows about it, and not all of it.
The best thing is still that it doesn't matter at all. One of 7.9 billion. A waste of space.
I loathe myself for still being here. It really is almost unbearable. I will try to call the helpline later, but it is probably pointless. I lost this battle a long time ago.
Even if I were to bring it up in "therapy". There is a risk of being admitted. Besides, even if I kill myself, it doesn't matter. So what's the point? Therapy should be over soon anyway. In the end, nobody cares, and I don't expect them to.
It doesn't matter.
I came so close a few hours ago. I don't know why I didn't just stand still and wait for the problem to resolve itself. For me personally, I have found that it only takes just one straw to break the camel's back. I don't know if I can plan long enough when it comes to the worst.
Every time it gets worse, I get closer to it. Mentally and physically. I have never been there so long and so close, and I was barely afraid. It was close enough to be crushed. How close exactly I was there and how long I stood around, I don't remember. My memory is a little holey, but I didn't touch the metal, even though my leg reached out for it. Today on the gravel, next time on the track.
It would be a reprehensible act. I am reprehensible, even though, naive as I was, I have always adhered to goodness, adhered to the law. Who would have thought that I would be where I am today. And no one except my therapist knows about it, and not all of it.
The best thing is still that it doesn't matter at all. One of 7.9 billion. A waste of space.
I loathe myself for still being here. It really is almost unbearable. I will try to call the helpline later, but it is probably pointless. I lost this battle a long time ago.
Even if I were to bring it up in "therapy". There is a risk of being admitted. Besides, even if I kill myself, it doesn't matter. So what's the point? Therapy should be over soon anyway. In the end, nobody cares, and I don't expect them to.
It doesn't matter.