I tried to kill myself two nights ago. Not seriously, I suppose.
I got preposterously drunk and slit my wrists. But I woke up, and now I’m not so sure if I’m alive or not.
This is a test, sort of. A form of existential validation, my fingerprint against the window.
So don’t say that you love me. Don’t hold me.
I’m an alcoholic. I’m lonely as fuck. I don’t have a job. I barely have a mind.
My mum tried to drown me in the bath when I was a kid. My dad left when I was six. But I’ve never seen war, I’ve never lost a limb or been molested. So why do I feel so fucking incredibly miserable? Why am I such a tragic piece of shit?
And I can’t even kill myself. I failed at failing. Fuck me, it’s cold in here.
2 comments
Pain is relative. Sure it’s easy to say some people have it worse maybe but we aren’t those people. Does that mean we don’t have the right to hurt? Because it could be worse? Well bad enough can still hurt.
Comparison is a blessing and a curse.
It helpes to uderstand others and yet at the same time can cause unecessary guilt.
Some would say unless you are in the direst of circumstances that you should not be upset with your suffering.
But each person’s pain is their own.
And although others may have their views it is still terrible to you.