I can always tell when I’ve forgotten my meds…
The desire to die is much stronger. I’m also a lot hornier, but that’s neither here nor there. The despair is the problem.
I have a wedding I agreed to attend at the end of this week and, as expected, I am deeply regretting this decision. I very much would like to do the normal, good friend sort of things for people I care about, but some things are just deeply, deeply difficult. Weddings are one of those. There’s just too much happiness happening, too much smiling and laughter and joy. It makes me so uncomfortable. Worse than that though, I become even more acutely aware at how I’m not necessarily a part of things. I’ve long felt like a fifth wheel in any given situation, even one where only 2 people are involved. I don’t grasp how friendships and relationships work. They require too much trust, too much taken for granted.
The culmination of all of this though is that on a day that is incredibly special for someone I really do care about, I can’t stop thinking about myself…
Agreeing to go was a mistake. It’s one I’ll have to live with, but hopefully I’ll be able to minimize damage by bailing before the reception. Get in, witness the ceremony, wish her and her husband a marvelous marriage and then get the hell out.
Ugh, this would be so much easier to deal with if I was dead…
That is how all of it starts to spiral mind you. Ever since 8th grade when Joe hung himself in his parents basement and the idea of actually taking one’s life became a reality to me. Joe killed himself and it was just like, “Holy shit, that really is an option. Well, know what my plan B is from here on out.”
And it’s never really changed.
It’s a wonder I’ve never actually tried to kill myself, but, given a history of being more than a bit of a coward, not entirely surprising. Contrary to what some people might say, suicide requires conviction and commitment. It requires making a definitive decision with one’s life. I’ve never had the strength or courage to do that. Sure, I want things, but I never really go after them. I don’t even say them out loud. The fear of failure, of becoming exactly who I’ve told myself I am for as long as I can remember, keeps from really trying. I haven’t killed myself for the same reason I haven’t really tried dating ever since my first relationship ended oh so many years ago, for the same reason I never really dedicated myself to having a career in art: I’m a coward. I’m afraid of the failure, of truly not being good enough. I’ve kept myself alive with the lie that I’m special and avoided anything that might suggest otherwise.
I really am a fucking disappointment…
I should also probably take my meds.
Dicks for listening.