Dear Journal,
It's certainly interesting to reread these pages and seeing my different mentalities. Angry, optimistic, depressed… And then I'm like this. Like Spy, judging from an outside perspective. None of my emotions affect me, but they still lay just out of bounds, teasing me with their presence. I'm calm, cool. It's relieving but it never lasts.
I've been having odd days recently. Staying up later, no desire to eat, ignoring the others to stew in my own thoughts. These have all become part of the shuffle. I'm beginning to understand the causes and reasons for this war, and I hate it.
Suicide. I've thought of it before (so has Heavy, he mentioned) but I can't commit. I think of the few things I'll miss here and it keeps me tethered. The void is surrounding me more often nowadays. It sits there, deep and dark in my chest, but it leaves me alone for just long enough that I start believing that it's gone for good before returning full force. It's here as I write. It's like a pool of water dragging me under with its ruthless currents. My mind is clouded with drowsiness and this cruel feeling as my hand moves across the page.
The morbid fantasies that play out in my head, I enjoy them. I relish the thoughts of dissecting and blood, tissues and veins, blood and organs, all falling apart and at the mercy of my hands. I realize that I've done it before, in real life, but it's so much more satisfying in my brain, where everything goes according to plan and there are no interruptions. The slicing of flesh and experimenting… It seems to my only solace now.
I have no one to confide in. No one would care. They'd turn me in at the pych ward. I can't go back there again.
No one listens to me anyways. My speeches are ruined and words are left unspoken and left to rot. I hate it. I need to speak and no one bothers. Heavy pays attention occasionally, but it's not enough.
I'm sinking and I'm going to drown.
-Josef H. (Medic)