about preparation
to kill myself
tw: s-word, depression
Perfect. I think all the preparation is perfectly done. I plan to kill myself in a week, but who knows, I might have done it sooner.
In the past few weeks, I have barely eaten. Just once a day. For the sake of having lunch together with my co-workers, so they won’t have any suspicions about me. I need to eat less, so my body will become lighter and there won’t be a lot of feces coming out of my body later.
I keep showing up at work, at the gym, and still hanging out too. This is the suck thing about being an adult with a mental issue. I cannot just abandon my responsibilities and stay in my room the whole day. Probably cry myself to sleep or take a lot of sleeping pills.
I need to keep showing up because I could probably find a reason to go on. But at this point, I don’t know. I keep going to the gym, do the workout with a limited amount of energy. Hoping that if I could inflict some physical pain, I won’t feel the pain inside my chest.
I have written my will. I wrote many thanks to those that are dearest to me. I also wrote a lot of apologies. I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough. I’m sorry that I’m selfish for wanting to end my life, but you also are selfish for wanting me to keep on living while I’m so done with all of these.
I laughed when I looked at my bank account. Not much money left there, even in my savings account. But again, I’m just a regular employee who lives from paycheck to paycheck every month. I hope the money from my insurance is on decent amount.
The funeral process needs quite a lot of money. I cannot just let my family handle everything with their money — we aren’t a rich family. To think that the money I left can make my family live at ease is overrated, though.
There are a lot of ways to kill yourself. And now I’m thinking which one I should choose. I need one that guarantees my death.
While I’m thinking about that, I sat down alone in the park. It is already dark, but I don’t really give a damn. Then I called my brother.
“I wanna unalive myself,” I said to him.
There was a quite long pause. “You know that won’t solve anything.”
“I know. But at least I won’t be in pain anymore.”
“There are still a lot of beautiful and fun things you haven’t tried.”
“Fuck that. I just don’t want to be in pain.” I hissed at him.
I make up my room — do you know how hard it is for people with a messed-up mind to keep their room tidy? — So later, if people find my dead body here, they won't be troubled to clean up my room. They can just collect my stuff and send it to my home easily.
They won’t be in hassle to find my hand-written letter. My books will be inherited by my siblings. My clothes will be sent home — will my mom cry over my t-shirt? Will she blame herself even though I already wrote that it is never her fault? I hope she won’t.
My mind keeps running. There are still some things I need to sort out at work. I need to make sure everything will run smoothly even after my death. I cannot be a burden anymore. The annual leave, the ad-hoc, the rest of the to-do list. Everything needs to be taken care of by me.
Now I just need to unalive myself.
