You can hear the sound of my voice, grip my hand, flesh on flesh, and if you cut me I bleed, but I am simply not alive. I’ve had suicidal thoughts since the 5th grade when I watched my grandmother die. I dont know why I didnt cry. Arent you supposed to? Planned and pictured every possible way to end it. I’ve done horrible things to people and I know they were wrong, but I don’t feel guilt for any of it. I hate what I see in the mirror. It makes me want to scream and break things. Why am I so different from the rest? I’ve distanced myself from people because they’re better off not knowing me. I don’t feel happy of get excited and I hardly faint a smile. I have deranged, twisted thoughts all the time. Everything I touch turns to ashes. The depression feels like a stagnant high. No matter how drunk I get or how high I am, I still feel my presence overpowering. The alcohol and drugs are starting to lose there affect. I see no hope for me. No matter what I try to do. I may act like I care or that I’m alright and there may be an illusion if happiness, but that’s all it is. Acts and illusions. My mask of sanity is starting to slip.
1 comment
1 comment
So, if it’s true there’s an illusion of happiness wouldn’t the opposite also be true? Illusions of depression? What makes depression more real than happiness? There is no solid ground to stand on…anywhere. Knowing that is what saves this thing called ‘me’, which is also just a slight of hand, smoke and mirrors, game show.