It's that time of year again

Every few months something happens.
A little switch goes off in my head.
My hands start to shake.
For once in my life I feel alive and unafraid.
A voice in my head says "It's time."
So I grab a pen and start writing.
And when I'm satisfied with my poorly worded apologies I gather up my pills.
I pull my razor blade out and press down for old time sake.
I count and recount my little friends just to make sure.
Everything is neat and organized and I feel lighter than I ever have before.
Even lighter than those other times.
Because this time it feels different.
It's like I'm real but none of this counts.
Like if I do die I can still breathe and everything will be okay.
No matter what it feels like everything will be okay for the first time in eternity.
It's not like being triggered.
Being triggered could imply that one is upset before one attempts.
But this is different.
It's like my body floats away and I'm not really a person.
My eyes don't hurt and my skin doesn't crawl and I'm not overwhelmed by a thick repulsion I feel when I think about myself.
There is an absence of tiredness that feels very curious to me.
One of the only things I can always depend on is the never ending exhaustion that seeps into my bones and turns my muscles to putrefied JELL-O.
It's odd for me to feel so awake; so alive, right before I end it.
Every nerve in my body tingles.
This is it. This is it. This is it.

The first time I was hospitalized for a suicide attempt I told my doctors and mental health workers it wasn't a suicide attempt.
I told them it just felt right.
Like when you decide you want to be a lawyer or an artist.
You feel like this is something you could see yourself doing.
I could see myself dying.
I would drift off to sleep and my heart would stop.
Of course I also figured that maybe things wouldn't go according to that plan.
I just thought I'd try it; I'd try being dead.
"Whatever happens, happens."