I'm afraid that it will be attempted suicide instead of just suicide

I keep feeling like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t undo. It’s strange — I’m not just afraid of dying. I’m afraid of failing at even that. I’m afraid that if I break, I’ll somehow make things worse… more bills, more shame, more people looking at me with pity I never asked for.

Every time the thoughts get too loud, I imagine someone finding me before anything is over — saving me when I don’t want to be saved, dragging me back into the same life I can’t carry anymore. It’s such a terrifying loop, wanting an ending but being scared of surviving it.

Tried researching for faster ways to do it aside from gun. I don't and i cant have one. It's not easy to get it at where i am. I tried researching for one pill kill or powders but couldn't get any answers. I tried, really.

I’ve been here before. Years ago. I was eighteen and stupid and desperate, and no one ever knew what I did that night. I lived. Maybe I was supposed to, but sometimes I wonder if the universe made a mistake letting me continue.

Now twelve years later, I’m still breathing, still drowning. Three kids. A husband who thinks raising his voice is the same as offering solutions. Two jobs that barely cover anything. Sleepless nights with a baby who needs me. Debt that keeps growing like mold in the dark. And me — still pretending I’m fine.

I tried to tell him. I really did. But I only got halfway before the blaming started, like it always does. My faults. My stupidity. My irresponsibility. He takes my salary “to help manage things,” but really it just means I have no way to fix the mess he doesn’t even know about. So I stay quiet. I swallow it all down.

I tried to find help. I tried to borrow money ($4000), thinking if I could just wipe everything clean, maybe I could breathe again. But no one had enough, or maybe no one believed me enough. I was willing to pay it all back in a year — I just needed one person to save me from all the others. Just one. But even that failed.

And now I feel like a curse sitting in the middle of my family’s life. Like everything that goes wrong is because I’m here. Sometimes pain feels easier than living long enough to ruin more things.

But then… my kids. God, my kids. They’re the only reason I hesitate. The way they hug me, kiss me, whisper “I love you” with those tiny voices that don’t know how heavy I am to carry. I look at them and feel like they deserved a better mother — someone stronger, someone who doesn’t break so easily. Someone who didn’t turn out to be me.

I can’t even cry. I don’t have the right. And if I do, I know he’ll ask why, and I won’t survive the argument that follows.

I’m tired. I’m so tired. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that I’m not shattering from the inside out.