Salts

The rest of my life stretches out ahead of me like a dark, gaping void. No amount of plans can change that perception; I don't know what lay in the future. My life has no structure, and no goals, and nothing to work towards.

I'm still just as unwell as ever, with no real access to ways of helping myself. No longer can I meet with a counselor whenever I want, or see a psychiatrist once a week, once every other week.

I'm not okay. I'm fragile. I have to hide it.

The real rub of all this is that that old urge - that deep desire to no longer exist is stronger than it's been in a long time, and now more than ever, it would be easy for me to make myself disappear. It would be no challenge to take grams of salts with me, ride a bus out somewhere far away from home, walk into the forest, and be done with it all. It would be easy. I have the means.

But I can't. Death isn't an option. I can't do that, not here, not in such close proximity to my family.

Being so thoroughly unable to keep myself healthy, even though I've tried - being unable to trust anything happening inside my own head - being constantly paranoid about everything I feel - being forced to continuously monitor and second-guess any internal changes - being traumatized by events in the past beyond my control and events in the present that aren't wholly my fault -

I'm tired of it all.

I'm tired. I'm tired of saying it. I'm tired.

I don't want to exist anymore. Grams of salts are ever more attractive, and I can't answer that call. 

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