26/2/2019
3:21pm
Today just isn't one of those good days, again. It seems to me that I'm allowing myself to become involved with something I know is terrible for me.. but I can't help it. It's addicting.
I have these moments when I just suddenly drop and it's for no reason at all. I feel my shoulders slouch and this overwhelming feeling of sadness just feels my whole body, it adds a heaviness to my insides - like I can feel it pulling my heart down into my stomach. Do you get that too? It's hard to explain if you've never felt it, never turned into this completely different person.
It makes me want to give up. And that makes me happy.
I don't know why I indulge it so.
It's in moments like these that I welcome the idea of death with open arms, begging it to just take me. Is it so wrong that I can fantasise about it with such clarity? What if my plan fails? Have I looked at what might happen if I did go through with said scenarios?
Jumping in front of a train is just too messy, not to mention it disrupts peoples travels that day and us British folk hate it when anything is delayed. No, not that one.
Drowning would just frustrate me. I also grew up on an island surrounded by the ocean, I feel at home in water so could never bring myself to taint such a beautiful element.
I'm not the biggest fan of heights so I couldn't climb a building only to just throw myself from it. Also too messy.
Something quick and instant would be wonderful. Car crash. Crunch. Dead. Bullet to the brain. Bang. Dead. Quick overdose. Gulp. Dead.
Actually I tried to overdose once and it didn't work, let's scratch that one.
What about the cliche option of running a blade along my skin and just sit in a warm bath, let myself go out in some freakish Hannah Baker style fashion! Ah no, that isn't for me.. you see I like the feeling of cutting myself. Granted I haven't done it since that night but god I miss it so. The feeling of the stinging, burning lines across your arm and the bubbling of that brilliant red blood upon the surface of my pale skin. I got addicted to it and would even do it at work when no one was around with a pocket knife I kept in my pocket at all times.
If I couldn't cut I would bite, punch, claw at my flesh till I had some satisfaction from it, till I knew that my thirst was quenched for now.
I thought such a thirst had dried out, but she's back and I would love nothing more than to embrace her with open arms.
I don't want to die today. Maybe not even tomorrow. Yet I know someday, when I'm alone and the people around me no longer care for my moody blues, will become the day I do it.
I'm excited.
Is that so wrong?