At 27, I’ve settled into a comfortable coexistence with my suicidality. We’ve made peace, or at least a temporary accord negotiated by therapy and medication. It’s still hard sometimes, but not as hard as you might think. What makes it harder is being unable to talk about it freely: the weightiness of the confession, the impossibility of explaining that it both is and isn’t as serious as it sounds. I don’t always want to be alive. Yes, I mean it. No, you shouldn’t be afraid for me. No, I’m not in danger of killing myself right now. Yes, I really mean it.
How do you explain that?
This is me often times it seems. It’s a conflicting state of existence. And my depression seems to keep me stagnant so I can’t escape the idea my life is meaningless.
All life is meaningless, but that’s good. You define your meaning/purpose. It’s whatever you want it to be.
My issue is less with meaning and more with “God i wish I was literally anyone but me, I hate myself with the burning passion of 10000 dying suns.” Lol
