I am tired. I am depleted. I am ready to be done. Suicidal fantasies have begun again: daydreaming on how to end it on my drive home from work, fielding the impulse to do it minutes before I’m expected to arrive somewhere, strategizing the cleanest and most considerate way to be found by my roommates, wondering on whether I should clean up a bit first, compiling notes and letters just in case the impulse takes me unexpectedly, fantasizing about what it would feel like to finally not have to breathe around this f****** weight that lives in my chest because I won’t have to breathe at all anymore…
