Once again…

So, I’ve posted some time ago on here. And in those – I think – two years, nothing has changed. I still find myself in the same mess, even weaker than before. I want to list everything that plagues me because I want someone to read my sob story. Because I am no good human and thus want to be pitied. Just for once, and for real.

I’d love to be free from the clutches of this fucking hell I live in. Compared to others, I live a nice life. Maybe.

My dad killed himself a good four years ago. I didn’t understand it back then, and still am devastated about this since I’d need a father so much, but I understand it now. In every way.

My mother’s a weak woman, even though she seems strong on the surface. I can feel it radiating from her, which sounds so insane, but I just feel weakness ooze from her every pore. And she’s inherited everything to me. Every single problem.
She also never really cared for and about me. When she and my dad got divorced, a never-ending stream of boyfriends soon followed. And all the sex she had, hell, it disgusts me to this day. It’s ruined me. She once had sex with her boyfriend when I was lying right next to them, on the mattress NEXT TO THEM. I always heard them. And it freaked me out. Still does.
She never cooked for me, fed me with fast-food and never played with me. I was always alone when I was with her.
You know, it just came to my mind, even when we were on holiday together, just the two of us, she left me alone! She preferred being out with the dozens of people she met there instead of spending time with her daughter.

My grandmother, once the beacon in my storm, is a very two-faced person. She can be the sweetest woman ever, but cut your soul apart in the next moment. We’ve always had difficulties, but her calling me a rotten and evil-to-the-core failure last year and never apologizing for it – no, flat out denying it when I confronted her – ruined it. Everything. When she called me the cause of all problems in the otherwise perfect family, I couldn’t help but snap. Add to that my grandfather calling me the ‘calamity jane of the family’ and you have another reason.
Ever since my cousin (whom I deeply adore and don’t envy, mind you!) has been born, I’ve come in second place. There certainly is envy in me, but not for my cousin as a person, no, it’s for the treatment he gets. There’s a rather bizarre example. My grandfather has hundreds of photos on his wall. Guess in how many I am? One. And it’s of the whole family.
On the day my daddy died, he also said this thing which I will always remember. “I’d like to comfort you, but we’re not really close, aren’t we?”. I’d always considered their place my home, having been there almost every day for my whole life.

My aunt and her husband, who have eternally mocked me for not being very athletic, liking unhealthy food, gaining so much weight. I was so close with my aunt, but when she got married we drifted apart. He’s a strange man, but certainly not bad. They think it’s funny. If they knew what they were contributing to, they wouldn’t anymore.

There’s also something which I’m not quite sure of, but maybe it happened. Where should the memory come from, otherwise? I was really small, and in a bathtub with my paternal grandfather. And – I find it gross to type out! – he let me? wanted me to? did I ask to? touch his penis. I don’t remember much more than that, but I think he didn’t get aroused by it. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I guess I do.

So all in all, the things they’ve said, done, whatever, have led to several things. I’ve been considering suicide since I was small, way too small to think about such things. I’ve turned into some kind of recluse, enjoying the company of myself most. I hate being around people. Mainly because I have to keep up this facade. There’s nothing real about me when I’m with people. Somehow I’ve invented a personality after my dad died and it stuck, but it feels so unreal. I’m not this girl. I’ve never been her.

Recently, I also developed bulimia as a consequence of all the criticism. And the self-hatred I’ve collected. I truly hate myself. And I hate the monster that is inside me, but it’s there now and I’m unable to stop it. Nobody except for a few friends know it, but be sure that they’re not there for me anyway. My best friend even ridiculed me when I had a particularly bad day and just wanted to cry. I told her that I’ve had just about everything stuck in my nose because of puking so much and she just laughed about it, since she’s never been in the situation. Has a happy life. I truly envy her.

I guess also never really having been loved makes me want to do this now. Nobody has ever said that they love me and then not gone and hurt me badly afterwards. Hell, nobody except for the people who call themselves my family have ever told me they loved me. I grow weary of people deceiving me. But maybe it’s because I deceive them ever so often, too.

Right now I’ve stayed home from school for two weeks, the second time this year, because I’m ill. But it’s mainly because I can’t handle it anymore. I just can’t stand myself anymore. I can’t stand people anymore. I can’t stand living anymore.
My aunt texted me saying I probably had some psychological problem. Good thinking there, sherlock. Then she went on to accuse me of being lazy, which is probably, true, too. My mother jumped on that train and used the exact same arguments. I’m just waiting for my grandmother’s version, but I suppose I’ll be the bad one. Again.

Let’s sum this up. Or let’s sum me up. I’m angry, envious, obviously a glutton since the bulimia requires me to act this way, full of hate, mock others, am asocial, lazy, greedy and an all-over *****. I don’t really see a reason for my life, and I also don’t see any way out of this. I’m never going to reach my goal of living on another continent, happy and with a loving family, anyway, so there’s no meaning to all of this, is there?

TL;DR: I suck. I want to leave this planet of hell. Really. I’m lonely. And desperate to do so.

If you’ve read through all of this though, please pity me. I’m never going to change as long as I live and I fear that this will be for a much too long time, since I’m actually the coward. Maybe that’s who the real cowards are: Not the people who actually go through with it and kill themselves, but the people who never have the heart to do it.