I Thought I Could Do It.

It’s my last year of school. The last month.

I’m so fucking close and it’s what I’ve been focusing on.

But then I look past graduation and see absolutely nothing.

The depression is pressing down on me and I feel like I’m suffocating.

There’s no one that understands how hard it is. They tell me I’m being emotional.

“Quit being a little *****. It’s not all about you. Why are you crying? There are people with lives worse then your’s. Stop looking for attention.”

I know it’s not all about me. I don’t want to be this way. Do you think I like feeling trapped? Do you really think I thrive off of the constant thoughts of ways I can kill myself?

I fucking hate it, but you say those things and wonder why I don’t want to talk about the way I feel.

It’s because you don’t even try to understand. I can’t ask for a therapist because they wouldn’t understand.  And you would only say I’m being dramatic. I’m scared to ask you for help.

Have any therapists felt this way? I’d only be given drugs to make me numb. Is that living?

And the people that try to help me, thank you, but you don’t understand either. I know you don’t feel the need to scream until your throat bleeds. You don’t want to punch a door until it splinters and tears up your hand, your arm, your whole body.

This is everything I can’t tell you. The cage keeps getting smaller, the older I get.