Today, for the first time, I’ve thought about ending my life. I’m worn down from the constant effort just to stay as-I-should, the endless grind to keep working. For the past decade, work has been my top priority, yet here I am, stuck in a place that feels no different than the struggle of the unemployed around me. I have no one to confide in—only one person I could maybe open up to, but I don’t want to burden them with my heavy thoughts.
The thought of suicide brought me to a new height of feeling low. I thought I’d cry, but I couldn’t. Instead, I held my dogs close, watching the light in their eyes and wondering if there’s any left in mine. I need to work to keep them by my side and to care for my mother.
I wondered if it’s my fault. I wondered if I was depressed or it was something else missing from me from a very long time ago.