I purely and thoroughlyÂ hate myself. There’s no sugar-coated layer to hide the fact of the matter.
Ever since I was a kid, clinical depression has lingered inÂ every thought I’ve conceived. In public, IÂ have it all: grades, musical/athletic talent, friends to fuck around with on the weekends. Reality? I’m smart, but totally unmotivated. I can answer questions in class and still not account for shit when it comes to my work. Music takes up my whole time, so what’s left for sports? I don’t want to get anyÂ unhealthier,Â but Jesus,Â my motivation spectraÂ is asÂ broad as the water level in theÂ Saharra Desert. And sure, I have friends… Even that’s subjective, however. They’re purely activity friends, not actual people who comprehend the slightest amount of Â mature content. They’re one of my last outlets to try at a normal living situation. If they had any clue what was really happening, they’d banish me as a freak and never let anyone see me as a different person besides the little twat with a shit life.
It’s not like I haven’t been tested for other things as well. They’re still not quite positive about all the things wrong about my chemical makeup. All they know is I’m pretty unbalanced and not much, besides meds, is going to change that.
Meds make you feel pretty dumb, huh? I was on several different meds for awhile… I actually thought I was getting better after some time. Did I honestly think anything was going to change? Apparently, but almost indifferent to say, nothing had changed. After awhile they numbed my emotions to the point where everything was so boring. I found myself frustrated: I’d wanted to cry or laugh or scream in fury. I wanted to feel the most extreme sense of any emotion. I wanted to be capable and in control of anything I felt… But I couldn’t. I stopped taking them altogether and spiraled back into my old ways.
I started cutting in fourth grade. Weird, huh? Modern society believes ten year-olds should still be swinging on monkey bars or even just painting each other’s nails and giggling over prepubescent boys at slumber parties. I spent the end of my elementary era holed up in my bathroom, fascinated at the ease of a blade against my flesh. I guess that was really when all the insecurities began. I had to cover it up, obviously, so people wouldn’t get on my case. I started to hate the way I looked, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t do much of it at that age, so entering middle school became worse. Everyone I’d known was growing older and brighter: attractive and friendly… The perfect teenagers. I found such utter disgust in the way I was laced with scars. I knew then that no matter how beautiful a face I had, I would never have anything on them. I started considering suicide at age 11.
My family wasn’t ever the best. My mom and I have had the worst relationship, beautifully equipped with the verbal abuse and ignoringÂ of my needsÂ of happiness. My dad tried his best to level with me,Â but when you have the temper of a raging bull, it’s hard to see anything for what it truly is. My brother is perfect: the clear favorite in anyone’s eyes betweenÂ us.Â He’s been aÂ Straight-A student since kindergarten and is entering his freshman year of college with a 7.6 GPA, ranked 3rd in his entire senior class. He’s athletic and musical and charming, the kind of boy any girl goes after. But when it comes to his little sister’s paranoia/depression and the whole family fighting, he wants nothing to do with it. When an argument breaks loose, he locks his bedroom door and Skypes with his friends, constantly trying to reassure himself that he doesn’t belong to anything that isn’t less than perfect. And yet sickly enough, I idolize him more than anyone in the world. The constant need for his attention has left me with what some people would call “abandonment issues.”
Everyone dies, every year. That’s just how things seem to be. I’m quite jealous of them, really: the deceased. How sick is that to say? “Hey sorry, I know you just lost someone really important to you, but might I just add you should be happy for them? Why should they have to deal with life anymore?” By saying someone dies every year, I mean that someone I, or my family, knows personally dies relatively recent at all times. I have a designated funeral dress, if it tells you that much. Even in my state of mind, I still get shaken up over it…. No one should have to deal with that many people dying in their lifetime. But in a way, it’s made me comfortable enough around death to suck up the misery and fuel it towards what I really want.
Why is this all relevant? Well, everything has come to extremes in my life. I’m entering my freshman year of high school and the stress of my parents’ expectations of perfect, plus the insecurities, plus the constant need to cry, plus the fact that most kids my age don’t like me, plus the fact that my brother is leaving me are all putting me on a wire. I want to kill myself more than anything. Everyday I wake up to this hectic, speedy world of chaos and fear and all I do to try and slow things down are cut, sleep and just close my eyes. But after each of those actions are done, everything comes to hit me again. I want it all to stop. Sometimes I lieÂ face-down in my room, screaming into my pillow just over the fact that I’m here. I truly believe some people are born to be unhappy. I guess I had the lucky fortune of being one of them.
The funny thing is, I can’t do it. I just can’t. Whether it’s some small, flickering light deep, deep, deep within me that’s keeping the flame of life ignited just ever so slightly, or just the sheer hope that somehow everything will get better, something is preventing me. Every time I come close to ending my life, I fall into a state of panic and/or paralysis and lose my breath, falling unconscious in my fatal attempts. It is the biggest frustration in my life: the fact that I can’t control the one thing I want most. I partially feel like subconsciously I am not ending my life to spite myself. I mean, nothing else has gone right in my life. Why should the one thing I want most be fulfilled so easily? Nothing is simple, I suppose.
My mother just came in and asked what I could possibly be doing over my chores. I explained I was journaling, that it was supposed to help me.
“Hmm. Ceases to amaze me: all the pointless shit you occupy yourself with.” She said.
I think I’ll go add a quick slice somewhere visible. Hope that’s not too pointless for her.