monday

8:28 am

I don't know what's come over me, but I think I'm actually going to start death planning for real now. I think I overshared with my sister and the way I got defensive to her response really hit me.

I truly am not meant to live in this world. My living provides less value to the lives of the people around me. My death would only be a slight misfortune that deep down everyone sort of saw coming. They would only be bothered for a few months at most. They will recover. I will only have to bother them for a little bit after my death.

I just can't seem to figure out methods. I figured I would save that for the end, but hopefully it's not something that will take too much prep. If only I knew how to get out of this house, I would be able to get everything I needed easily. It's not like I'm trapped here, just lazy? afraid? fuck it I won't know even if I tried.

There is nothing I am looking forward to. There is nothing I want more than to just disappear. I just want to stop existing. Head punching doesn't hit right. Cutting doesn't hurt in the right way. I just want to die. I don't deserve a painless death. I'm heavily considering suffocation.

I need to figure out what to do with all my stuff. It's kind of fucked to leave everyone here to just clean it up for me. Should I leave a note? What should I leave behind? What is worth leaving behind? Should I leave anything behind? Should I wait to move out so this isn't an issue? Am I even capable of moving out given the current trajectory of my life? I am the only one is my way.

Do I owe it to Ate to go to the hospital? Going to the hospital just means more bills and hassle and bother for my parents. They're too caught up in their own business to be riddled with my shit again. You know sometimes I wonder if I really didn't have emotional support as a kid. I remember hearing some vague implication that that might be the case for me and I always think about it because it is just so believable. Oh wow. I just had a brief, fleeting thought that said, "I don't want to die." I thought I did though. I don't like how indecisive I am. I was so sure when I started and it's literally my own doubts pulling me back.

This fucking cycle. I wonder if I didn't go to the hospital before, maybe I would still be on track with my life. Maybe I would have unattainable aspirations like I used to, but they would still be aspirations. Maybe I would still have a drive to be the best. Maybe I would be capable of actually communicating in, building, and maintaining useful, healthy relationships. Why did I prioritize fun in my recovery so badly? It's not even like I'm sinking. I'm not falling apart or running out of air. I'm not even quite still because I feel so frantic. I wouldn't say I'm numb either. I am disappointed. I am tired. I am a bit out of breath. I am teary-eyed.

I can hear my pulse. I can feel the little shivers splurging through my skin. I can hear my parents are awake, specifically my dad on the other side of the wall. I wonder if he could hear my sobbing to myself earlier. I just heard the toilet flush. I can't tell. I'm tired and I don't want to go to bed.

I need to clean my room before I start my plans :(

every day I just wish more and more that assisted suicide was legal. Maybe I could kill myself just enough to be on my deathbed and sign a DNR. That would be the dream. Too bad it's way to good to be true. My heartrate is skipping beats. I am tired. I don't want to go to bed by my eyes are heavy.

I'm falling asleep. I am upset that I didn't make any progress, but I shouldn't be so surprised, I wonder when I got so flaky. Actually, not that I think about it I've always been pretty unreliable. Oh well. Just another thing to think about and hate myself for as I lie in bed.

8:56 am

I think I will stop ruminating and play papa's cheeseria instead of go to sleep. I need escapism. I am nothing without escapism I guess. good bye.