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(Trigger warning: mentions of depression, $uicide)
If living was as easy as breathing is( for me anyways ) I wonder what I would be doing with my life right now. Would I want to die, like I do right now? Would I contemplate drowning myself in my bathtub filled with not only the soapy water and me, but also filled with the sorrows I have been carrying around with me for who knows how long. I wonder when it did start. Was it always here, or did I somehow make it worse? Maybe I’m not really sad, I’m just making myself feel this way. For what though is the question. Character development? To feel like I can relate to my friends and the books I read? To avoid the conflict that my every day brings?
I feel the water against my body and feel my toes quickly start to wrinkle. Why do they do that so fast? Life doesn’t feel real, as I’ve said plenty of times before. My body feels sick, but it doesn’t. Why can’t I breathe when I run? Why do I get lightheaded when I stand? Who do I stand for? Do I stand for myself, or the people who surround me. I know I should be living for me, but I’m not. Yet it is the only thing keeping me going at the moment, and I have to hold on to something, right? Right? I see the lives of the people around me, and no, their lives are no where near perfect, nor is mine, but some of them look like a walk in the park.
Mom called dad an asshole this morning. She doesn’t like to curse, so you know she meant it. And on her way to church, no less. Do they really love me? Apparently taking care of me as a child was much too much to do on top of my siblings. Is anyone even proud of me anymore? I peaked in 6th grade, isn’t that pathetic. Not look wise, but I was in sports, I was school president. I still wasn’t perfect then, yet I was the best I could ever be. Am I only a chore now, a person to be checked in on, vented to, be angry/upset/annoyed with? Sorry mom, that every time I feel this low it’s either hormones or the fact that I’m not working out. I’m sorry I can’t be the perfect child you wanted and needed me to be. I tried, I really did. But I’m tired. So unbelievably tired. My body doesn’t want to hold on anymore. My heart hurts. I don’t feel loved enough but that’s no one’s fault but my own. I won’t kill myself, I promise, but I damn wish I had the guts to. I’ll be over there feelings in an hour, acting as though they never existed, until they eventually come back up again, for whatever reason. I’m dramatic I know. Maybe I can cut it as a writer. I was never a good enough singer anyways. Or dancer, or friend, or girlfriend, or sister, or worker, or cleaner, respectful person, likable person, active, confident, kind-oh how I wish I was truly kind- brave, strong, tall, and more.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be better, mom.
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