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From a year ago:

Carbon monoxide. I *smelled* it when I put the car in the garage. I know—it has no smell, but the exhaust fumes made me think of it. And now, I can’t stop thinking about it. I keep hearing Regina Spektor singing about it. When I read that stupid message on the Dove chocolate wrapper that said “Give yourself permission,” I wanted those words to be true—real for someone like me. There are a lot of people who eat chocolate; does everyone have permission?

I don’t want tomorrow to come. I don’t want to face another day of lonely brain freeze. I don’t want to continue dragging myself from one obligation to the next feeling that profound sense of being a burden. I am just a weight pulling people down. And money spent to try to make me better is being wasted. I am a useless, extraneous expense. How is this good for anyone? That is the question that is always on my mind, but there are never any convincing answers.

Maybe the hardest part of feeling this way is that you really can’t talk about yourself or your thoughts with anyone you love or care about. It would only be upsetting to them. But the whole reason you might want to talk about it—instead of acting on it—is because you specifically don’t want to hurt those same people. So, that’s the catch.

My therapist is at such a loss for what to do with me that she is encouraging me to consider “alternative therapies.” I said I might be willing to try them. But then I remembered, of course, any additional treatments would mean additional costs. And the truth is, I don’t want to try. Trying is for people who believe that success of any kind is not only possible, but desirable.

What I want is to attach a hose to the exhaust pipe of a car, sit on a heated seat, bring the hose to my mouth, inhale deeply, and go to sleep forever. There. I said it. Nobody will hear it and nobody can know, but out it came without filter. The thought is just sitting there on the page. It doesn’t feel sorry for itself, and it doesn’t want pity. It’s a series of words that follow each other across the page. With 100 or so letters, the idea is out in the open and it means something. If someone were to see those letters squishing together to fit on the page, would it make a bit of difference?

What is a bit of difference anyway? What would it look like? I want to kill myself, but I can’t. Nope, no bit is emerging as far as I can tell. I can’t do what I want, and I will never be who I should be.

I have to pretend it is better for my family and me if I stay. I can’t check out without hurting people or abandoning my children. I know I can’t do that to the people I love. But my not wanting to hurt any of them is my only reason for staying. I have no reasons of my own.

Stay and pretend. That’s the best I can do. Pretend because suicide creates pain, sadness, and frustration for the survivors. I get it in the obvious sense, but there is still something fundamentally backward about the whole situation. When someone desperately wants to be put out of her misery, it is the people who love her who force her to endure that very same misery.