I understand the logic of those who pencil out others’ death-wishes in favor of “what they really mean”, which is to “live a better life”.
I have a good life. I have a goddamn great life. But I’m not excited. I’m not looking forward to anything. I don’t look forward to what could be. To anything without a heartbeat, I’m pretty apathetic right now. I think of killing myself: knives, pills - both of which I have in the house. But the faces of my closest friends and family members hack that idea to Hell, because I don’t want to disappoint them to that degree. I could be conceited and say that I feel I’ve probably disappointed every human I’ve ever come in contact with. Why would that be conceited? Not everyone cares. They don’t care, the world goes ‘round, and that’s acceptable. That’s life.
I’m not going to kill myself any time soon. I’m not planning on it, anyway. Whether anorexia will slowly (and man, do I mean slowly) bring me to that point in the future, I don’t know. I can’t get myself to eat enough and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m tired of food, and I’m tired of treatment talk. It’s not happening. My mom’s worried and it makes me sad, but it’s also unnecessary.
So, you see, it wouldn’t matter if I had a better life. The problem is my mind, how it works, and how it can’t find happiness in most things that are supposed to be wonderful. I love my friends, I love my family…and for now, that’s all that matters to me. That being said, don’t feel like a bitch if you want to stop talking to me. I wouldn’t put on that kind of pressure. That would be cruel.
Just go live life. And uh, forget about this post if you want. I don’t really care, and if you don’t either, then…well, good for you. Ze End.