Nobody I know is aware of the 30 year thing. I haven’t told a soul. I wish I could but… there’s the guilt. I can’t tell them that when I die, it will be by my hand. I can’t tell them that while I appreciate everything they have done for me (and I do, I feel I owe them an enormous debt), that I plan to kill myself eventually. Maybe they would think I was ungrateful or that I didn’t care. Of course I care, about them and how they feel. I just don’t care about me. I’m long out of fight.
All along I thought I was being tortured by something. I thought that my depression and anxiety disorder were changing me into something I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to be angry all the time. I didn’t want to be consumed by a burning rage that would on occasion, when I could sneak away, leave me screaming as loud as I possibly could just to vent what was building up inside of me. I have lost my voice once or twice as a result.
What I’m trying to say is that I had a realisation today. I realised what my sleepless nights were. I realised what the imagined confrontations were. I’m rationalising my intention. I dream up conflicts with them to emotionally distance myself from those I love. If they hate me, they won’t miss me, right?
I realised that I’m preparing to die.