When I planned the date of my suicide, I felt a strange sense of peace. For the first time, I had a goal, something to look forward to, even if it was an ending. There was a certain comfort in the clarity of that decision, in knowing where I was headed. It was as though the weight of uncertainty had been lifted, replaced by a dark, but certain, purpose.
I’ve been clean for two years, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing but the persistent beat of a heart I sometimes wish would stop. I go through the motions of life, following a routine that feels more like a performance than anything real. I wake up each morning, take my prescribed medications, and continue, but there is no joy, no sorrow, no feeling at all — just a hollow echo of existence.
Lately, it’s as if I’m living in a perpetual fog, disconnected from the world around me. People talk about finding meaning, about building a life worth living, but I find myself wondering if such a thing is even possible for me. The numbness has become a constant companion, a dull ache that I’ve grown accustomed to, but can never quite ignore.
There are moments when I think back to that time, to the dark thoughts that once consumed me, and I can’t help but feel a twisted sense of nostalgia. At least then, I felt something, even if it was despair. Now, it’s as if I’m trapped in a void, floating aimlessly without direction or purpose. I used to dream of escape, of finding a way out, but now, I don’t even have the energy to dream.
I wonder if this is all there is — this endless cycle of existence without meaning. People tell me that it gets better, that one day I’ll find my way, but I can’t help but question if that day will ever come. Until then, I’ll continue to move forward, not because I want to, but because I don’t know what else to do.
I don’t want to die but I’m just not sure how long I can continue to live like this.
