Day after day I sit in my room and watch the sunrise from my bed. Night after night I wake up to the sounds of my family getting ready for bed. I’m so afraid. I’m alone in every sense of the word, and it terrifies me. The fact that nobody will remember me after my inevitable death makes me sick. The fact that my family would only show up to my funeral because they have to nauseates me. The fact that I’m the one pushing people away makes me see red. I can’t understand my own emotions and the only thing I can think about is suicide, so I sleep instead in a pitiful attempt to extend this worthless life just a little bit longer. It’s pointless, really. Trying to keep myself alive. It’s like keeping a broken toy. I just don’t work like I’m supposed to, and there’s no one to blame but myself. I’m the one who insists on being alone. I’m the one who won’t speak about my problems. Not that anyone cares, anyway. I’m dying and there isn’t anyone who can save me from myself. I am afraid.
The title says it all. I graduated high school today, and I have never been this suicidal in my entire life. I’m not going to college or anything, so I feel like it’s just my time to go. I said goodbye to everyone, so it’s okay if I die now. Nobody there really liked me much, anyway. To be honest, I’m surprised I made it this far. I didn’t think I’d make it to graduation, but I did. Now I don’t really have anything left to live for. It’s almost sad, I used to have such big dreams and high hopes, but I don’t know what happened. Depression stole them from me, I guess. I used to be full of passion and life and now I’m just empty. I had the potential to be something great, to accomplish all those dreams, but somewhere down the road, I fucked up. I’m fucked up. I just wanted to be a writer. But I’m beyond help, and it’d be better if I just end it all now.
After what seemed like forever of agonizing over my short story, it’s finally complete. Free of grammar errors, and everything.
I chose to write about obsession. It’s toxic and beautiful, all at the same time. The story feature two young boys, blood pacts, and an abundance of flower references (there’s a list with their meanings on the last page, so you don’t have to google them). I call it Hazelnut and Honeysuckle. You can read it here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1_hYu-7W-pGpTd4qitNZg1DRrl5hHbu_-EjbxZ06njIM/edit
None of you will probably read it, but I can honestly say I’m proud of this. It’s fairly well written, and people have liked it thus far. I think I did an alright job, and I hope you all agree.
I turned 18 June 5th, and I was so ashamed of myself because I never thought I’d make it this far. I thought I’d be dead by now. I know I’m going to die soon, I’m getting too tired too fast and my will to live is almost nonexistent at this point. I’m not going to make it to graduation, but that’s okay, I was just another nameless face in the crowd. I’ve never been anyone special.
I wanted to be someone special, though. I wanted to be some great writer. I had such big ideas and dreams, but my depression killed them a long time ago. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if those dreams came true. I’m just a dumb kid. They never would. But I have nothing to lose by pretending.
A girl who used to be my friend wished me a happy birthday and told me about how I helped her thicken her skin and she admired my courage. It makes me want to laugh because all I ever do is fucking cry and lay in bed, I am the definition of a coward. But nobody knows because I can’t be like that in public. I can’t let other people see me like that.
God, I’m so far gone, I am beyond all help. It’s not even worth the time to try to help me, I just can’t connect with people and push them away. It’s just too late for me. There isn’t any point in going on anyway, I have no future to look forward to. I hate myself so much for this, I can’t believe I let myself become what I am.
Whatever. Nobody cares, anyway. I don’t even care about myself. I guess if you guys are bored, you could read my short story for creative writing. Here’s the link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xrnAfsMYS03hDBdtsr-pkHeaawHFCFQMeh6y-LKXKsI/edit please please please write comments/suggestions. I need all the help I can get, I’m almost finished it. You probably won’t read it, though.
- the state of being obsessed with someone or something.“she cared for him with a devotion bordering on obsession”
- an idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a person’s mind.plural noun: obsessions“he was in the grip of an obsession he was powerless to resist”
So my short story is about obsession, not love. It’s kind of poetic, actually, or so I’ve been told. Read more here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1qzldTyxHx99uPfQ0Cdt-st5LwKzZ158d21aeP34IC68/edit
I really don’t even know what to put here. We just took our final in baking and I had my workshop in creative writing on Thursday, so now that I don’t have any responsibilities anymore, I feel like it’s a good time to finally end this.
I’m so tired of fighting. I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t have the energy, and it’s not like anything is going to get better.
