I know

June 4th, 2018by Imaginary Girl

I know. I know everyone says suicide isn’t the answer. I know I wouldn’t want my friends to commit suicide. I know this will hurt you. I know this will remind you of Sean. I know this will disappoint all my friends, my teachers, and my family.

And I know this is self centered and entitled; it’s pretentious and trying to sound too deep, but I don’t believe I was meant to have a happy life. I don’t think I was meant to grow old. I was meant to die early on, eventually forgotten.

I don’t believe in fate, and I don’t believe in god. I only believe in god when I’m hoping something will go my way. This will hurt you. I’m not dumb enough to forget that I have family, I have parents. I know they loved me. But my very existence was a mistake, only nurtured because of a passing interest.

My mother used to get dogs on impulse, blinded by their cuteness, but she’d eventually give them away. I guess I’m something like one of those dogs. I don’t blame my mother for this; I believe she just made a lapse in judgment. I wasn’t planned, but because of my mother’s lapse of judgment, I was born.

My parents… I know they love me, and I am not blaming them for this, don’t believe that I’m blaming you, but I’m glad they won’t have to deal with me. I know Marriette would never want me to commit suicide; she’s probably okay with my presence, but I’m obviously never going to be close with her.

I know I’m withdrawn and socially awkward. I never go out and do things with you, but I hope you’re able to understand I struggle to get out of my bed. Whenever I can, I daydream and try to disappear  through my imagination.

This is cliche, but my brain seems like it hates itself. I have so many different things running through my brain, all nonsensical, but I can’t stop it. I only go into writing and drawing and animating and painting and playing instruments because I have so many ideas in my head that I have to force them out. The problem not only lies with my talkative brain, it lies with the fact that I hate everything I create. With each line etched into the paper I feel more self hatred.

I don’t make friends. Yes, I have friends, more like I have one friend, but they all fall apart. I can only make fleeting relationships; never meant to last long. I am simply a girl you will hang out with at the movies, but you’ll forget about me, and remember the movie. I don’t blame my friends. I don’t open up, and I’m very annoying. I take long to respond, and I have trouble comprehending what people are saying. My personality changes way too much depending on the person I’m hanging out with, and I seem fake. I get obsessive and weird. I am inconsistent with my humor; one day I am a comedian, the next, a bland piece of cardboard.

Lets not even begin with love. No one will ever be able to romantically love me. I haven’t figured out what my sexuality is, or anything like that, but I can already tell. I will hold hands and bump noses with someone, but then they’ll tell me about their crush. I know love is a mixture of hard work and chemicals in your brain, but either I’m unmotivated, or the chemicals in my brain are on break.

I know you won’t want to hear this, but I’ve tried before. I’ve tried committing suicide before. I’ve made so many plans, and I’ve done so much research. The first time I tried was two years ago. I wrapped an electrical cord around my throat, tied to the bar in my closet, and lifted up my legs. I was in the middle of just testing the waters, toe-ing the line between death, and actually going through with it. I don’t know what happened next, just that I woke up an hour later on my floor with my closet door on me. The electrical cord came undone, and it ripped a small piece of my skin away. I still wonder if it left a scar.

I don’t remember what I felt when I was choking, but a few days later I had a nightmare where I suffocated to death and it felt so realistic, I woke up crying. Since then, I’ve made many suicide plans.

 

 

I’ve decided something. I’m not sure if I’m going to keep my word on this, or if I’ll be a coward, but unless I die by other means first, I will commit suicide by the end of my youth.

Signed,

I know who

 

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