I don’t think I want to live anymore.
And that scares me because I know I’m not going to commit suicide either. I can’t do that to my mom or my brother. I can’t.
So I’m scared. Because what does that mean for me? I don’t want to live, but I’m going to keep living.
(By the way, I’m not trying to say something about people who do commit suicide. Just putting that out there.)
So if I keep living even though I’d rather be dead, doesn’t my life just fall apart? Doesn’t it just get progressively worse since I don’t care anymore? Since I stopped caring a long time ago?
I guess this is where I get self-destructive. Or rather, where my self-destructiveness kicks into high gear.
Basically, I kill myself without directly killing myself. I fall apart.
At least now I know what to expect fuck that that sounds way too resigned. I don’t want to expect this. But I sure as hell don’t see myself getting better.
Whatever. Whateverwhateverwhatever I should just go to sleep. I’ll be fine in the morning. That’s a lie. I’m never fine in the morning.
Funny how I was so at peace earlier today.
