I’ve been thinking about killing myself for a while now. It started as isolated moments during low waves and anxiety attacks, maybe once every few months, then gradually it’s become a dull, ever-present hum in the back of my mind. The thought used to be more of an ideation than anything, because it freaked me out, and I didn’t think I’d actually go through with it. But over time, and especially recently, I’m kind of very... calm... about it. Very matter-of-fact. It doesn’t scare me as much anymore. It’s just a thing that has a non-zero possibility of happening, especially as things get more and more hopeless, and I get more and more exhausted of fighting. I moved across the country to run away from my problems, but that didn’t seem to help — they followed me, and new ones found me, and I’m worse off than I was before even though I’ve tried so damn hard to pick myself up from the rubbish and improve my life. I read all the positivity blogs, retweeted all the positivity memes, spread kindness into the world and was the most genuine self I could be. But the world doesn’t seem to want to cut me a break, and it’s been a year of toeing the border, and now more and more I’m on shaky ground. It’s like being on ice that’s a centimeter thin, and it’s going to crack from underneath you at any moment, and you’ll get subsumed under. But something about that isn’t scary; it’s... peaceful. 

This season, I’m sending off cards and postcards to some of my closest friends. First of all because it’s a nice thing to do, and second, in case I really do go through with it, I want my friends to have that one little thing left of me to keep. Just a nice message of well-wishes on a nicely designed card. I think that’s the most I can offer anymore. 