the variable N

10.22.25, 5:37 PM, I am 32 years old, I am listening to music and typing this. I cut myself today and am planning to do it more and more in the following days.

It turns out that I am extremely good at ignoring the bad in my life and pretending like everything is alright.

I'm not sure when I started slipping. I don't think this is recent. I look at my journal entries from 2024 and I've already been begging to die at that point. "I'm exhausted. Let me go. Let me die. Let me die." - it's strange how - as with everything in my life - I feel the need to beg for permission to do this part of my life, too. To die. To leave. To disappear.

I made two shallow cuts to my wrist and felt disappointed. There wasn't much blood. I'm not sure what I expected - they were shallow cuts, after all. Maybe I thought I wouldn't have to make a choice and that, too, will be taken care for me and some sort of mercy would find me and I'd be able to make the choice without making the choice, and that would be that, and I'd be allowed to leave. But the cuts are shallow. The blood - as little as trickled out - was pretty regardless and coagulated almost immediately.

What is this fucked up pattern in my life? I think I've found happiness, cling on to it, try to foster it, and then it just... withers. Warps. Turns into something horrible. Listen, I know it wasn't your intention, but in the time we were together... 8 of my cats died. You broke the *one* harddrive I had that contained all of my dad's pictures. And more, so much more, I can't even keep count anymore... and I've told you this. Told you this when I said, leave. Please. Let's break up. Please let me go. Please let me breathe again. But you won't. You won't.

Like a wound that won't heal, you linger. You remind me of pain. Of decay. Of things breaking and dying and tearing at me, piece by piece, until I can't breathe anymore. And still you won't leave. Still you won't let me go. Still you cling on to me and drag me down harder with you.

I'm tired... am I allowed to say that? ... I'm tired.
Please let me go.
But you won't, will you. You'll just latch on to me until I either wither and die, or until I make the choice myself and take my own life.

Yours,