Sitting here writing this, I’m thinking of how it’s been well over a year since I left my house to hang out with friends. They really don’t care, do they? That’s my own fault, though. But it’s still kind of sad to think about.
God, all I wanted was to be a writer. I wanted to change the world with my words. I wanted to be remembered for what I wrote. I was so fucking dumb, there’s no way I’d ever be able to do any of that when I can’t even find the motivation to pick up a damn pen and write.
I don’t even remember where I was going with this, but now I’m crying over dreams that were crushed a long time ago and I really want to kill myself.
Whatever, fuck it. I guess I’m gonna get some coffee and shower before I do anything else.
Because someone asked here is the link to my short story (still in progress) for creative writing:
Please don’t actually change anything. If you highlight something and right click (like if you were to copy and paste) a menu will pop up. Click on comment and write what you have to say or any grammatical errors. Thanks, I guess.
Life is fleeting. The only good thing about my life is that one day, I will die. The inevitability of death is comforting, in a way. It doesn’t matter how much I fuck up because one day it will all just be over. It doesn’t matter how alone I am because one day I’ll just leave everyone behind.
I used to be scared. I was absolutely terrified of dying and what happens after. Now, I just can’t wait for everything to end. It doesn’t matter what happens after I die, I don’t care anymore. Sure, I have things I want to accomplish before I pass, but I know I never will. They’re things that a dumb kid like me will never be able to achieve. Dreams don’t come true, I’ve learned that the hard way. You decide your own fate, and I’ve fucked up beyond repair. It’d be easier to just let it all go and be done with it. Nobody would care, anyway.
I’m just so tired all the time, and my head hurts, and my stomach is weak, and I sleep even less than usual. And nobody even gives a shit. Nobody sees that I’m just fucking breaking down right in front of them. But why would they? I’ve been nothing but cruel and heartless to everyone, and I can’t even connect to those I want to care about it. I just don’t understand myself. I wish I could say something like nobody listens to me, but that’s my own damn fault, I never open up to people. God, I just wish I could be normal for once. I feel so alone all he time, and it scares me. I used to find comfort in solitude, but not anymore. I’m so fucking tired of holding on to my coffee as some sad substitute for a friend. I can only blame myself, though.
There’s like 7 billion people on the planet, it won’t matter if some whiny brat like me dies, anyway.
I have this friend, who I will call L for privacy reasons, that really looks up to me for whatever reason. I’m a senior, and she’s a freshman, so I guess that might be why, but she said something today that really struck a chord in me. I go to a vocational-technical school, I’m in Baking and she’s in Drama. Whenever she performs she dedicates her performance to someone she cares about. Not some friend that lets her borrow their homework, no. Someone she truly cares for. Performing for someone, even if the person isn’t there, helps her do better and motivates her to try her hardest.
She told me today that she was dedicating her performance tonight to me. And I was simultaneously overjoyed and suddenly depressed. Overjoyed because I’m glad that someone cares about me. Suddenly depressed because I’m honestly such a disappointment, I wish she didn’t care about me. She’s so positive and full of life, I don’t want to bring her down with me. She’s so easily affected by tragedies that have nothing to do with her, so when I finally fucking kick the bucket, she’ll probably be devastated. And I feel so fucking selfish because knowing that me killing myself would hurt her deeply doesn’t make me want to stay alive. If anything, it makes me want to do it sooner because I’m not worth her tears.
Anyway, I really hope she does well tonight. She probably will, she tries so hard. In other news, I have six pages of my short story done and plan to have six more done by the end of the night.
I woke up in a better mood than usual today, and I can’t tell if that’s good or not. Like the calm before the storm of something like that. I hope it’s not. I want it to just be over.
Anyway, I just wanted to post that it was a good day and I finally started my short story. It turned out to be easier than I thought once I got the ball rolling. It still isn’t really a coherent story just yet, more like a bunch of scenes that I finally typed up. But I’m working on it. Wish me luck.
I told myself I wasn’t going to post here until I started my short story, but I found an old journal of mine and felt like I should post anyway. I was flipping through it and I was kind of startled at how much I wanted to die. Not because I’m better, but because I have made absolutely no progress. If anything, I’ve gotten worse. I’m more isolated now. I feel things less. I’ve lost any bit of hope I had before.
Damn, usually when I see these types of things, people always say how much better they are, and I’m jealous. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to be so alone and so cold all the time, but I really was just born to be this way.
That’s it for now, I really want to start my story.
