Pretty bad, but not the worst

I can't remember the last time I was as suicidal as I was just a couple days ago. I don't think I've ever been as ready before. Not even when I spent months unable to get out of bed.
A part of my brain kept screaming at me, begging me not to do it, that suicide is not the answer, that better days will come. But for the most part I wanted to be done. I didn't - still don't, at least not completely - care about... anything at all, really. I didn't care if I had spent almost six years at uni, suffering on a daily basis and hadn't gotten to graduate. I didn't care that I'd never see my family or the few friends I have again. I didn't care about not seeing my sister have a job she enjoys and her having children. I didn't care that I would never get to feel a hug, laugh, look at the moon and stars, listen to music, read a book, write, watch a movie, make someone smile, stare at the rain, travel, feel the cold wind of winter, go to a museum, get another tattoo, go to a concert and feel the music resonate in my body. I didn't care that I wouldn't get to experience so many firsts. I didn't care. There was nothing but black.
Still today I'm finding it hard to want that. I, still, for the most part don't care.
I'm tired, I'm frustrated, I'm angry, I'm sad, I'm empty. I'm done.
I say to myself that the only reason I haven't done it is because of my roommate (and very dear friend). Because I don't want her to come home and find me what she thinks is sleeping, to, noticing I haven't made a sound in hours, realize I'm dead - that I had been dead all that time. I don't want her to have to deal with all that. Not that it would be a messy suicide - I've known exactly how I would do it for years now. I even know what I want done with my remains and with my belongings. The only thing I haven't done is write my will, suicide note and last letters to my loved ones. If I did that... If I did that I'm not sure I could be stopped.
But maybe what stops me is hope. There might still be some hope left in me, which pisses me off to no end. Hope has brought me nothing but pain and despair. I'm sick of having hope, it's always so deceiving. When you feel hope, your expectations - or at least mine - are let down.
I haven't told anyone how suicidal I am. I have dropped hints to both my roommate and my mom, but I don't think they've caught them, or maybe they don't want to see it. I could never blame them for that. I can't muster the courage to say the words out loud. There's one person I might be able to say it to, but that person feels further away from me with each day that passes, so I don't feel comfortable telling her. I don't blame her for stepping away - she doesn't have the best mental health either so I understand that listening to another person's problems can be both triggering and tiring. I understand.
On Thursday I went with my roommate to a café that's next to our flat and after explaining how I was feeling (I did it there so I wouldn't cry), I apologized to her for caring about me and being my friend. She called me stupid and asked me to never stop telling her what's going on with my brain, but... it's hard. I feel that way about everybody in my life. I feel sorry for them because they have to listen to the same fucking stories time and time again and see that I don't get better, that that day never comes for me. It has to be tiring for them too.
I ended up hurting myself, which I know doesn't solve anything but my brain kept saying "at least we're not ending it, right?" And, in a way, it's right. Or maybe not.
I'm so tired.

PS: I feel sad for this blog, when I first opened it I thought that things could only look up from there (even if I'm the only one who reads it because I, in fact, made it for myself), but then time - and my self-sabotage - showed me otherwise. Maybe one day it will change. Maybe.