When no one knows who you are

  October 29th, 2017 by My Name Is

When no one knows who you are and you write about wanting to die, people react quickly. They tell you to stay strong and give you tips that may actually help you. They talk to you and say they support you. Behind the mask of the internet, you can say anything and no one will know you.

When someone knows who you are, everything changes. You’re not dad’s precious little girl anymore. You’re not mom’s light of happiness. You’re not the emotional support for people who depend on you to stay sane, that trust in you to hold them when they have panic attacks or listen to their stories of neglect and anxiety and depression and all of those other problems. You’re a lying freak. You used to be a 4.2 GPA honors student who was on the swim team and cross country and student council and favored by teachers but now you’re a lying freak. You aren’t the same one who can support others who suffer more than you do. At least they’re loved unlike yourself.

When you say that you put a gun to your head online, people don’t freak out. They know what to say to help. When people you know hear that, you get lectures on how you’re ruining your future. When you say you’re depressed in the real world people shrug it off and say get over it. You’re not really, you’re so happy! No, that can’t be right.

I feel responsible for the people I know with depression or anxiety or both. I know a girl I held on and watched over for an hour in the middle of a street because I saw her walking down it in the middle of a panic attack. I know another girl who self harms and is supported by a nice guy everyone loves and who loves everyone but me, telling me to “shut the fuck up” and snapping at me no matter what I say. I feel like it’s my job to help them sometimes, and then I remember all the friends they have that help more than me who ruins everything I touch. And I remember no one in the real world will help not-so neurotypical me.

If someone I personally know read this and knew that I held a gun up to my head today they’d not react like people who don’t know me would: if they knew me they’d say I was over reacting and was doing this for attention. Because why would an honors student with a good home life want to die for? It doesn’t make sense, right? Being suicidal is a luxury for the damned I guess, but who’s to say I’m not damned.

The point of this stupid thing is to see what it’s like to be sucidal I guess or something like that. Being suicidal isn’t pretty skinny girls holding pills on their hands crying while their boyfriends hold them. It’s a girl with neat hair and nice clothes that came from a normal middle class family’s income blankly starring at the mirror with a pistol in her hand home alone, holding it against her head. And it’s not telling a soul outside the internet.

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