they’ll clap anyway

I sometimes try to track the point at which I stopped caring.  It feels like my indifference and apathy are as integral to me as my nerves and bones, something I’ve had forever, only growing with time.

But that’s not accurate.  That’s depression telling lies.

I wonder at what point I deemed my life not worth saving.  I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live as this person.  I would not work to save my life.  I will not work to save my life. 

But I will not work to end it.

Suicide weaves through my life.  It never leaves, though.  I think about it every day.  The idea of suicide soothes me like warm milk.  If I have no other power, I have this power.  I choose to live another day.

Yet, I do not remember the last day where my first though upon waking and last thought before sleeping was, “Why do I bother.”

I have the option to choose otherwise.  I could choose to die. 

Do I have that option, though?  Is my life mine to end?  Many people call suicide selfish.  Is the happiness my life brings to others worth more than the pain my life brings to me?

I shouldn’t kid myself, though—my life brings very little happiness to others.  My sister will soon be married to her boyfriend.  My parents live 350 miles away, embedded in a life from which they neatly carved me out.  Many days, my only words are spoken to animals.  I am so little, so nothing. 

I don’t know how to be something.  Or someone.

I am no one.