Three months later and here I am again. Still depressed. Still have no money. Still not getting help with transition. Still living at home with no job, no love, no hope of improvement. All I've had to cling on to lately is the vague distant possibility of my writing in interactive fiction and games news meaning something to someone.
Aren't things supposed to happen when you tell people you want to kill yourself? That, too, hasn't changed. Rope or knives or step into the road or fling myself from some high place - which are remarkably hard to find around here, by the way - I just want to end. Only a miracle could solve my life to a point I'd be willing to bear it long enough to deal with psychological depression. Not that I believe in miracles.
If I tell people face to face I want to die, or ask them to help me end myself, they would express horror or sympathy. But they don't do anything. Some can't, others can but won't. For all their admonitions, people are unwilling to do what it takes to make another's life worth living. And why should they, the thinking goes? The poor, the miserable, the depressed need to work themselves into a position of strength. Even if that takes decades. Even if that never happens and they spend years, years in abject misery. Stiff upper lip and all that.
What's the point of writing this? I don't even know. I'm not going to get a paying job. What idiot would hire me? I don't smile. I'm not as smart as I should be. I'm not presentable or qualified or experienced. And how could I find companionship - never mind actual love - looking like I do, in the wrong body with no money or prospects and living with my mum. I'm not even capable of love, I fear.
Until now I've managed to distract myself. Lately I've run out of distractions and, like those early months of 2011, I spend my time sleeping, eating and wondering how to die. Each time I close my eyes, I hope I will never awaken. Perhaps one day soon I won't. And then what will those people, who watched and did nothing, what will they say?
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