I am stuck in this life for years to come. And I have been stuck in this life for too long already. I realised that there are some people that I cannot ever leave. It would hurt them too much, it would hurt me too much. Now I know that I am stuck here. The time moving along and taking me with it. I have to get up tomorrow. I desperatly don't want to. So I stay up, waiting, because somehow these hours make tomorrow feel further away. As if I was adding another day, to hide.
I remember the first time I thought about killing myself. I was around eleven years old. It was jarring, me, dead. I was standing on a small hill in the woods. I rememberd what my mother used to say. That you should not stand too close to the edge. Because you could fall and hit your head. I pictured my head resting on the stones, cracked and spilling out.
After that the thought of suicide has never left me. I made a few attempts. But I never had the proper means, not even a rope. In my desperation I even tried cutting the artery in my wrist. I got so close that I would only have to cut through the fascia and find the artery. But I stopped because I knew that I would be found before I could die.
I have always been stopped by things, people, and happenings. Why does every day have to be a normal day, life goes on? Why can't they let me go? What do they need me for? If they gave me permission, I could enjoy my last moments. And life would become like the childhood memories of a day's rain. Not wholly uncomfortable, soft, and then gone.
I remember the first time I thought about killing myself. I was around eleven years old. It was jarring, me, dead. I was standing on a small hill in the woods. I rememberd what my mother used to say. That you should not stand too close to the edge. Because you could fall and hit your head. I pictured my head resting on the stones, cracked and spilling out.
After that the thought of suicide has never left me. I made a few attempts. But I never had the proper means, not even a rope. In my desperation I even tried cutting the artery in my wrist. I got so close that I would only have to cut through the fascia and find the artery. But I stopped because I knew that I would be found before I could die.
I have always been stopped by things, people, and happenings. Why does every day have to be a normal day, life goes on? Why can't they let me go? What do they need me for? If they gave me permission, I could enjoy my last moments. And life would become like the childhood memories of a day's rain. Not wholly uncomfortable, soft, and then gone.
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