I am a successful, well paid, upper middle class, 27 year old white Canadian woman.
I hate my life and obsess over suicide.
I am prescribed various anti depressants but only pretend to take them to make my husband feel better.
I take excessive doses of sleeping pills every night.
Then I go to work and pretend everything is great.
My job is a personal one where I’m one on one with other women, a professional makeup artist. They open up and tell me all their problems and life issues and treat me like their therapist. Always resting comfortable in the fact that I’ll make them feel better as I’m a safe venting place.
Because I’m always happy and engaging and eager to listen and offer expert advice.
But I can’t take my own.
Because when I get home, I drown myself in sedatives, burn my upper thigh in the same spot over and over again with a lighter, then pass out.
Then I get up and go to work with a smile on my face again.
Always smiling. Always happy.