Since the day I attempted suicide there has not been one single day that I was glad that it failed.
Even a moment ago, before writing this I laid under my covers, kicking my legs out of anger, frustration and sadness. Saying to myself how I wisho it would have worked. And how I wish I could just do it.
But I have a shred of hope still in me somewhere. Things have gotten a little better since that day. But clearly not enough for me to value the life I have.
I do try to appreciate the small things. And I do some of the time. Especially nature and the moments when I feel thankful and supported.
But it’s the times in between that cut me down each time. Even the small things.
Writing sometimes helps. At least the text can’t twist itself and feed it’s own words back into my head misunderstanding and shrinking my problems into insignificant feelings. That’s what some people do. The ignorance. The lack of empathy. It kills.
But take this lightly. As i’m in a bad mood atm. And i’m feeling hopeless right now. These words are coming from a bad place.