I don’t really want to kill myself anymore. It’s been years since I’ve cut myself. However, sometimes I wish to want to die again. There was a certain level of solace in it that I can’t get anywhere else. The feeling that the entire world isn’t worth it, just over whatever I am upset about. I sometimes miss when if I texted my friends late at night, telling them that I loved them, they would have to check in on me right away. I don’t want to stress them out, of course, but that sort of… required attention, it was nice, in a way. When my failsafe was just deciding that I was going to kill myself, and never getting around to doing so. When I could do reckless things, uncaring of how they may affect me. When the whole world boiled down to what I would do with a kitchen knife in the warmth of my room.
Those feelings, those thoughts, were plaguing, and sick. It was such a horrible way to live. It barely even felt like living.
But I still miss the day where I took a walk down to the local library, past the apartments, past the parking lot, near the skate park, and looked at the stream, watching the train go by with a knife in my hand, and cuts on my arm. It was raining, and I was crying. It felt so serene, despite it all. I felt detached from the moment, almost as if I was an outsider looking in. After a few minutes, I decided to just go back home.
I’m not going to kill myself. The comfort I had from stewing in my own illness may be missed, though… Not to say I’m perfectly stable at any given time.