I don’t even know if I like being alone or not. Sometimes I want a friend, but other times I remember how impossible that is for me. Maybe I just want someone to talk to. That’s probably why I’m posting on this site, anyway. I don’t like feeling alone. I know that much about myself. I kind of feel like I’m walking on my own plane of existence, and nobody else can even see me. Like my world and the world everyone else lives in overlaps like a one-way mirror. I can see everyone else and know they’re there, but they can’t do that for me.
Whatever, I’m just rambling again. I may or may not start that short story tonight if anyone is still interested in what I have to say.
Most of the time I just feel like I’m fading away. Like I’m just a ghost of who I once was. Like I’m ashes instead of fire.
I just feel so hollow and empty, and there’s nothing to fill the void. God, I used to be so passionate and full of life. Now I’m just a dumb kid with big dreams. Hopeless dreams, bigger than life itself. And knowing I’m not going to achieve any of them used to hurt me, but now it’s more of a dull ache.
The worst part is that nobody even sees it. I’m so fucking good at lying that nobody questions it when I say that I’m fine. Not that anybody ever asks how I’m doing, anyway.
I’m constantly swinging between absolute numbness and agonizing sorrow, and I can’t tell which is worse.
A recipe in baking called for chopped walnuts, and I’m pretty sure I stared at my wrist for a solid 3 minutes with the knife in my hand wondering how much it would hurt to just slice it open. Obviously, I wouldn’t ever do that in school, but the impulse to go home and do it was so strong it lasted until 8th period.
Instead of paying attention and participating in the workshop today in creative writing, I sat there and wondered what people would do when I kill myself. Nobody would care, but sometimes I try to pretend that someone would. I mean, it doesn’t matter, I can’t connect with people anyway. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to have someone around and not grow to hate them.
It’s weird, because logically I can understand people. I’m completely, totally unbiased and am able to wrap my head around any and all situations and can see every side to an argument. Logically. I would be a great psychologist. But emotionally, I just can’t connect with people, I guess. I can’t really word it because I don’t really understand it myself.
I read somewhere that holding a warm beverage in your hands stimulates the same parts of your brain that things like hugs do. And I like to tell myself I’m not lonely when it’s 3 am and I’m sobbing over a cup of hot coffee, and holding onto it like my life depends on it. I don’t understand myself, but I understand everything else, and I can’t tell if that makes me wise or a fucking idiot.
I still haven’t started my short story, and I’m not sure if I will. The weekend is coming up, and my time here is running out, I can sense it. Like old people when they’re dying. I can feel it.
You know, some people see my ability to understand most concepts, ideas, and arguments as a gift. I could be a great psychologist, philosopher, and writer. I could be great. I have the potential to be something amazing. But I would give up being able to understand everything if it meant being able to understand myself. I’d rather the madness surround me than be inside me.
Another one that’s kind of text-heavy, but whatever. I don’t feel like naming these anymore, so I’m just going to number them from now on. Sorry.
I went back to school today and regretted it immediately upon entering the building. My head hurt, I was nauseous, and I was beyond tired. Within the first hour of school, I could feel myself slipping. I had to go to the bathroom during baking to get myself together and not break down in tears. The worst part is, I don’t even know why I was so upset.
I had my sociology exam, I probably did fine, but it felt like I wasn’t comprehending the questions, my eyes were just reading the words.
In creative writing, my teacher asked if anyone had not started their short story yet. Obviously, everyone has, but because I have my workshop soon he came up and asked if I had mine and if I would share it with him (we use google docs in the class). I had to lie and say it was handwritten and that I’ll type it up over the weekend. How was I supposed to tell him that I haven’t started it yet because I thought I would have killed myself before the deadline? I couldn’t.
I’m still not sure if I’ll be around for the deadline, but I should probably start it just in case.
I don’t really have much to say today, everything is kind of numb. This is sort of turning more into a diary/journal type thing, so whatever.
I stayed home from school again today, that makes 18 missed days for the year. I don’t think I’m allowed to miss any more or else the school will take us to court. I’ll probably still miss more anyway.
I have exams for my college courses this week, and I honestly could not possibly care less about my grades. I’m not going to college, anyway. I probably won’t even make it to my high school graduation.
