At 27, I’ve settled into a comfortable coexistence with my suicidality. We’ve made peace, or at least a temporary accord negotiated by therapy and medication. It’s still hard sometimes, but not as hard as you might think. What makes it harder is being unable to talk about it freely: the weightiness of the confession, the impossibility of explaining that it both is and isn’t as serious as it sounds. I don’t always want to be alive. Yes, I mean it. No, you shouldn’t be afraid for me. No, I’m not in danger of killing myself right now. Yes, I really mean it.
How do you explain that?
Every bit of joy, any kind of motivating happiness, has been stripped from society so it can be used as a carrot to make capital instead.
Community is now paywalled. Even basic things like standing outside - ya know, the natural state for the human animal - paywalled. Living in the woods like an animal- paywalled, maybe illegal. Dying is also paywalled, from both ends - you aren’t allowed to die and must pay for lifesaving interventions and when you do die, you have to pay for burial.
It’s just so bizarre. Fuck money