Today I finally got an appointment to se a therapist. I’ve been thing I needed to for a long time. I don’t feel sane—and I don’t mean that in a cute way. I feel like I have no control over my actions. Fortunately I don’t seem to be terribly destructive. I write a lot or draw—I know I should try to go out and meet people, but I feel so distant from that. Everything in my apartment must be in just the right place or I feel like my life is spinning out of control. When people talk to me all I want to do is run away or scream. I spend hours doing things I later find odd and pointless. Like polishing all of the pennies in the penny jar so they are all perfectly shiny. I think “that was a huge waste of time why did I do that?” But, I have no answer. Sometimes I feel very alone. So, I wish I could talk to someone. But, I feel like I could not explain the way I see the world to people. So I stay on my own. I can still go to work and get the rent paid. But, I have stopped moving forward. I’m not planning for grad school or trying to do better. I have no friends and I have no way to make any. This used to bother me but something has changed.

And at last I don’t care! That scarces me. I feel like I’m packing up my bags so I can go for good. Every day I think “this is the last time I will ride this train.” “This is the last time I will buy some luckies.” Of course it’s not—but it feels so nice to think it is.

I was lying in bed last night and I began to think about suicide (not that uncommon for me, I’ve been morbid for years, it’s not so bad really) but this time it was different. Mostly I wish I could die out of childish desperation. “I’d rather be dead than put up with this life anymore!” This never scares me because I know that the misery is temporary and so I just wait it out. I even laugh a lot because I find the whole thing funny. “Susan?” I think, “You’re wanting to die? AGAIN?! Ha ha, Dumb Bitch!

But this time was different. For the first time ever it actually seemed like a good idea. Like it would solve things. Clearly, there was no way for me to ever be happy. So what was I bothering with living through all these days for? What am I waiting for? Where is the finish line? Nothing. Nowhere.

I waited for myself to find it funny again. But, I didn’t—in fact, I felt sort of peaceful since I knew that I could at least look forward to life being over at last. No more waking up. No more seeing objects. No more talking to people. No more thoughts. No more dreams. No more cars or buildings. No more light or darkness. No more anything. Not even me. Not even a trail of thought. It would end.

Well, I’m rational. I know I won’t always feel this way (most likely). I may even be happy someday. Who can tell! Life is pretty random. So it’s worth the risk of enduring life, for now. There is no heaven waiting for me. So I’d better see what I can do with earth: I give myself two years. If in two years time I’ve not found a way to be happy then I’ll find the exit to this world and not come back. I think that’s fair. If I can’t brighten up in two years I doubt I ever will—even with the chain smoking I’ll last another 30 at least… 30 years in hell? Or oblivion? You choose. Two years in exchange for a chance at feeling alive again? Well, I’ve been through 22 years of hell so what’s two more?

Let me make a note of the date so I can remember to reevaluate living when this time of year comes around again. “June 3 2002” so it’s “June 3, 2004” then. I feel confident that I can get it together by then. But one must have limits, you know?