For 11 years, I have posted something on my birthday. Always art, usually an accompanying text piece about how sad I am. This will be one of those.

Maybe it’s a birthday thing, I dunno. But, the suicidal thoughts came back pretty hard last week. A lot has changed in the last year, but so much has stayed the same or gotten worse. Therapy is officially a bust. Medicine, talk, and “homework” did nothing to help me. Relationships all became strained and to the brink of collapse. Friendships faked and going through motions just to continue to pretend that anything matters. Attempts at reconciling broken relationships – particularly familial – failed. Spectacularly. Loneliness increased and heightened. Financials ruined and I’m grasping at straws. I left my old job and had to take 2 new ones and they don’t even come close to being sustainable, and I was barely holding on with the previous one. The one positive is the decreased anxiety from not having to drive an hour/hour and a half every day or dealing with the shitpile of former coworkers at that nightmare of an old job. Also, I’m losing weight but it’s mostly because I can’t afford to eat some days. And it’s also a good thing I no longer have a long commute because my car is completely falling apart and I’m not sure how much longer it will last.

I’m not sure how much longer I will last.

Every day I think about harming myself, putting myself out of my miserable existence. Every. Day.

Art means nothing. It’s just a thing I do to pass hours. Clearly, trying to make some kind of tertiary income from the work is a pipe dream, and as I’ve learned repeatedly, dreams are meant to die and wither.

This past year I had to give up doing the one thing that brought me fulfillment and joy because people are an absolute fucking chore and ruin everything good.

I’ll never be able to feel love for any other human being ever again. It’s no longer within me. My heart, my soul, my brain, they no longer work the way they’re supposed to. The rewiring I’ve had to do to just… basically function… I had to leave all that stuff out.

I no longer care. About you. About me. About anything.

Goddamn. 4 years ago… fuck. It fucked me up so much, so hard.

I still have nightmares about her.

My one last connection to humanity. To empathy. Love. Gone. 4 years. You think I’d be able to move on by now, and hard as I try, it just won’t go away.

But, as always…

I’m still here.

But I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.

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