Ever since I attempted to commit suicide in early 2011 and failed, that's the question which I have learned to ask myself to assess my state of mind. Sometimes the response to this question is a definite sense of revulsion, sometimes one of indifference. Sometimes of painful longing. Sometimes mixed.
Today I can feel the heavy feeling again, this sensation of weariness and exhaustion far beyond what the average person will ever feel in their entire life, or what can be captured using mere words. It's a weariness that's simply a weariness of life, when even one's primal sense of survival can no longer be felt. It's the acceptance of death when one is still physically healthy.
It's not a feeling I care for in the slightest. Six years ago I was able to find a way out through an overdose, or so I thought. This year I'm hoping to find a way out by finding a home and by closing the medical chapter on my body after a few decades of suffering. I hope that this attempt will be more successful than me trying to take my own life.
I guess the worst feeling that accompanies this quiet longing for the cessation of one's existence is that of being a failure, of having failed as a human being, as an individual and something even more fundamental.
It's not that one wants to die. It's merely the acceptance that for some people even merely existing is simply no longer an option.
Yes, I would want to cease existing right now. No, I do not want to die. I just want the pain of existing to cease.
Then I would want to resume doing all the fun things in life. All the things which do not hurt.
To continue living in a world where people do not hurt each other.
The world which I failed to find.