I don’t know what to tell you

I’m angry and sad, and for what? There are no closures to be had. That intensity is just energy meaninglessly burning me down.

I had decided to cut. I had decided that when I got home and I had filled my prescriptions I’d bring out the scalpels and the razor blades and find somewhere discrete to cut.

I bought 20 Cadbury eggs, managed to eat 10 while I finished Blindsight — not the easiest read.

Earlier, before getting the eggs,, when I asked for help, my lies that everything was OK were accepted, no questions asked. Of course they were. That’s how it works. The distance to the other is great enough that it hides your grimaces. It shouldn’t feel like being let down, but it does anyway.

I logged out of everything and no one noticed and no one called.

Because, that’s how it works. You’re invisible even among friends and yet –

I filled my prescriptions and I filled the pill organizer –

It could be hope but it could simply be that I still have to inhabit me no matter how much it hurts. Maybe the drugs will finally cure me of my need to be noticed.

If there was an easy way out, would I take it? If there was a staircase to a tower tall enough with no one guarding its foot and a rail that could be easily climbed, if this tower was courteously avoided to leave existential decisions to be pondered privately and acted upon up to the individual, would I go there?

Would I jump because that option was available with no one shouting me off the precipice and no guilt except what I’ve already taken upon myself?

The part of me that really hates me says I wouldn’t even visit the tower.

Unable to make the decision to improve myself and stick to it, I’m unable to even commit to walking up the stairs. I’m too apathetic to even check out the view.

Suicide would actually be an accomplishment for me.

So really, I’m sorry, I know you don’t get to pretend to be suicidal if you don’t give it a proper go.

Crying and hating myself and thinking about how I could change things and how I don’t, I get to do that.

I don’t get to think about the Caltrain tracks if I don’t at least walk along them for a while. And I certainly don’t get to share those thoughts. Such pretense is pathetic and unforgivable and selfish.

“Hey, I know you wouldn’t call me, but I’m thinking of offing myself, could you, even though I really have no serious intent of going through with it, just humor me and give me a ring?”

I don’t know what to do with myself. Who do you tell and how do you answer “what happened?”, “what set it off?”, and how do you explain that it’s not about the tall guy? How do you not just give up and go home?

How do you say, “Ok, I’m not dead yet and I probably won’t be dead tomorrow either, but I really am having a bit of trouble with wanting to live”?

I wish –

Yours sincerely, The Evil Albino.