Realizing When It Is Over

It is interesting how so many people comment on how you should live or end your life when you are unhappy with it. They compare the details of your agonizing seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years to the starving in Africa, the soldiers at war, the terminally ill, or some other unfortunate group of people in order to make you feel guilty for having such feelings for yourself. And once you've made the decision that it must end, you are seen as a coward, inferior, and selfish.

As unpleasant as the subject of suicide is, it is usually not an act of a coward. In fact, I think cowardice and bravery play no bearing in the actual decision, only in the execution. What most people don't realize is that people who commit suicide don't want to die but they just don't know how to live. When living becomes painful and a chore, your options decrease.

I am not advocating that anyone commit suicide. I am not advocating anything to anyone. This blog is solely about me and my feelings. I feel like death is my only option and that scares me for three reasons:

1. I am a coward and as much as I know that is what must be done, I cannot bring myself to do it. 

2. I think about it more often and know that one day I will be capable of doing it.

3. I am this miserable, broken, useless, and suffocating that all I have to offer comes down to this.

When I was a child I used to want to be many things and besides being a mother (which I am not) the other most important thing I wanted to be was "better." When I thought "better" it meant prettier, not poor, a loving family of my own, smart, creative, and alive. Next month I will be 34 and I am no where near "better."