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The best part of my day was coming home after 11 hours and chasing my dog around the backyard. The second best was finding out Dan Humphrey was Gossip Girl. This is third.

I have so many thoughts in my head tonight that it’s hard to put them straight.

I was born and raised under the assumption that being alive is a good thing. For some people it is, undoubtedly. But for everyone? On that I’m not so certain.

This experiment of mine started when I finally said out loud to someone a simple truth, that I don’t like being alive, twenty-something years after I first felt it. It had never occurred to me it might be okay to have that experience. I had believed this whole time that there must be something wrong with me for feeling that way. Two hundred and fifty truths later, I don’t buy into that anymore. And I’m still trying to figure out where that leaves me.

I was thinking about suicide this morning as I was walking my dog. I’m writing a story about it right now. I was wondering why I choose to stay alive day after miserable day. I was wondering what it would be like to really consider suicide as a viable option. To allow myself that as part of this experiment.

The truth is though, suicide isn’t an option for me. I hate life for exactly the reasons why I will cling to it with every fiber of my being for as long as I possibly can. I hate the life I live because I know it pales next to the life I could live. The very best parts of me are also the reasons I suffer so much. It’s all knotted together in this odd and wondrous web that is me, in this one particular life, that I will always fight for.

I can’t live this life forever. The one that I’m currently in. I don’t honestly believe that I have to, and I don’t honestly know how to live a different one. What would I do if I only had a year to live? I’ve been running this question through my head the past few days. I don’t have an answer yet. I’m afraid that if I find one, it’ll sit on a metaphorical shelf gathering dust while I continue choosing tomorrow the things I hated about yesterday.

I’m scared that I’ll fail myself. It’s part of what makes living so god damn hard for me. But the truth is, I have it in me to be courageous. I have it in me to be daring. I can choose to put faith in me.

Fuck life. Fuck how it was supposed to be. Fuck all the ways it hasn’t worked out so great for me. Fuck all the pain. Fuck all the suffering. Fuck the terror I feel in the face of hoping. Fuck what everyone else believes the point of it to be. I get to choose. I get to decide. And I pick me. I choose to believe in me.