Things are amiss. I had to throw myself into the bathtub before I grabbed my knife. I just want to be normal and boring and stop hurting.
I’ve been running from the dark places. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. So many new faces in my life. So many caring people. I’d hoped to choke out the enemy with art and comraderie.
I am sick. I am deteriorating. I crave companionship, but those I long after either have companions of their own or are not interested in me.
Too many times I’ve cried out for other help. In the times where I can’t help myself, I reached for those around me. I can’t act content anymore.
I tell everyone I’m fine and I smile but I’m just lying and dying. Only my closest friends have any inkling about what’s happening to me.
I’m crying out through my writing again because the tempting arms of death are scratching at my throat.
I want to die, but know I shouldn’t. I can only call attention to my affliction and prune in the heated tub. Isolate myself from everyone and wish for freedom from this godforsaken hellish existence.
Don’t pity the unreliable actor. Don’t exult the slothly writer. Fear for him. Despite everything he still creeps closer to the open arms of oblivion.
Goals unaccomplished, promises unfulfilled, companionship unrequited. Damn him and his weakness.
I’m so sorry.