Let me apologize...

To run away from trouble is a form of cowardice and, while it is true that the suicide braves death, he does it not for some noble object but to escape some ill.” - Aristotle (384 BCE - 322 BCE)

I fear plenty of things.

Bee stings, dark corners, letting my parents down, long empty hallways, red glowy eyes, the thought that people hate me, that feeling in your stomach when you’re falling or on a roller coaster, anyplace that has ever been thought to be haunted…

Fucking clowns. I can barely look at one.

I do not, however, fear death. And I’m going to let you in on a secret here. I fear pain, yes, I hate things that will physically hurt me. But not death, or dying because once, I chose it. And that’s my secret.

I accepted it, and brought it on myself. I let it wash over me, and made peace with the idea of letting it carry me away in its arms.

But then I woke up the next morning. I woke up the next morning with a jolt and a bewildered disappointment that I was still alive

I can’t tell you what it’s like if you’ve never been in that state of mind. Where everything is hopeless and the rational part of your brain, the part that’s supposed to keep you alive, is justifying something like suicide.

I can barely say that word. I use “offing myself”, like the euphemism makes it better. Or is it less worse?

I can tell you that it was rational, that I understood what I was doing. I am not a frantic person. I don’t really panic, and I certainly am not the impulsive type. I was meticulous and coordinated. And I had planned it out for weeks.

Every time a friend said “See you later”, I responded with a “No, you won’t” in my mind.

I didn’t rip the tag off of a new winter coat or remove the new iPod from its packaging. So my parent’s could return my Christmas gifts, you see? I have never used a Post-It for something other than doodles. My planner rarely ever gets written in, even though I buy one each year without fail. But I had contingency plans and letters, and notes and funeral arrangements and everything.  The one thing I never planned on was waking up again.

I won’t lie here. Not on this blog. I lie to everyone I know sometimes. I lie to myself more than anyone. But here, I must force honestly upon myself. Because the thing with lying is that eventually, you stop being able to distinguish the truth from what you’ve created to try and protect yourself from the mess you’ve made.

This is the 99^th day of the rest of my life, and I still don’t know if I can make it.

But I’m trying. And that has to be worth something, right?