Suicide Notes to Myself: Maybe It Never Will Be

Dear Reagan,

Why does life have to be so hard? Why can’t it be filled with only good things? There’s so much bad in the world and even if it doesn’t relate to you directly, it does because you live on this godforsaken planet that’s slowly killing itself.

Isn’t it funny that you’re doing the same to yourself? Maybe it isn’t funny per se. Perhaps sadistic is a better choice of word, but even that doesn’t seem to explain it. You don’t take much pleasure in constantly suffering, you just take pleasure in the routine it creates. Routine wards away waves of depression. You’ve scheduled out the day already. You do all these things so that it’s almost impossible for depression to sneak into it.

But then there’s the dissociation. It’s like a mist. You don’t quite see it or know it’s there until you’ve walked through it. And then you disconnect, and then it hurts. A ghost pain. It’s not there but it is.

You wish it would stop. Maybe one day it will.