I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t think I deserve to be on this page with everyone else’s sorry little sob stories. My life is not as fucked up as yours. I do not have as much pain and agony in my memory sacks. I haven’t been divorced, cheated on, abused. I’ve suffered no major deaths, no traumatic incidents. I cut, but only a little and never dangerously. I feel alone, but I know everyone loves me. Really I just feel I should be happy and cheerful… But I’m not.
Maybe there is something wrong with me. Maybe I just want something to be wrong with me. Iâ€™ve only told one person, but heâ€™s far too interested in his own problems to be any help. Plus I donâ€™t even want help. I want to just make it go away. Not the pain, mind you, I really donâ€™t feel any pain. I just feel empty. I feel heavy. I feel like there is a great black hole where my heart should be, and that my mind has taken up all the space.
Iâ€™ve never been in love. Iâ€™ve never been with a guy. Iâ€™ve had boyfriends. Iâ€™ve pretended that I was physically attracted to people. I made myself believe that it could be love and feel the passionâ€¦. But I know it wasnâ€™t real. I know deep down that I was just pretending, putting on a show for the rest of the world. Iâ€™m always putting on a show for the benefit of others.
Iâ€™m 19 and Iâ€™m scared of life. Not people, not dangerous things like crime and chance. That would be normal, and for some reason my conscious refuses to be normal. Iâ€™m scared of making decisions. Iâ€™m scared of making changes. Iâ€™m always worried that I will get things wrong, that I will fail someone. Even now I am worried I am failing this project. I worry that I am far too interested in me and not enough bothered with the suicidal urges that I accompany.
Iâ€™ve tried to strangle myself. Iâ€™ve tried to make myself faint. I like fainting, watching everything get warm and fuzzy. I have never tried to truly kill myself, but I always think that it would be nice to just die. I always hope that death would be just the nice fuzzy thing. Permanent. Fixed. Not likely to vanish. I think death will let me escape this labyrinth. I hope death will get rid of all the decisions.
I feel like I should have more feelings. I feel like I should reach out for help here. I donâ€™t want help. I just want someone to listen. I want someone to care enough to read this whole post. I want my story to be in the open.
When I was little I was convinced I was going to be a writer. I was convinced that I was going to change the world. I am not a writer, and the world has only changed me.
I still find hope sometimes. I can still get excited and happy. I can still run down the street laughing. But itâ€™s not the same as it used to be. I am quite sure I am depressed, but it having a name does not make it better.
I am terrified of psychiatrists, but everyone says I need one. Iâ€™ve started seeing skulls in the inkblots. I used to see kittens and frogs. Do professionals really help? Or will they just judge you and make generalizations like the rest of the world does? Are they going to try to shove me inside another box? I hate boxes. I hate stereotypes.
I like to sleep when Iâ€™m angry, but my roommate always notices any changes in my sleep patterns. I guess this is my substitute. Unleash my discontentment upon the world and hope to destroy another. I fear Iâ€™m psychotic and dangerous. I laugh when Iâ€™m in pain.
This post probably isnâ€™t right. I probably will get blocked or killed in the comments. Iâ€™m really scared to post it. I donâ€™t want to put it in my blog, because I know one of my friends reads it. I donâ€™t want my friends to know the truth. Iâ€™d rather lie and make it too little, too late. Maybe thatâ€™s why I consider suicide.