Sleep don't weep
Before I posted I just went in to make sure I haven't posted anything while out of my brain which I don't remember.
This journal has turned purely into the place I go to when I'm depressed and suicidal.
I've discovered that suicide is like Pringles, if their slogan is still the same as it was 10 years ago.
Last weekend I tried to hang myself. A few month's ago I tried stranggling myself. This time it didn't work because Ray broke into the door of the bathroom. He called in an ambulance, but I don't remember that. I just remember sitting in my bed and two strangers telling me that if I try it again they will have to submit me.
Everyone around is souring high and I'm disintegrating. I feel so detached from everyone. Everyone else seems happy and successful. And it's not that I'm jealous, it's not that; it's just that now more than ever I feel like an alien.
I want to kill myself because I don't think life with Ray can be happy and I used up all the energy I had in making this work since the very start when everything between us was fine but everything else was not.
I had written much more after this but LJ decided to be a dick and redirected me to my journal's view before posting. I lost half of what I wrote and, believe it or not, I stated crying. I had made sense out of the previous paragraph so that I don't sound like I'm clear case of dependant personality disorder. It doesn't matter now. Roughly, the rest of what I wrote about included how I know, even when we're happy and laughing, that our marriange is going to the shits. That even on those moments when I'm happy, I'm not really happy because I have finally lost all hope. How I've been wanting to die since I was 8 or 9 years old. How I wrote to Santa on my notebooks asking him to give me death for Christmas. I also wrote about the unfortunate day I decided to try to be happy and give life a chance. I remember being in the dining room of my parents' house (I was still very young) when I decided to give myself a chance, one chance, to be happy. And I did, and I failed, and it was a waste of my time, and I should've killed myself back then. But that's not really how I wrote it. It was much better writing.
This journal has turned purely into the place I go to when I'm depressed and suicidal.
I've discovered that suicide is like Pringles, if their slogan is still the same as it was 10 years ago.
Last weekend I tried to hang myself. A few month's ago I tried stranggling myself. This time it didn't work because Ray broke into the door of the bathroom. He called in an ambulance, but I don't remember that. I just remember sitting in my bed and two strangers telling me that if I try it again they will have to submit me.
Everyone around is souring high and I'm disintegrating. I feel so detached from everyone. Everyone else seems happy and successful. And it's not that I'm jealous, it's not that; it's just that now more than ever I feel like an alien.
I want to kill myself because I don't think life with Ray can be happy and I used up all the energy I had in making this work since the very start when everything between us was fine but everything else was not.
I had written much more after this but LJ decided to be a dick and redirected me to my journal's view before posting. I lost half of what I wrote and, believe it or not, I stated crying. I had made sense out of the previous paragraph so that I don't sound like I'm clear case of dependant personality disorder. It doesn't matter now. Roughly, the rest of what I wrote about included how I know, even when we're happy and laughing, that our marriange is going to the shits. That even on those moments when I'm happy, I'm not really happy because I have finally lost all hope. How I've been wanting to die since I was 8 or 9 years old. How I wrote to Santa on my notebooks asking him to give me death for Christmas. I also wrote about the unfortunate day I decided to try to be happy and give life a chance. I remember being in the dining room of my parents' house (I was still very young) when I decided to give myself a chance, one chance, to be happy. And I did, and I failed, and it was a waste of my time, and I should've killed myself back then. But that's not really how I wrote it. It was much better writing.