Saturday, 24 September 2011

I desperately want to die. I just want it to stop.

I'm thinking seriously about taking a handful of 20mg pills. Three or four wouldn't kill me, but it would make it all go away for a while. That's why I'm writing this, in hopes that it'll get it out of my system.

My mum emailed me the other day and she was talking about having to rethink her retirement because my dad's home all the time now. He's off sick with neuralgia.

That's basically the same as what I've got. She was going on about how maybe they'd find a cure and then she wouldn't have to be home with him. Not that it would put an end to my pain. Once again, it was all about her, never about me. It's never about me. I keep thinking it would be nice to be back in touch with her, let her visit me. Then she does something like this, and I remember why I had to cut her off in the first place.

The only reason I don't take the handful of pills, is the shame I'd feel in the morning, at giving up. Being weak. But I can't be strong for this any more. There's just no end to this.

I'm never getting back to work. My life is over. It's been over since the minute that little blue car fishtailed in front and then spun towards me. I should never have woken up afterwards. They should have been cutting a body out my car. It should have been a DOA ambulance trip, not a rescue chopper ride.

I wish more than anything else that I'd died in that car. That I'd never had to know that pain like this could exist. I've done nothing in the succeeding four years to make survival worthwhile. And there's nothing left to survive for. If I'd died that day, I'd have achieved no less than if I die tonight. These past four years have added nothing to my life. Nothing but pain and misery.

Maybe two Oxycodone and two Temazapam.

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