As another year is drawing to a close I've been thinking about some things, again. 

A few days, or maybe a week ago, I had another beseeching urge to kill myself. As always, it was the explosion of a million tiny moments that did not fit quite right in my chest, reminding me that for as long as I breathe, it's gonna keep hurting like this. I am gonna hurt. Life is gonna hurt. 

I don't know for how long more I have to keep going like this; feeling so sad all the time, then feeling pathetic because I'm so sad all the time. Sometimes it feels like I'm screaming out for somebody to please, please just see how much this hurts me and how hard I am trying, despite everything, to stay alive, but then I remembered that nobody likes sad girls. And everybody is too caught up with their own lives to really be looking out for any calls of help, or looking out for anything at all really. I guess one day when I finally die. Then they'll know.

I just can't seem to find my place in this world. Just like all the little fleeting moments that don't fit quite right in my chest turn into a bigger hurt, I don't fit quite right in the world either. As the people around me gradually find the place they belong, I feel like I am falling further and further away from a shared life we would all know and participate in, and I start feeling more cautious about taking up too much of their time. I don't have the right to their time, assume they would spare more than a few hours for me because now, they have a better place to be, better things to do. To return to the place they rightfully belong.

Soon, I wouldn't be able to contribute anything in our conversations because I wouldn't know what they are talking about. Soon, they wouldn't have time to entertain my pathetic, sad ass. I count all the times we spend together now as another step closer to the time when we would inevitably have to fall into the routines of our own respective lives; to fall apart. 

Sometimes I wished killing myself could be as easy as flipping a switch. One click, and I'll not be breathing anymore. Because I can't count the number of times I was saved simply by how arduous the exact task of trying to die is; how many steps it would take for me to make sure everything was just right and that I would not fail. By the time I had gone through all the necessary motions, the wave would have crashed over my head and I may feel alright again in that moment. 

That doesn't mean I should stay living. Because the pain will always come back. And sometimes I get so suffocated with it, it hurts so fucking much, and I don't know how to stop it. All I ever do is cry, or drink, think about how pathetic this is, I am, until either the moon, or I, fix me again.

What was the purpose of a person like me to continue existing in this world? 

When she said to me she knows that the worst is already over for me in terms of these negative thoughts, I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or simply nod and say "yeah."

It's not that the worst is over, it's just that I don't talk about how bad it is anymore. 

I always say that I talk about things in retrospect. One day, you'll hear it when I'm dead.