I thought about dying today.

This isn’t anything new. Most days death passes through my mind. I’m a writer, aren’t I? Some of my characters die, some deal with their deaths. Others are constantly surrounded by it (looking at you, Azrael.) Others, well they give death to their counterparts like the villains they truly are.

I thought about dying today.

Big deal, right? So what makes today different?

Today, the death I thought about was mine. And it wasn’t the first time.

Today, I wondered when the time comes, how will I go? This is a lie.

Today, I knew I wasn’t wondering anymore. I’d decided.

I thought about dying today.

Today, I’ve finally had enough. It hurts too much. Every waking moment is pain, an agony I’ve been carrying around for decades. Torture that I can’t possibly deserve. . .can I? Am I really all the things my mind tells me I am? Am I really the offhand comments that I’ve grown to believe as true?

Am I, as my stepmother regularly said, “as ugly as a hat full of assholes?”, or a “bucket full of snot?”

Am I a failure?

Am I not worth loving?

Am I horrible?

Am I complacent and boring and unremarkable?

Am I forgettable?

Disappointing? Too clingy? Not clingy enough? Too miserable, perhaps? Too fake? Mediocre at best?

I DON’T KNOW.

I don’t know what I am. Just that I’m tired. And sad and I can’t stop these thoughts, it’s a never-ending twist of jumbled feelings and images and self-loathing like I’ve never had before. I can’t deal with it, not this time, and I feel like I’ve got nowhere to turn… I’m kinda done.

I thought about dying today.

Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to face the day and get out of bed before midday, maybe I’ll have the motivation to write and do the things I love best. Maybe I’ll feel like I can look at myself in the mirror and not hate what I see, inside and out. Or eat without wanting to throw up. Maybe I’ll do all those things. . .maybe I’ll do none.

Maybe I’ll just… Wake up and be able to breathe again.

Can’t hurt to try, right?

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