Expiry Date: Nov 17

September 16th, 2017by Blue Jeans

By the end of November, I think I may die. Depression has just returned a few days ago, opening the locked doors of my house with his sly little fingers then proceeded to creep slowly into my room. I lay on my bed, underneath blankets and cat fur, vulnerable like the 6 year-old child I once was, waiting for the imaginary train to come wrecking in. This time no train came, but a sticky, grim figure. It clasped onto my hair, hugging my chest from behind, blinding me with bone-biting guilt. I lay on the floor as if pinned to the ground. I tried getting up, but it told me I’m stupid to do so. So I obeyed, doing nothing. Being unproductive, and unsatisfied. Unsatisfaction led to anger, anger led to self-hatred, self-hatred told me to kill myself. I declined, for now.

I feel wrong. I’m paranoid almost to the point of murder, and I feel wrong about it. It’s not everyone around me, it’s me. All my fault, it really is. It always is, I’m never good enough for anyone and I should be pitying myself instead of pitying others who have to deal with me. But self-pity is simply lazy. It brings fuel to the fire of my self-hatred, adding more and more until all is burned up, and I shall have nothing left to burn but my own life.

Though I must smile. Just in case anyone’s watching.

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