I don’t know why I can’t resist. Why, when they don’t contact me, do I contact them? Am I that person that can’t take a hint?
And this is when I think it might be best if I disappeared. Walked away and never looked back. It used to be that this meant suicide. Now I’m not often in that place anymore but the longing to not exist hasn’t gone away; it would solve so many problems. And while I may not spend hours dreaming up and planning ways of ending my life, I am spending hours dreaming of not existing. No more worries about having no friends, no more concerns about work, the future not something I have to bother with.
I still can’t bring myself to care about the cataracts the optician saw just beginning their growth in my eyes; I no longer care when I get back from a walk along the beach and take off my clothes to discover the redness of sun damage. I haven’t visited a doctor about the fact that I’ve had three periods in a year or the fact that for two weeks I’ve been vomiting and sick. I don’t care that my blood pressure is through the roof, that studies show those who suffer depression have a higher chance of Alzheimer’s, that my heart flutters and stumbles once in a while, that my joints ache for no reason.
Any hint of illness presents a possibility of escape.