This week has been terrible. Last week was good, this one is awful. It is my last week of work before I fall into the abyss of not working, and I am a nervous wreck about it. My good-bye party was held on Tuesday and I left it in tears. My mind keeps spinning around and around, racing with all sorts of terrible thoughts about the immediate and distant future. Even though I am moving back to my old hometown, even though I have another job lined up, I can only think awful things.
I would be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about suicide a lot lately.
Nobody would ever, ever, ever suspect that I think these things. Everyone keeps saying how nice I am, how happy I look all the time at work, how wonderful that everything is working out for me and how excited I must be to move back home after ten years. How fortunate, they say, for my new workplace, to have someone like me, who loves their job so much and never misses a day of work. How lucky that I have a husband who adores me and takes care of me, and friends and family who love and support me.
They don’t know that in the cracks between my day, the moments when I’m not doing anything or just driving or on the treadmill at the gym, all I can think of is, maybe I should just cut my wrists and be done with it all.
And honestly, after nine months of this shit, of looking forward every day to crawling into bed at night for the sweetness of oblivion, it is goddamn tempting.
That’s me. The luckiest woman in the world. The happiest woman. The one you work with, your best friend, the one who seems to have her life completely together. This is what she thinks. This is how she lives her life inside, every minute of every day.