The Point of Exhaustion

These are words I wrote in my journal. The words in speech marks are those of my voices.

I don’t know about life – my heart’s not in it. I have had about three weeks of the same day and I have had about enough. I grow old and tired. “Old, old, old. Dentures and dementia”. I cannot feel I will ever live again. I am shattered. Yet I cannot destroy myself – for by doing that I would destroy everything around me also. I just can’t take my own life –as a gift it is too much, I just can’t take it. I am dead-tired. The passive-suicidal ache is fast becoming an active desire to end my life again. I could so easily extinguish myself. A voice says: “Don’t lose your cool.”

“Bish bash kibosh” Each word that comes out of my mouth makes a new person appear in the world. Never have too much pomphidence [pompous confidence] in your own mind: illness can strike anyone. I have such dear friends but I am just a deer in the headlights. Suicide is blitzkrieg and sanderling. It is the snap under long-term psychic slaughter, electric battery. I suffer extreme hope haemorrhage and good loss. Sometime, somewhere, I received a massive psychic injury which I cannot die from, nor fully recover from. “You slap-fat doggerel”. I am locked in a loveless marriage with life.