Right now, I'm sitting down and looking at a lethal dose. I think about it too much these days. I want a cure, and I'm prepared to take any measures necessary. Living every day with the knowledge that I will not be as much tomorrow as I was yesterday is a slow grind I'm not willing to take any more. So what should I do? Will I sleep and wake up unable to write as I do? When will I notice the end? How much more of this will you demand I endure?
On Monday night football, ESPN did PSA on a little hispanic kid who has sickle cell anemia. He endures pain and anguish that seems beyond my imagination, and he does it with a smile. I admire his toughness and his courage. My little mental boo-boo injures me constantly. I don't know if I have the right to suffer as much as I do from this struggle. If a little kid can take sickle cell, I should be able to adapt to my disease. However, I continue to think suicidally. Sometimes, I see it as the only sure cure for what ails me. Sometimes, I only halfway notice what I'm doing, and count out a lethal dose for reasons beyond me. Other times, it's pure premeditation, as it is tonight. I'd ask for help, but I know none is forthcoming. These frequent epistles frustrate me: I type more than I speak, and no amount of virtue on my part can change that. I write in near anonymity, and see only a very few options: continue in anonymity, and write until I have nothing left, or do what I wish, and leave a bit of potential over which the rest of you may speculate. With the second option, the pain ends here. With the first, I might live another fifty years in hell.