Since the beginning of the semester, I’ve known about my final for my creative writing class. It’s a short story that has to be a minimum of 25 pages, double-spaced. This shouldn’t be an issue for me. I used to love writing. I still do. But I just can’t bring myself to sit down and write it. I have the whole story in my head, and I have some of it typed up, but I just don’t have the motivation to work on it. Every week, 2 or 3 people give the entire class their story, and they have a little less than a week to RTA them, and then we have a workshop on them. These workshops really help the authors, and I go on May 20th, so that means I have to turn in what I have so far on the 13th. I feel like such a disappointment because everyone else is working so hard and I only have about a paragraph done. I haven’t even looked at it since February. Damn, I’ve wanted to be an author since I could read, and this is all I’m capable of.
I’m gonna be honest and say it. I was planning on killing myself this weekend, but I keep finding stupid excuses not to. This fucking short story being one of them. It’s not even a good idea that I have, everyone else is so much better than me, but I still want to write it. I just don’t have the motivation or energy to do it, and I hate myself so much for this.
Whatever. This is it for now, I guess. I’ll probably sit here and think about my story instead of actually writing it, as always.
You can hit me up on tumblr, I’m the-lord-of-the-lamps there, too.
This is my first time posting anything here, so I feel like I should introduce myself a bit. My name is Rae. I’m transgender, my preferred pronouns are his/him. I’m asexual and aromantic. I write sometimes, draw even less. I read a lot, though. I was going to go to college for psychology and philosophy, but I probably won’t make it that far. My favorite colors are white, gold, red, and black, in that order. I really love flowers and reptiles and am constantly torn between the two. Alright, this is just turning into me babbling about myself, but whatever.
Anyway, I found this site and kind of wanted to give it a shot while I was still around, y’know?
So, I guess I’ll explain my suicide story here, since that’s what it says on the home page.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been depressed, and I’m still not sure if I am. I feel like my psychoanalysis wasn’t in-depth enough to diagnose me with that. Anyway, I think I can pinpoint feeling depressed to back in middle school. I never really had a lot of friends. Ever. It’s not that I was shy or anything, I just didn’t have an interest. I jumped from friend group to friend group because I get bored of people like I get bored of food. You can only eat PBJ so many days in a row until you want something else, right? That’s how I’ve always been around people. And in a way, I kind wish I weren’t. It’s kind of lonely. I’m not able to tolerate the same people so many days in a row, and it sucks because I can’t have lasting relationships that way. I’ve always been so isolated, and I do this to myself. Ugh, whatever, that’s a different story for a different day.
Okay, so you get the idea that I have a lot of acquaintances, but not a lot of friends. Alright, so in March of 2014 I attempted suicide. Overdose of whatever the fuck was in the medicine cabinet. I just wound up throwing up. A lot. So I asked my mom to call me out of school on Friday and then the following Monday and Tuesday. I didn’t tell her why, and she didn’t ask. Family matters are a whole other issue, but the bottom line is that nobody in my family really gets along with each other.
So, I go back to school and nobody really asks me what’s up. Of course. I don’t have any friends. And I didn’t tell them.
I didn’t tell anyone that I had attempted suicide.
I simply brush the suicide attempt under the rug and pretend it never happened. But it got a lot worse after that. My thoughts of suicide got a lot worse and more frequent. I came out as transgender to my parents in July and now my dad hates me more than he did before. My mom calls me he only in front of me, but I hear her when she thinks I’m not listening and she doesn’t even try. She’s only doing it in front of me so I won’t say anything bad about her. My sisters are fine with it, though.
In November of 2014 I had a breakdown and my older sister forced me to go to the hospital. I was in crisis and was transferred to somewhere else, where I stayed for 5 days. This is where I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. But I think they just assumed that’s what I had because I was admitted for suicidal ideations. But whatever. So eventually I get out of there and I start therapy and medication. We found out that the medication only makes things worse, but helps me sleep (I have horrible insomnia). Therapy sucked, but that’s my fault. Again, with the people thing. I couldn’t connect, and then I got bored of her. So I stopped going to therapy. And I stopped taking the meds.
I’ve been going untreated for I think 3 months now, and I’m getting kind of bad again. I’m not really sure how much longer I’m going to be around to tell my story, but have this much, I guess. There’s so much more, but I don’t have the energy or motivation to write it all out. That’s almost sad, I always wanted to be a writer. I still do. Look how well that went. I’m fucking pathetic.
Thanks for reading this, I guess. It’s really text-heavy, but whatever. It felt kind of nice to get it out.
I’m also the-lord-of-the-lamps on tumblr, you can find me there if you want to chat, but you probably don’t.