TW for suicide, and drugs.
Spare me the usual replies, please. I’ve heard them all.
I’m going to drop Creamsicle off at a friend’s house today.
“Yay!”
Then I’m probably going to acquire fentanyl somehow, and forget that I ever existed.
I’ve considered writing a letter to my friend, the one I’m always talking about. Creamsicle was originally supposed to be a birthday present for them, but they didn’t want him. I’d love for him to go live with them, but I don’t want them to be sad. I think I just want them to forget I ever existed. I know they probably won’t be too sad but I don’t know. I wish I could say goodbye.
Every single fucking day sucks. I am in the same exact hole today, on March 22nd, 2024, as I was on March 22nd, 2023, and on March 22nd, 2022. The only difference is I just keep getting slightly worse every year. Each winter hurts more than the last. More people stop talking to me and I smile less and life becomes increasingly more stupid and meaningless.
And look, I hear that you’re suffering. I don’t know how I can help you, especially if you have clinical depression. You know as well as I do that your thoughts about this issue aren’t rational. And I know as well as you do just how utterly useless that knowledge is in the face of enormous pain, pain so deep you just go numb because feeling it is more emotionally taxing than your burnt-out mind can tolerate.
But I wish I did know. I wish I could do something that would push back that tide for you, even just by improving your material conditions a bit. I’m sorry that you feel this way and I hope things somehow get better for you. And I know none of this is particularly helpful, and I’m sorry for that.