Still Hoping

Not gonna sit here and spill my guts about why my life is terrible. If you’re here, you most likely looked up suicide. Feelin’ pretty good right now. It’s Saturday, nobody is home, it’s just getting dark, and I’ve just returned from every bookstore in the area spending money I had no real right to. It’s not to say that being depressed and wanting to end yourself will get you everything you want. Depression is deep, soul-shattering at it core, even if you don’t know it. Every time your heart pumps blood through your body, it aches to know you’re still alive. But you are. I am a socially anxious trainwreck who can’t stand to be around people, and I had an extended talk with a random woman I never met before and will probably never see again about why Books-A-Million is horrible. She may not have meant to make me feel like my day was better, but she was there, at that bookstore, while I was complaining about another store. We both felt like we’d found somebody who understood something. If I had taken the poison I made, acted on my wish to swallow every pill in the house and lay in bed, or loaded up one of the .22 rifles laying around and put a bullet into my skull, I would have never felt slightly better about the world; I’d like to think the same for her. Even people you don’t know, don’t want to know, and didn’t mean to know are other people with problems. They might not be the same problems, but they have them too. I’m not sure where I was going, but I hope somebody extracts some bead of good from this. I’ll stop rambling now.