I don’t even know what this is

I have never been one to share my personal thoughts or feelings. I try to go throughout life quietly, minding my own business and not involving anyone with my personal affairs. That being said, this was difficult to publish into cyber space, among all the folks who have nothing better to do but verbally attack other human beings from behind a screen. I know that. But here I am. I have never been a “glass half full” type of person. I’m more of a “the entire lake is dried up” kind of gal. Which is why I found it strange and even checked myself for a fever when, last night I had the most optimistic thought that my brain has ever created. I would like to state that despite my pessimism I’m not completely unaware of the good things that happen to me. Like the time I learned the ball joints on my car could have broken at any moment while driving and was lucky to have safely arrived to have them replaced, although one might have believed that to be a “lucky coincidence”. Along with my pessimism I have dealt with depression for six years. When I was too young to know what real depression was like, I would cut my inner thighs and watch the blood pool up. I have not done that in five years. Now my depression traps me in my bed all day long except to work or go to college, when I was enrolled. Anyway, back to my moment of optimism. This optimistic thought was so random and gave me the greatest feeling of hope for about 5 minutes. The thought was to create a list of all the pros in my life and a list of how to change all the cons or at least, come to terms with them. As I wrote the pros down a wave of good emotions rushed through me only to turn into sad, sorrowful tears. You see, the majority of my pros include friends and family who live far away and I miss them terribly and soon enough the optimistic light shut off and I was stuck in the pessimistic darkness. I tried to write my list of cons and ways to improve them, but instead of thinking of actual achievable ways to go about improving my cons, I wrote things like “try to change” and “be better”. In reality, those are just words I wrote to fill in the space. And words are not going to save me from myself. As I wrote those words, the awful gut wrenching depression set in my stomach and twisted my heart up inside my chest. And I lost it. I grabbed a half empty bottle of vodka and took three big gulps until my throat burned. I ended up in my bathtub with a plan to slit my wrists. I live alone, so If I bled to death it would be another day or two before someone would check up on me most likely my mother who would with out a doubt have a heart attack from finding me, soaked in my own blood and very dead. I figured that if I failed at cutting my wrists I would suffer for hours until I passed out from blood loss. Most likely I wouldn’t die, I would be extremely weak and probably in need of a hospital visit from infection (with my luck). So I contemplated all of this laying in my tub, with a dull steak knife trembling in my hand. And I cried. I cried because I wanted to do it, but I knew I couldn’t.
I would be leaving a hefty chunk of student debt behind that my parents (the co-signers on the loans) would get trapped into repaying. As well as my car payment and insurance. The early termination fee on my apartment lease as well as for my cell phone contract. I honestly do not know how that works, maybe they offer a ‘one time off yourself no early termination fee’, who knows? But I couldn’t leave my parents with that. Sure they’d love me even if I did it, but that would be one nasty burden to leave on the people who clothed and fed me for 17 years. If those issues could somehow be resolved, I would probably dig that knife out of the drawer in my kitchen and get back into my bathtub for round two. I know my parents would feel awful, horrible, probably disgusted. They would miss me, cry and feel as though they did something wrong. That’s the second reason why I couldn’t bring myself to slicing my veins wide open. Because they did do something, or rather something they didn’t do. Not anything catastrophic just something simple that isn’t in anyway enough for me to blame for my suicide. When I was 16 I was lost. I needed guidance, a role model or simply a pep talk. My first suicidal thoughts occurred at 16. My depression made itself known. My parents could see it. My teachers too, they even called dear old mom and dad to talk to them about my diminishing behavior. I found this out 2 weeks after the fact when the school councilor asked if my parents had talked to me. They didn’t. No words were spoken. The words I needed turned into an awkward pat on the shoulder. Even now, six years later, they see my depression. But they swat it away like an unrelenting gnat. My depression -buzzing around their eyeball. Their problem is that they can’t relate to me. When my mother was my age she had a 4 year old (my older brother) and was married to my dad. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be an independent 22 year old. Because she had her own family at 22. My parents have always been a good couple, hell they’ve been married for 35 years! They are and have always been fat, dumb, and happy with each other and their lives. So I would like to stay for their sake, but I’m not sure if that’s enough.
My depression has escalated over the past nine months. For the past two years I have been working five days a week and attending college between two and three days. Five months ago I dropped out of school and moved closer to my parents. I was becoming overwhelmed by my hectic schedule, no days off five hours of sleep a night, disrespectful roommates, it was a tad too much for me. So I figured the move and a break from school would be good, not so much. Now I have more time to be alone with my thoughts and I miss my friends. My depression comes from my lack of self confidence and my over sufficient pessimistic outlook. I have always took mean words like a bullet penetrating through skin. I dwell on those words. They pull me down like an anchor and keep me under until I have no more fight left in me to make it up for air. I let total strangers treat me as an inferior being. Not even worthy enough for table scraps meant for dogs. I feel the need to say I strongly disagree with the thought of suicide being a selfish act. I believe everyone is entitled to the choices they make for themselves. I have no religious beliefs, and if I did I’d be okay with not being allowed into heaven with a guy who punishes his creations for ending a life they technically did not ask to live. Satan is probably better company anyway. So, why can’t I just do it?