Just finished reading the latest post by No Milk. I hate that innocent people die. I also hate that this girl felt desparate enough to want to die. It doesn't excuse her actions. Nothing does. When you take another person's life because of your own, that's not right. I'm sorry for Paul and all the people left devastated by a loved one's death.
I'm angry at people who don't understand though. What it feels like to want to destroy your breath. To disappear. It's desparation and loneliness and a void of everything including darkness. Dying...to kill oneself...is generally not for selfish reasons.
I want to die more times than wanting to live. The errors in my life. The recoveries. The desparate attempts to fix what I seem to break. The futile moves to be better. I haven't gone quietly into this world. I haven't sat around and just given up. I've kicked and screamed. I've taken immeasurable steps to avoid failure. I keep going. And with each day, after convincing myself that I'm doing ok, I feel I've failed. And in that failure that brings others down, I feel tremendously guilty for not trying harder or doing more.
I fear that God will finally hear me and take me. I fear that I'll get what I want. I fear this because I fear what my child would do next. And so I don't actively try to kill myself anymore. But I want to. I want to because she's along for the ride of what a miserable person that I am. I hate what I expose her to...this wreck that we call Naomi; and so I stick, stuck where I am. I can't die. Yet, I'm not living.
I've said this before here. People who kill themselves are generally tired. Tired of fighting. And who out of any of you will give up so much to spare me from my own desparation? I ask none of you to do this for me because you have this nagging thing called self-preservation. I understand this. But don't call me selfish if I kill myself. I'm just tired.