Very long and rambly.

my will to live is ambivalent on the best of days. 

It is insanely exhausting having to keep constantly busy just to ward of the suicidal thoughts. Not relaxed-busy like Netflix or reading or knitting, but engaged-busy like Scrabble and Tetris and Piano.

Other forms of engaged busy include taking more shifts at work. Whilst it helps prevent me actioning my ideation, it does also increase my lassitude towards life. It's consuming, which is not the worst thing given this brain's propensity to EdgeLordiness. But I also don't like it, which is not the best when working an All Consuming Job. There's a fine line between the good and bad of working, and my god do I thread it hard (hashtag gohardorgohome).

In the current climate of covid crazy, the ambivalence is punctuated by a grown guilt. Seems like most people want to be alive.

But I'm genuinely not fussed. 

And if I die helping someone else who wants to be alive stay alive (it's a part of my job), I think it's an even trade for the world. It makes mathematical sense. Even though some (i.e. my therapist, bless them) argue that throwing myself into work knowing full well the risks is not the healthiest of activities, I think the harms to an individual are far outweighed by the benefits to the collective. It is kindergarten statistics (iykyk).

Sigh. 

I've just been trying to make sense of why I made it this far through the pandemic not just alive but healthy, whilst others who would have treasured life more didn't. It's fucked up. I think so anyways.

If anyone has anything they'd like to say or can relate, I'd honestly love to hear from you. It's been really lonely watching people fight to live from firm on the fence/other side.