I'm always trying to figure out the right time to kill myself. Yeah, I know. That's a melodramatic way to start things, right?
Ten years ago I had picked a day. Neither close to someone's birthday or a holiday, equally spaced between important events at work and school so to provide the least distraction. I finished my midterms and drove home for spring break, always telling myself to be patient for the next day and then the next. And then it passed and I continued on, deciding each morning whether or not to try.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say how glad I am to be alive, how much better things are, how it gives me chills to even think that I might've actually done it. Everyone else does. But I often find my mind turning back and wishing I'd followed through.
I've been inundated with well-wishes. Birthday cards, presents, phone calls, texts. Despite making it clear that I want none of these, they send them anyway and I accept them with grace.
These things are related.
So, as in years past, I keep going mostly for the sake of others. Life has more color than it used to, I have a boyfriend far better than I deserve who loves me far more than he should, my friends and family enjoy my company and reassure me that I make them happy.
There won't ever be a right time. Happy birthday to me.