It creeps up. You can be having the best day in your life, and then it's there.
It can be the middle of the day, or the dead of night, or somewhere in between all that.
And suddenly you're wondering why you bother, wondering whether anyone cares, wondering whether anyone will miss you.
It's not a new feeling, not really, you spend your time with people, wondering whether they're just putting up with you, or whether they really like you.
It doesn't matter what you know logically, because logic doesn't help when you feel like this.
But something will trigger it, and you'll find yourself curled up, trying to avoid everyone, crying your eyes out and feeling like nothing you do is ever good enough.
You want it to end, you just want to stop hurting, to stop worrying, to stop wondering.
You wish you'd been brave enough to go and see your (great-)Aunt, your Gran, one last time, to tell them you loved them. Even though one didn't want you to see her, and the other didn't know who you were. You hate yourself, that you couldn't, that after everything they did for you, you couldn't pay them that last respect.
You hate even more that it was three years later that you finally visited your Aunt's grave, it wasn't your fault that you weren't in the country when she died, but you still feel guilty over it.
And you think about ending it, you really do. You sit with a knife against your wrist, or with the painkillers a doctor prescribed in your hand, or a bottle of alcohol sat beside you and debate just finishing it, because you think that would be best for everyone.
Then you can't be a disappointment, then you can't hurt your family and friends, then you can't wonder what the hell you did wrong that they're not talking to you anymore.
And then you pause. You think.
If you end it, your Mum will have to bury a daughter, too soon after burying her mother. Your Dad will lose you before he loses his parents, his brother. Your sister will lose a confidant, a sister before losing her parents. Countless Aunts and Uncles will wonder what caused the grief that drove you to it, and will be lost trying to comfort those who knew you best. Your friends will mourn, will try to figure out what they missed, what they could've done better – and one will wish you'd spoken to them, come to them, like they said you could, and yet you failed to do. Your partner will wish he could've been there, to tell you he loved you, and that he could've stopped you from thinking the way you did.
So you stop. You don't do it. But it takes you too long to tell them what's wrong. And even after you have, it takes you too long to talk further, when you're sober you can't, you can barely cry about anything sober, never mind anything else, and your Mam says that to you – that she's frustrated that you haven't spoken to her since you revealed your problems - and worries that she's pushing you too far when you know you deserve the anger she's showing.