Warning: This is the closest thing to a suicide note I have ever written. It's not a very happy read, so don't feel compelled to continue.
I’m tired of living. I feel bad all the time and, like anyone with depression, I don’t see a future for myself. Not because I am in some funk, but because I have years of experience to back me up. The stuff that drives people day to day, that gives them the ability to cope with life as it happens, I don’t seem to have that. Every small bit of stress is like a cataclysm to me. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to tell some stranger everything just so they can misunderstand me and interrupt me (“I’m sorry but we’re out of time”) and then bill me for services they think they offered. I don’t want to talk about it to someone I know and burden them with worry.
I cry when I think about doing it. I cry when I imagine writing my goodbyes. I’m crying writing these words. I cry when I think of the hurt and pain and confusion I’d cause people as they spend the rest of their lives asking, “Why?” That has stayed my hand so far. I don’t want to live but I’m held hostage by concern for other people’s feelings. I have this battle between my will to die and my fear of hurting others (and perhaps a small remaining will to live). They’re like two tectonic plates and my crying is the earthquake as they grind against each other. Only one is diving below the other, and my will to die is growing stronger.
For awhile things were looking good. I was looking at my future with an open mind. It was refreshing. It felt good, and it felt alien. I’m not used to feeling optimistic for that long (about two weeks). Except as I looked at each possible career path, I had to cross them off. Nobody is hiring; you need at least five years experience; there is a 2-3 year waiting list.
I got a job. I didn’t even make it three days. How can someone who can’t handle the present look forward to the future? I’m no good at this living thing. You have to be able to handle stress and I can’t do that. I broke down for an hour when my dad got on me for doing a poor job with the weed eater. He wasn’t mean about it. He was trying to help. He was also right. To get along in life you need to do certain things. You need to finish what you start and you need to do your best job at it. Simple things. I don’t have that. I forget. I get distracted. I make stupid mistakes and let others down. I cause them to have to fix my mistakes, to take up my slack. You can’t get ahead like that. My future, then, is like my past: long periods of unemployment punctuated by poor employment, jobs I quit before I’m fired, a life of being a burden to others, this friend or that family member, but still and always a burden. Tell me how you’d feel if that was your life.
Of course people will go, “Oh no burden, we love you.” Love holds them hostage to me, and in deference to that love I’m held hostage to life. But I don’t want to hold any hostages, and the hurt is getting stronger. Every tear weakens the shackles.
I used to say that I didn’t want to die, but something was trying to kill me with my own hand. That’s depression. I’m not sure that is the story anymore. My will to live is a lot weaker and my desire to die is a lot stronger. Cowardice held me back before, but I’m not so afraid anymore.
I don’t want people to walk on egg shells or to think, “Oh god, he did it because I said x.” That’s now how this works. My problem is not that nobody cares or someone said something mean. My problem is I hate myself, who I am, what I’ve become. I’m no good at living and I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s like I’m waiting for some excuse. Some quiet, subtle confirmation that now is the right time. Some impetus to finish the job this decade-plus long depression started.
I figure I have until the tears stop. Then I’ll be out of excuses. Then it can end.