107pm060201

I never write for myself anymore. I'm always online, posting posting posting. It used to be that no one else but me read my writing, now it's everyone else I'm writing for. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I suppose it's both. Writing for everyone else, I have to omit things. My writing is honest, but not complete. I don't tell people the whole truth. I really have no desire for their input on certain things. They have no clue what it's like to be me, and all they seem to base their advice on is what they know is right for them. Then, I doubt anyone would ever allow themselves to say, "Please kill yourself".

I do my best not to allow myself to think about my life and reality. When I start thinking about it, I get suicidal... or sometimes, on a better day, homicidal. I guess that I'm unique in this, otherwise the whole world would be on disability right along with me. I don't know if I'm simply buying time, or if I'm really not going to kill myself. Some days I'll say that I'll never do it, other days I'll say nothing at all. It gets scary when I start thinking. When I start thinking, I realize that the only thing keeping me alive is guilt, and maybe a little fear. I'm not alive because I really want to be. I'm alive because I fear the consequences of suicide. Pretty lame... and pretty scary. Life is about conquering fear... if I conquer that fear, then it's all over. Part of me is really wanting to die. I look forward to finding out what comes next. True, it may well be worse than this hell, but it may also be better, or maybe it will be nothing. I'll go off like a light. I won't much care then though. It could also be the same... and that's just as bad as being worse, in a way.

I've been here since October. Day in, day out, my life sucks shit. I went from living the life of a 90 year old shut-in to living the life of a dog.

I guess I just can't win.