7 year itch.

The only real relationship I’ve had is with the depression I’ve found myself entangled in for the past 7 years, and in those years have arisen many suicide tales.

The most resent addition was set in the earlier hours of todays Tuesday morning, after a clockwork argument with a family member about my self-absorption (expressed in a lack of a smile).

I fall into a routine of thinking maliceful thoughts directed at others and then towards yours truly, only this time, rather than reaching for the first sharpest instrument I could find to whittle my flesh with, I instead came to a conclusion that had left me feeling a different kind of defeat: I had created this.

Since the age of 12 I’ve been carving myself a niche that I’ve become almost comfortable in, content with the illusive thought that life outside has never had a place for me. That there is nothing and no one there for me, and while that is partly true, I actively made people dislike me/ gave people a wide berth on the grounds that they wouldn’t like me anyway. I might add for pathetic reasons such as: I’m ridiculous, I’ll humiliate myself (and that is a crushing thought for me), I’m too ugly to be liked, I’m not white, I’m too tall, I’m too overweight to be wanted, I’m not right, Who’d want this mess blah blah blah

I’m not a complete idiot, and I’ve been exposed to a lot of fucked up shit that created the feelings of depression but have realised that I have dwelled in it, reveling at times in the extremity of my plummet into my own oblivion, so safe, almost womb like.

I am going to kill my depression, not others for things in the past and not so much myself anymore. I want to kill it.

The thing that has kept me from liking anything about myself, from getting close to anyone, for remaining stagnant, allowing it to violate and devour me all at the same time.

This might not be a particularly juicy “suicide story” neither may it be interesting or even conventional, but I don’t give a fuck. This is not for you, this is my declarence to you, that I exist without it and that I have subsisted in my own wallowing and I now attempt to murder my lugubrious preconcepts and opinions.