Something that fuels my suicidal fire, is the thought that the people I love will find out I finally went through with it, and will start the pity party. “Oh, I could’ve done more”, “I should have reached out more”. Yeah, you probably should have. Except, I reached out and was ignored. Because I got in the way of their happiness.
It sounds like a cry for attention, and I guess it really is in a way. It sounds selfish expecting more from people who love me. Isn’t the way they love me enough? Except, it’s not. Not for me. For them it’s the exact right amount I’m sure. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a person to care if I bother reaching out to them about how I’m feeling. More often than not I get completely ignored. When my loved ones reach out I am there 100% I give my whole being into trying to make it better for them. I’m willing to use up all my emotional energy because I care more about them than I do about myself. It doesn’t go both ways and it’s selfish of me to expect it to. They like themselves. They care about themselves. Me? I sit up at night alone thinking about shit like this. Hating everything about myself. Justifying other people’s actions. It’s easier for me to justify the way I am treated than give one shit about my own well being.
I’m saying this like I do it all the time. I don’t. I’m the keep it bottled up until I’m a second from jumping and then talk my-self off the ledge about 100 times before bothering to bring up to someone that I might need some support for like maybe a second? No? Ok, back to convincing myself to live. Which is fine because it’s worked so far. Except, it’s not. One day I’m going to fail. It’s inevitable. All our deaths are really, I know that mine will be my my own doing though. Barring an accident. And isn’t that the dream?
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