It's only been a few months since I last felt like this. My desperation has only increased, however. One would think that a few months of mixed happiness and struggle would only stoke the fires of my reasons to live... but they don't. In the passing years my lows have become increasingly more logical, well thought out, with lists of things and beautiful poetry and better acting than I've ever done on a stage. I really want it this time. And I have some good reasons.
The highs never last. Everything becomes routine. There is no thrill, or adventure, or motivation. And most detrimental, there is no hope. No hope for me, not this time. Not when every one and every thing that could have gotten me out of this chaos is being taken away. I have been stripped of my dignity, naked and alone against the cold earth, and now they expect me to cover myself with some conjured self-respect.
But it isn't there. There are a lot of things in this world I have always held out hope for but myself is not one of those things. I am not worth my own time. I am a waste of promise, of talent. You could tell me what a wonderful person I am and all the good I've done for you but in the end, it's my perspective that matters. I am the one that has to live with myself. You can escape any time you like, I won't be able to stop you, not to say I wouldn't try. This is my life. This is what I have. This is *all* I have. And since I have been robbed of everything else, I may as well take away myself so that they can't do it for me.
On the other hand, I am punishing those who punished me. I am taking myself away. I may be depressed but I'm not blind. I am sensitive to the fact that there are those who would miss me, and a great number would cry for me. But a large percentage of that number are people who were blind to me. Who dismissed my words and looked me over one too many times. People who told lies, broke promises, who assumed too much.
Some might say that the assumptions made are my own fault. I don't look like I need help. I'm a very good actress. I have met just half a handful of people in my entire lifetime that could see behind my mask. But I don't do it on purpose. I don't know when or where I learned to be silent but that's how it works. It's not my fault. I think that the world has just grown accustomed to sad looking people, angry looking people, convincing themselves that those emotional faces are only seeking attention.
Maybe it is for attention. For a lot of people, that's what it is. But what's wrong with attention! I myself am one of those who gets passed by even for my good work! If one thing doesn't get attention, try something else. Eventually, someone has to look, whether it's in a negative or positive way, who cares? I don't care. Really, I don't.
Not now. I have done this too many times. There is only one thing that will let people understand what they've done, how I feel, and it isn't going to be done with pleas to go to therapy, or a nicely typed letter, or a scribbled out poem.
I have nothing left now but silence, and action. I'm going to finish writing my last will and testament, and next week, I'm going to kill myself.