Playing with fire

I feel like just sleeping everything away. Glimpses of the passed day come back to me in hacked up memories. I don't want to be alive, not today. Not any day technically, but especially not today.

It's like I've just shut down, I'm not even hungry. It makes starving so much easier, when I have no cravings or anything, just don't want to eat. I can't stop chain smoking again. Finish a cigarette, start a new one after just a couple of breaths and a sip of coffee. That's probably what killed my economy. All that chain smoking I've been up to lately.

Why couldn't I get lung cancer or something? Smoking is such a fucking slow suicide it's ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder if cigarettes are maybe not even half as toxic as people claim that they are. I wonder how much I would need to smoke for my lungs to be completely filled with tar? Anna asks me if that's a challenge.

I'm playing with death and I don't know if that's fun or just sad. It's exciting for sure. See how much can I smoke, how many overdoses I can take, how long I can starve and purge for. I've been doing that almost half my life now. Because I've never wanted to live, I'm playing with fire hoping to burn. But still too scared to light a match.

It's the only excitement that I can get, it's always been that way. Hurting myself is my way of life, of course I don't want to stop. Suicide is my ticket home, of course I'm playing with death. And then to finally see an end to that journey through hell, towards my heaven again, I can't even understand the mortal fear I felt before. It's what I've wanted all along.

And I'm so fucking excited about it, I can hardly wait. And I'm also happy that I won't have to live longer than 27 years. Looking back I know it will feel as if no time happened, cause what is 27 human years in all of my entire existence? Swifter than a minute. I'm thinking about things I cannot mention, it interrupted my writing, cause I just cannot seem to stick with one train of thought at a time without constant interruptions. Sigh.

No, I'm not afraid to die. Not anymore. I look forward to it. Instead I'm afraid of not succeeding my suicide. My worst nightmare is to fail it so miserably that I'll end up practically a vegetable. But it has to be done nonetheless, I just have to make absolutely sure that I do things right that time. If I do choose my eating disorder for a method I cannot possibly know exactly when I'll die, it's not a very precise method and my body is unreliable.

What I think would take months could in theory actually take years or just weeks. My body may rebel against me and start reactive eating and then I only have my purging as my weapon. Die in my own vomit, yeah that would be pretty. But death is never pretty, it's not like it is in books and movies. Not that I've actually come across death that much in my life, I've never even been to a funeral of what I can remember.

Cause when my grandfather died (on my father's side) I was just 5 years old so yeah. My other grandparents died later on, but I was never to any of their funerals, if they even had any. I've never had someone close to me die. Except a teacher in upper high school sort of, she was my favourite and died about 6 months after I had gotten to know her. She wasn't even old or anything, in her 50's is my guess.

Then I've had pets such as cats and dogs and horses die on me and my family all the time, but somehow I don't think that ever quite counted. Maybe me never really been close to anyone's death but my own has made it easier for me to romanticise it. Cause I do and have at least since my early teens. I've always waited for something awful to happen to shatter that romanticised version I have of death, like I've always needed that somehow. To get thrown into the reality of how things really are.

Maybe it's a totally weird thing to wish and wait for, for someone close to me to die, only because I needed to be hit with a brick in the face that death isn't something that should be romanticised. I've always been a realist to at least some degree so I do understand or else I wouldn't be thinking like that. I know it's wrong, but I can't help doing it.

Also, I think I sort of "have to" romanticise death because it's been my only way of coping with life. Not always, but most of the time. It's a comfort that I need, to know that there actually is something better out there, hopefully waiting for me, on the other side. Bothered by other thoughts again, come on! I'm trying my fucking best to focus here and my mind just keeps doing its thing all the time.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, or if I even have a point. Maybe I've already made my point. Yeah... so what then, I'm just waiting for my time to come? Kinda, but I'm also trying my best to survive my remaining days as well as I can and that sure as hell hasn't been an easy task so far. Every day I just want to leave life a little bit more, and my impatience is growing on me. Yet, my fears keep me grounded somehow and every time a thought like "this is it, I'm done" comes into my head I've so far managed to take a deep breath and think it through.

That it's not my time yet, and I still have things to do. However mundane or important, I still have a lot of things to do. I keep pushing myself to the brink and then let myself breathe and think "wait, hold up" cause I'm not done yet. So no, I'm not ready for suicide yet, but I wish I was. I wish it was much simpler than this, but after 16 failed attempts, one thing I've learned is: it's never fucking simple.