It's been long, and it's been difficult and sometimes it seemed like I'd be okay, sometime in the not too distant future maybe. Okay in the sense that everything could be bearable. Maybe things wouldn't hurt so much. It's been years since I was hospitalised, years since they let me go, told me I was healthy enough and sane enough to make my own decisions again, to be allowed to ration my own pills. And eventually there were no more pills, anyway. I never told anybody what I wrote on my suicide note five years ago. It said that I was sorry for causing any pain, but not sorry for what I had done. I swore to myself that I wouldn't write that I loved them, but the more fucked up things got, I couldn't leave the page so blank. So I wrote and I said that I loved them all. Because I did. I do. My mother read that note aloud while I was there. When I got home, the notebook was still where I'd left it, but the page had been torn out, only you could still see the indents into the pages beneath. I'd leaned so hard, trying to balance my soul on the pen. I was heavy. I'm still heavy. I've tried so, so hard. You have to understand. I wanted to be good. I want to be good. I accepted sadness as a part of who and what I am. I decided it'd be okay. I really believed it. But it's been five whole years, and I feel an insurmountable guilt. I have weighed up many things for this entire duration. I don't want my life to be an endurance of something that I might sometimes call suffering just for the sake of other people, who essentially don't take the time to be with me or around me or to even send a smile. I think I'm done now.