A note about suicide, but not a suicide note.

I’ve spent a lot of time – some odd number of years – wondering what I would say in a suicide note. I’ve written a few. Never could finish any of them. Because I really don’t know what to say. I’m sorry? I love you? My biggest fear has always been hurting people. I’m always so quick to apologize, to ask for permission, to check and double check and triple check boundaries so that I never push anyone into a place they don’t want to be, and I don’t want anyone to live a lifetime of confusion and pain and grief because of me.

I wish I didn’t care, honestly. I didn’t give a fuck about any of you so that I could just off myself already. This is exhausting. It isn’t always bad, but it’s bad often enough that I’m tired all the time. Every second is a constant struggle to see the “bright side.” I’m always making the best of things. Always being thankful that things aren’t worse.

I’m so, so, so tired.

Living like this is like never getting enough sleep and always needing to sit down and I don’t know how to make it stop.

I can’t fix this. Literally no one can fix this. I mean. I’m too fucking spent to even bother trying to make this sound poetic. It isn’t poetic. It’s dry and unspecial and basic.

Someone asked me a few minutes ago to tell them about my dreams for the future.

I want to win an Academy Award for best original screenplay. I want to fall in love and sleep next to somebody and not care that I don’t know how to take care of myself. I want to create art that puts a stamp on a year, on a generation, on a perspective. I want to be warm all the time. I want to be okay. I want to be enough.

But I can’t.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I won’t get rid of myself tonight but when I do (because I will someday) I just need for you all to not be sad.

Seriously.

 

 

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