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I lost it a few minutes ago, just a little. George, still sick, was asleep in the next room. I took a boxcutter to my left wrist and left a five inch long bloody slice about half an inch to the left of the major vein. I made a second, shallower cut a little closer to the vein, then stopped. I still don't know why. Then another part of my brain kicked in and I went to the bathroom and swallowed a tranquillizer.
Then I ordered in fried chicken. *laughs bitterly* Fucking strange, how the mind works at times like this.
I should have just kept going. This is the first time I've physically cut in a very long time, and the first time I've drawn blood in far longer. And I'll have to face George when he gets up. I'm so tired of living, yet here I am, waiting for chicken.
Why? I don't want this coming year. I don't want the rest of my life. If I could give it to someone else, I would. More than anything I wish I could have given it to George's brother Bill, who died of cancer a couple of years ago. He had two sons, a great life; he deserved to live.
But I'm a coward, and part of me keeps clinging to some shred of tenacious hope. So: I'll pay the delivery man when he gets here, and go back to painting Hardy Boys, and maybe I'll go wake George up and talk to him, and maybe I won't.
Tonight could have been the last night of my life. But if I killed myself, what would George do? My accounts, which hold most of our money, would probably be frozen. He'd be destitute.
Nothing makes sense anymore. Life is chaos and confusion, and I feel like I've hit rock bottom.
Then I ordered in fried chicken. *laughs bitterly* Fucking strange, how the mind works at times like this.
I should have just kept going. This is the first time I've physically cut in a very long time, and the first time I've drawn blood in far longer. And I'll have to face George when he gets up. I'm so tired of living, yet here I am, waiting for chicken.
Why? I don't want this coming year. I don't want the rest of my life. If I could give it to someone else, I would. More than anything I wish I could have given it to George's brother Bill, who died of cancer a couple of years ago. He had two sons, a great life; he deserved to live.
But I'm a coward, and part of me keeps clinging to some shred of tenacious hope. So: I'll pay the delivery man when he gets here, and go back to painting Hardy Boys, and maybe I'll go wake George up and talk to him, and maybe I won't.
Tonight could have been the last night of my life. But if I killed myself, what would George do? My accounts, which hold most of our money, would probably be frozen. He'd be destitute.
Nothing makes sense anymore. Life is chaos and confusion, and I feel like I've hit rock bottom.
