You label me as high functioning. Apparently that is my anchor. The fact I can go to work and attend university. That I present a facade of normality that rivals that of any you have ever seen. I assume, in the way it is delivered, that it is meant to be a compliment. That it manifests in some super human strength to carry on living while I am already dead. The reality is much less glamorous. I spend my work days pretending to bother myself with their petty and inconsequential issues, generally a result of their own stupidity. Then I go to school, and expend what is left of my energy being loud and funny, ensuring anyone savvy enough is too distracted to notice the death in my eyes. I barely make it back to my car, then just sit for half an hour. Where do I go. To my death?? Not tonight. Just drive until I run out of fuel?? More nothing. Home. Home is the only place I have to go. Some nights I play music. The ability to lose myself in a melody so sweet that it transports me from my own being into sounds, it affords me some space. But not tonight. Tonight, I sit in the corner of my bed. I hold myself so tight that, with any luck, I’ll disappear into myself and never come back.
I will kill myself one day. And I’ll make sure no one cares.
I just can’t anymore.
i won’t.