THE END

Life feels like it's slipped through my fingers, leaving me questioning where it all went wrong. Despite my intentions to do no harm, to love, and to be there for others, I find myself sitting here with COVID, feeling utterly alone. It's disheartening to realize that not a single person has reached out to check on me, to see if I'm okay.

Living with borderline personality disorder adds an extra layer of complexity to everything. It's not something I asked for, yet it affects every aspect of my life, including my relationships. The recent situation with my ex-girlfriend is a painful reminder of how misunderstood and isolated I can feel. Despite my genuine attempts to help her and show her love, I was met with accusations and rejection.

Being accused of stalking, when all I wanted was to do something kind, is a bitter pill to swallow. It's even harder to comprehend being ghosted after sharing a supposedly wonderful evening together. Her claims of fear feel unfounded and only serve to deepen the sense of rejection and betrayal.

It's a lonely place to be, grappling with past traumas and trying to navigate present challenges.

My heart aches with a heavy burden of failure. I've reached a point where my trust in people, in the world itself, has been shattered. I no longer believe in the inherent goodness of humanity, for it seems that deceit and cruelty reign supreme.

I find myself at odds with society, unable to conform to its norms of manipulation and degradation. I cannot bring myself to deceive or diminish others; my soul craves only love and connection. I yearn for a relationship where mutual adoration transcends the mundane, where every sunrise and sunset is a testament to our bond.

Yet, despite my fervent desires, depression clouds my every thought. It whispers relentless lies of worthlessness and despair, drowning out any flicker of hope. It feels as though my world is crumbling, and I am left waiting for the inevitable collapse, resigned to my fate.

All I long for is a semblance of stability, to fulfill my obligations and to cherish my partner with all the tenderness I possess. But in the suffocating grip of depression, even these simple aspirations feel unattainable. I am left stranded in a sea of darkness, clinging desperately to the faintest glimmer of light, praying for salvation that may never come.

As the weight of despair presses down on me, I find solace in the realization that my time on this earth is drawing to a close. And strangely, I'm okay with that. For in death, there is an end to pain, to sorrow, to the relentless torment of existence. No longer will I bear witness to the ugliness of human nature, the incessant backbiting and betrayal that plagues our world.

The thought of oblivion brings a strange comfort, a respite from the crushing loneliness and despair that have become my constant companions. In death, there is no room for rejection or sorrow, no space for the bitter sting of betrayal. I will simply cease to be, and in that cessation, find the peace that has eluded me for so long.

It's a sobering realization, to find more tranquility in the prospect of silence than in anything this world has to offer. But as the darkness closes in around me, I cling to the hope that in death, I will find the serenity that has long been denied to me in life.

I want to make something crystal clear: when my time comes, I don't want tears from family members, nor do I want any whispers of selfishness echoing in the wake of my passing. Because let's talk about selfishness for a moment.

Is selfishness preserving oneself from the torment, ridicule, isolation, and abandonment inflicted by those who claim to love you? Or is it selfish to profess love and yet turn a blind eye when that love is needed most? When depression sinks its claws in, and I find myself drowning in darkness, is it an act of love to call the authorities for a welfare check, rather than picking up the damn phone and reaching out directly?

I refuse to accept the burden of guilt for my own demise being placed squarely on my shoulders. If you truly cared, if you truly loved, you wouldn't shy away from the discomfort of acknowledging my pain. You wouldn't hide behind the convenience of bureaucracy, washing your hands clean of any responsibility.

So no, I won't tolerate tears of remorse from those who couldn't be bothered to offer a comforting word or a supportive embrace when it mattered most. My passing may bring relief from this earthly suffering, but it will also serve as a stark reminder of the profound failure of empathy and compassion in this world.

As I close the chapter on this journal, I reflect on the winding road that has led me to this moment. It's been a journey filled with both highs and lows, though I wish the balance leaned more towards the former.

In moments of happiness, writing took a backseat to the joy of being with the person I loved. Looking back now, I realize that perhaps my love was one-sided, a realization that cuts deep. I was ensnared in her web, a mere pawn in her game of manipulation and self-interest.

The irony is not lost on me. The day she landed that job at the airport, she vanished without a trace, as if she had suddenly ascended to some higher plane of existence. But if her happiness came at the cost of my own suffering, then so be it. I'll gladly carry the weight of sorrow to my grave if it means she finds her bliss.

So as I bid farewell to these pages, I do so with a bittersweet acceptance of the hand I've been dealt. My heart may be heavy with regrets and unfulfilled dreams, but I find solace in the hope that, somewhere beyond this realm of pain and disappointment, there lies a peace that has long eluded me.