I’ve mentioned somewhere, Twitter maybe, that giving up on life isn’t an option for me anymore. I’m not consciously inclined to let go of my life, nor of my existence. I may feel like it, I may feel “it” – taking my own life – but I know damn well that I don’t want to die. I know damn well that I want to continue on living.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a life not ideal. Doesn’t matter if it’s a life that’s less than what I have in mind. Doesn’t matter if it’s a life that’s mediocre. I want to fucking live.

Therein lies the crux of it all – death is not an option anymore.

There was a time when it was always an option, especially when I’m losing grip of it all – my sanity, my dreams, my goals my mission. I took solace in the fact that I could just end it when I couldn’t deal anymore. I had that plan. I had a last resort.

As I said, that’s off the table now. I’ll live on.

I’ll live on with the unbearable pain and heaviness my soul carries day in and day out. I’ll live on with the arms of depression around me, at least until I’m cured. I’ll live on in the darkness that has plagued me all my life.

I’m not saying that I’m not going to be depression free someday. I do know that I’ll be alright someday. I do know that the arms of depression will dissipate. I do know that I’ll kick depression in the ass.

But for times like these when I can’t find the light in this path I’m on, when I’m being pulled in by forces unseen and those caused by my irresponsible strategies of survival, it feels like whatever flicker of hope inside me is fast dying. And I’m backed into that wall I’ve built that separates me from suicide, the pressure of everything pushing me forth until I’m left in ruin.

To help others. That’s always been my mission in life. But I have to help myself now. I consider it selfish, as it entails me leaving my post and become a deserter to assignments that I’ve already signed up for.

I have to be selfish right now. And for my selfishness, I apologize. My sanity – my life – is at stake.

 

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