How I feel almost daily (don’t want to offend)

All of this stuff that they say I have to look forward to, this amazing life that they say I’ll have. But the way I feel will never change. It’s bullshit, I’ll always be fat and vile. No one will want me. I’ll never be happy and smiling at festivals surrounded by people who want the best for me. I’ll always be in my room depressed and waiting for it all to change – to end. Curtains closed, hidden under the covers. It’s never going to happen. So what is the point. For someone who craves death so much yes I’ll admit I am scared. I’m scared it won’t be the end, I’m scared I’ll see people living and happy getting on with their lives while I’m dead. Oh. That’s just it, that’s my existence already. If I knew that death was the actual end, like falling asleep and never waking up I wouldn’t be as scared. But maybe there’s something inside of me, hope? A delusional belief that maybe I will one day be at a festival, loving every minute of it. Loving every ounce of myself , just happy to be alive. Taking in the views, the sounds, the sun light. No longer a prisoner or a slave to self hatred. Maybe it will happen, but oh no. I’ve cut myself. There’s no chance of me being normal now because I’m reminded by the scars that I loathe my existence. Why don’t I just finish the job. Why only cutting? I’m too fat for a few cuts to kill me. It feels nice though, nice to be in control and hurt myself. It’s like a certificate from the fucked up society, or even a badge. Yes I’m one of you now. I hate myself so much and I can prove it with cuts. I’m not sure what the difference is between me and those people who actually kill themselves. Have they ran out of hope? Are they more depressed than me? Or did the pleasure from the badge or the pride from the certificate lose it’s prestige and did they want to join the scholars of our society, the true heroes, the successful suicidees? Wow, to be one of them. How fabulous. It’s funny because people like us just want to be cared about, to know we are loved and they only fucking care when you’re dead. Fuck the prestige we get from cutting, they feel fucking special to have known someone that’s killed themselves. Oh I’m so sorry you lost your friend, your daughter, son, brother sister. I do feel for you. People say they’ll be there for you with the dreaded “if you need to talk”. Well yes I need to talk, I want to sit and burn parts of my flesh , particularly the fat that dominates my vile self, I want to cut it all off and chop it into pieces. I want to see several beautifully bright red lines all over my arms. I then want to tell you about how much I hate myself, how everything would be better if I was dead. I want to share with you my funeral fantasies, and have everyone crying in front of a picture of me smiling on top of a coffin. I want you all to feel guilty because you were never there for me. You were too busy tied up in your own lives, only needing me to make you feel better about yourself. And if anything I don’t blame you. We only get one life, make the most of it. Live for me, go to the festival in the sun and enjoy yourself, enjoy every minute of it. Don’t let dark clouds like me drain your energy, all we wanted was someone to talk to but it’s fine we understand it’s to demanding. Besides if it wasn’t for people like me who desire to throw it all away, you wouldn’t realise how precious life is. And how the little things matter. What gets me is the falseness. When people claim they care, the retards actually think people like me will ring for some sort of service to save me? To be greeted by a pair of annoyed paramedics who’ve seen it time and time before oh a cry for help bla bla bla. They don’t care, they don’t want to help. You’re just a drain on the economy. It’s self inflicted, we see thousands of people dying and you want our help yet you tried to kill youself? Yeah we know it all. The doctors, oh come and speak to us if you need us. It’s all fuxking lies. The truth is you’ll just be another suicide, another oh what a shame. If you’re lucky and aesthetically pleasing you might even make it into the paper, or even the daily mail. You’ll be scrolled through, a tut, and then forgotten. That’s how it works. The world is divided by people who can endure life and people who can’t. I can’t. Maybe I’m ill, maybe I’m just fat and stupid. I’m just torn between whether to kill myself or not. I still have that stupid idea that I can get all the things I’ve dreamed about. I mean it’s not a lot to ask, I just want to be thin and surrounded by nice people with a bit of money to travel. But the way I feel makes it seem so impossible. I can’t control my temper because I’m so broken so people hate me which makes me hate myself even more. the severe desire to die will probably pass, it won’t go away, but the actual urge to get up and do it will probably disappear for a bit, when I’m distracted. But I’ll always feel worthless, because maybe as humans we are all worthless. Maybe I’m not ill, maybe I’m realistic. We came here, fucked everything up. Killed, raped, stole, so maybe we are all shit and we don’t matter.