Into the Woods

I wonder if s*icidal depr*ssion is a selective force. Clear out the people incapable of handling the world.
Deep down I feel subhuman. I know that I am not good enough to be around other people.
I always thought that if things ever got so bad that I might k1ll myself, I’d flee, I’d find some forested land somewhere and live in a shack, shed, small house, trailer, whatever. Live by myself away from people. And then I’d be okay.

Husband is so optimistic. He still thinks I can be normal. Heh. I’m not sure I want to be normal, or if I even can be normal. If he thinks I can be a normal woman, then he’s going to be sorely disappointed. To me, being a normal woman means the death of every aspiration I have. Stop writing, stop drawing, just clean the house, take care of him emotionally and sexually, cook food, only care about my appearance and other people, stop thinking, be a slave without the chains. I get the feeling things will come to a head eventually over this, and then I can flee. Then I can go into the woods and cut all ties. Then I can exist without the pressure to perform, to pretend I am fine. Where I can look whatever way I want to.

I don’t want to be here. I want to come home to an empty house. No one to pretend around. So tired.

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