My mother whined today that I should go to see a doctor about my insomnia. I refused once again and she asked why. I was so tired that I almost told her the truth.

And what is the truth?

I won't go to see a doctor because doctor would give me sleeping pills. And I don't want sleeping pills. You know why?

Because the minute I'd get sleeping pills on my hands I'd lose control and instead of taking one of them I'd take them all. No matter what pills they were, no matter how much I had them. I'd have to get away, at least try to get away. Perhaps it'd work this time.

I know this because every now and then I stop by the medicin cabinet and stare at the pills there.

And I know this because whenever I think of sleeping pills I want to, I need to swallow as much of them I can possibly have.

I was wrong when I once said I'd be a drug addict if given the chance. I'd be dead because drugs would give me another chance.

It's like whenever someone mentions rope, in whatever context, I immediately first think about killing myself with it. It's the first thought that enters my head, me hanging on a rope, dead.

Death is almost like an obsession. It's a craving.
Perhaps I'd do wisely if I gave in to that craving. Perhaps it'd be better that way.

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