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I’m not sure that any of this matters. This writing that I’m doing. This process I say I’m in. This search for myself, for meaning. I’m not sure any of it matters. And, it might be the only thing that matters. I have absolutely no fucking idea.

I thought about slitting my wrists. I wondered on my drive home from work tonight if it was an option for me to consider. I decided I would almost immediately feel like a prize idiot if I ever did actually try to kill myself.

Later I wondered if maybe the not shitty days could be enough to make the shitty days worth surviving.

The thing is, I’m really fucking tired of shitty days.

I don’t know whether or not to give up on myself. I don’t know if I’m completely fucked or not. I don’t know anymore what’s brave and what’s just really fucking dumb.

Am I the problem? Or is the problem in believing that I’m the problem? Or buying into the idea that there even is a problem?

Is it possible for me to be happy? Or is me trying to be happy what’s making me so god damn miserable?

How much of my life am I supposed to take on faith? I’m not really good at faith.

I hated being alive today. I spent at least some minutes of the day contemplating whether or not it’s better for me to be alive.

I was just thinking that I don’t have a reason for living; I was thinking days like today might be easier for me if I could find one. But, the truth is, I do have a reason. There is something I believe in, and it keeps me breathing. There is a version of me, unencumbered, who I live for and for whom I fight every single day. I live for her.

The worst days, the days like today and yesterday in which I feel like the most important part of me has died, are the days when I convince myself she isn’t real. But she is real. I am real. I am here, already.

It’s okay if I’m the only one in billions who believes in me. As long as I do, I’ll have a reason to breathe.