I wish I would die

So here’s the silver lining: nobody is reading this because I haven’t shared it with anyone. That’s a relief because I can’t talk about this with anyone except for maybe my psychiatrist and my therapist. I want to die. Now would be good. I fucking hate this time of year. Anniversary of my mom’s death. My own fucking wretched birthday. Stupid fucking holidays that don’t mean anything to anyone unless you show up with gifts. Travel. Planning. Pretending. Repeat.

Gun to the head. One squeeze. No need to repeat.

Too bad I don’t have access to the guns. Though I couldn’t kill myself in or around this house, I could take it somewhere secluded where no one would ever find me. Could easily ditch the phone and car.

I fucking hate my life. I already got rid of everything and it wasn’t enough. I have to get rid of more. I barely even exist.

Well I should run out of money in the next year or two. I’ll die then if I don’t die now. Can’t live without money.

I have had this destructive and debilitating illness for too long. I will never recover. I will never heal.

I hope I have cancer by my implants. I wouldn’t treat it.