It was depression that killed the remaining happiness I had left, but it was the same thing that keeps me going. Most of the time? I just want to die, to disappear until there are no ashes, no trace of my existence would be left. To be just nothing, as I am now. But the nothingness wouldn’t be overwhelming. As if I never existed. I always think that life was just a joke that I had to deal with. It’s like a prank I need to face everyday. The more I encounter it, the more it makes me sick. Then later on I wouldn’t notice that I’m already tired of it. Although I would feel that I can’t escape it, and believe my brain that this is indeed inescapable.
Everytime, I’m gonna wish I was dead, that I’m already dead inside. Most of the time, it hardly matters to people. So everyone will think I’m just some attention-seeker who just wants to feel comforted. Yeah, ridiculous right? I’ve been like this for nine years, I never asked nor wanted them to pity me or just tell me everything’s gonna be fine because I knew, deep down those were lies. And back then I had to do everything alone, because I knew no one cared. They’d just pity me then later on when they see me laugh, they’re gone like everything was fine already. It doesn’t work like that, but that’s the sad truth. I had to learn to be alone, I have to learn how reality works. I needed to learn the fact that no one will ever come to save me when one day, I just decided to end my life. Nobody’s coming to tell me to eat my untouched meal, nor stop me from self-harming. Because nobody knew, nobody cared.
The moment my in real life ‘friends’ asked why I pity myself so much that I decided to harm my body that covered my ugly soul. They started telling me everything will be alright, but I knew when I started to turn my back they’re laughing at my sorrowful, miserable life. I knew that now. They asked me why nothing’s okay, hearing every word from that sentence is like they’re stabbing me with a knife repetitively, then they’re gonna ask me why I was dead.
The best way to pretend I was okay was to fool myself that I am. I harm myself, these bruises and scars, I got them from years of hurting myself. In every way possible. I hated my body so much, this was how I coped with it. Feeling the pain made felt better, but then lately it got worse. Scars became more visible, it was like I’m unstoppable?. Then later on, I’m already afraid of my body. So I hated it even more. Ironic isn’t it? I already hated it but I did things to hate it even more. I still can’t stop self-harming, it became an addiction.
I came to that point where I saw how people treat other people, and see how messed up some things can be. I’ve been called a weirdo a thousand times by my schoolmates, some of the times even my own family, that doesn’t affect me though, I loved being weird, unless they make it as some kind of a disgusting thing to be as. My nickname has been stupid eversince I started to go to school. My schoolmates weren’t just the people who called me that, even my teachers do. My family would shame my body, about how I ‘never’ eat at all. They’d tell me of how much of a freak I am. My classmates barely talk to me, they think I’m a crazy person. This is not a childish game wherein you’d bully the other cause they’re messed up. Then people would talk about forgiveness and spreading love. Hypocrisy, right? I don’t get it. I was facing my own battle everyday, fighting for my life, fighting myself for my own life. They think that killing mentally isn’t worse as killing someone physically. They’re no different from actual murderers. It’s the same thing. Whether you see it or not, it still affect one person’s life. It affected me, a lot.
I’ve been trying to fit on society’s basis of normality. Everyone’s too busy to care about other people, even their family. The world changed a lot. I didn’t like this change.
I wished I was normal. I hated myself so much. I wish I could see the full picture of life, I wish I wasn’t blinded by society. I wish those words didn’t affect me. I wish I could be as carefree as other people tend to be. I wish didn’t give a damn about how everyone would think.
They changed me, the change they can never bring back once it’s done. They changed my perspective, I could never see the world in the same way again. Every little thing about me, whether I hated it or not, it made myself… me. Whether they did something messed up, said some harsh words, stabbed me with a knife, it’s the same. Every word they said stabbed every part of my existence. Blades may create scars, but words create a scar engraved within my soul that reminded me every single day of how there was one person who killed me in a way that no blood was shed but the pain could be felt.
Sometimes, I wish to end my existence in every way possible. I wanted to tell myself how awful of a person I am, like I was hoping that I’d gain consciousness, and maybe I would miraculously change who I am now, whilst I cut through my wrists. I just wanted to be gone. Not because nobody would miss my existence but I knew deep within how much of a failure I am, and that dying will lessen the intense pain that I feel inside of me. If only I was better, maybe I’d never beg for someone’s attention. Or maybe ask for someone’s time just so I can share how I’m feeling. Society might’ve accepted me for who I am.