ctbcat
Yes, the everlasting contrast.
- Jul 14, 2023
- 183
i don't know if i'll actually go tonight or not. it's vaguely starting to feel like one of those nights i just don't do anything like a fucking idiot but i've still got a few hours b4 my prep time caps off, so i could get my act together and maybe i'll be gone by tomorrow, just like i'd planned. i want to go. i hate this place I FUCKING HATE THIS PLACE IT'S SO LOUD SO LOUD SO LOUD I HATE IT . sorry, i'm going through sensory overload as i write this, so it might not be as intelligible as i would like. but i digress.
not the point. the point is that with the imminence of a planned attempt, for real this time, equipped and all, i can't help but want to tell my friends what i'm about to do, even though it would hinder my plans...
being suicidal is so lonely. you can't tell anyone. the moment you do you are punished. but all i want to do is tell a close friend. not even out of hope, or habit (i barely talk to them about any of my present issues) or anything that might make some prolifer think i need 'saving'... i'm not sure the certain reason why, honestly. but i just... i want to bare that part of myself, almost want to give them the heads-up in advance... but i can't. they'd just blame themself.
if i do pussy out tonight, if i do decide the best decision is no decision at all, i still can't see having more than a week left in me... i'm really at the end of my road here. i'm losing all semblance of stability within myself. i spent each day of this week waiting for the arbitrary planned time i'd go - the end of today. i pondered and pondered and pondered and like every day of my life, i lived in my head.
i'm going to die this terrible, this repulsive, this... fickle, and volatile, and limerenced, and... god, throughout it all there's just the wish to cry, but i can't. these stupid fucking antidepressants. all i need at the very least is to cry and yet it's all fucking desert dry within my tearducts. is this what 'better' is, to the adjusted? is this chemical supression better than the heights of my inefficient illness?
not the point. the point is that with the imminence of a planned attempt, for real this time, equipped and all, i can't help but want to tell my friends what i'm about to do, even though it would hinder my plans...
being suicidal is so lonely. you can't tell anyone. the moment you do you are punished. but all i want to do is tell a close friend. not even out of hope, or habit (i barely talk to them about any of my present issues) or anything that might make some prolifer think i need 'saving'... i'm not sure the certain reason why, honestly. but i just... i want to bare that part of myself, almost want to give them the heads-up in advance... but i can't. they'd just blame themself.
if i do pussy out tonight, if i do decide the best decision is no decision at all, i still can't see having more than a week left in me... i'm really at the end of my road here. i'm losing all semblance of stability within myself. i spent each day of this week waiting for the arbitrary planned time i'd go - the end of today. i pondered and pondered and pondered and like every day of my life, i lived in my head.
i'm going to die this terrible, this repulsive, this... fickle, and volatile, and limerenced, and... god, throughout it all there's just the wish to cry, but i can't. these stupid fucking antidepressants. all i need at the very least is to cry and yet it's all fucking desert dry within my tearducts. is this what 'better' is, to the adjusted? is this chemical supression better than the heights of my inefficient illness?
