I probably won't post this, just because I don't want to seem needy or like I'm begging for attention, but God, it hurts. I just want to curl up in a ball and cry, but I can't. The tears just won't come, but the anxiety and the need to prove myself to everyone does. I thought I was getting better, but I guess not. I thought I could help others, but I guess I'm just as useless as ever. I don't know what I'm doing, and that scares me, a lot. I want to disappear so badly it hurts. I want to die so that others will just forget I exist and move on with their lives. I want to just because another one of over seventy billion dead bodies, because it just seems like it'd be so much easier. I want to die, but I also want someone to notice that I'm shattering apart, and give me a hug and say; "I know you're not okay" when I say those two words that mean nothing to me anymore: I'm fine.
God, I should be crying because I wrote a suicide note that I could put in my room, ready to be found after I'm gone, but I can't. The tears aren't there, they aren't blurring my vision, and thy aren't stuffing up my nose and making my eyes swell up and turn red. Sometimes, I feel so alien. I hardly every cry, and while I do feel emotions, I just feel empty the majority of the time. In books and movies when someone's depressed or sad, they cry, or scream, or rant, so why don't I? I just break apart a little more inside, but hide it using jokes that are so stupid, you can't help but laugh. I don't feel sad, I just feel numb, which scares me even more that tears do. Each time I wake up after an attempt on my life, I feel so dead, like there's nothing left to kill, like I'm so dead inside, there's no way for my body to shut down from overdosing on enough medicine that a normal person probably would've ended up in the hospital.
Why me? Why do I have to deal with the constant thoughts of self harm and of dying? Why do I have to deal with saying "I'm fine", while mentally begging someone to look at me and realize that I'm not, that I'm so far from fine that it would take several life times to become "fine"? Why couldn't I have a father, a man to hold me when I was younger, a man to threaten to beat up my boyfriend or girlfriend if they hurt me? Why is it me that comes from a family where teenage pregnancy, drug addiction, and broken relationships between parent and child are the norm? Why can't I be happy? I have friends, I have a loving adoptive mom that used to be my second cousin, so why? Why do I want to be selfish and take my own life? Why do I want to just sleep forever? Why? Oh yeah. Because I'm a living piece of hell. I just take and take and take without any concern for others.
The voices in my head are a constant chorus of negative thoughts, a choir that never stops to rest.
I starve myself for days, binge eat crap food, try to hang myself, try to drown myself, try to fucking overdose, and nothing. Not that I'm lucky to get the sweet release of death.
I try so damn hard in both school and socializing, trying to live up to my mom's expectations, but at the end of the day, I'm just me. Sad, pathetic, me who rants on a fucking fanfiction sight because there's no way else I can think to express the overwhelming pain I'm in.
Sure, I know what it would be cool to do in the future, but I can't even image myself living past 2019, much less living to graduate from college, to live long enough to move in with friends in one giant house. I can't image getting a pet, having a family, finding the person I want to spend my life with, or even adopting children. It's just not there.
I don't know what to do anymore. Sometimes, it's not so much that I want to die, more like I just don't want to live, but the majority of the time, I don't want to live. Living is such a pain, and for me to continue existing just seems like a huge waste of not only my time, but other peoples' as well. God, nobody'll read this, so what the hell does it matter if I post it?
Every time I say "God, kill me" or "I'd jump off the roof, if I could find my way up to it" I really mean it. Every time I make "jokes" about how bad my depression is, I'm not joking. Every time I say "I want to cry right now", I really mean "I want to cry, but the tears just won't come." When I dramatically beg for any higher power that may exist to end my pitiful existence, I'm really begging for someone, anyone, to kill me or help me kill myself. Every time I joke about launching myself out of a window three stories up, I'm begging for a way to die, or for someone to notice how much pain I'm in because I don't know what to do. Whenever I pretend to be a dumb blond, I'm really scolding myself for being a dumbass who'll never amount to anything. When I joke about my nickname as the "Blond Emo", I'm really begging my friends to notice my scars. No, not my physical scars, my emotional ones. Those three cuts my cat gave me? I gave them to myself, because I hoped a combination of prescribed drugs, blood, hot water, and something to help me fall asleep would let me finally get the kiss of death I've wished for since I was nine.
Those times I hung out with my friends at the bus stop, hoping they'd notice how quiet I was? Nothing. Those days I hoped one of my friends would text or call me to ask to hang out, but knowing deep within nothing would happen? Everyday I have off from school. Wanting to talk to a friend, but they're talking to someone else? Happens to me all the time.
Everyday is spent hoping someone, anyone, would notice what happened to the little blond girl that had wanted to be a lawyer or a social worker, but also wishing that nobody would notice, because that means I'm truly alone, and that nobody will care when I get lucky and finally succeed in my pursuit of death.
It sounds stupid to most, but I probably wouldn't be so broken if I had a dad. My birth father walked out on my birth mom because she was simply a drug induced one night stand, so there's no way to identify who he is, but I always hoped, always dreamed of growing up with a nice father figure in my life. One that loved me and my adoptive mom more than I could possibly image. I always wanted a dad, someone to teach me to ride a bike, to play sports with me, to take me to work with him and tell me all about what he did for a living. But no. My mom dated men, sure, but they were never emotionally stable or compatible with her, so they each ended after a few years. But, each time, I foolishly hoped that this one was the one that would make my mom happy, that would help heal my broken heart and shattered spirit.
I try to be independent, but I can't. I just can't live life without the help of others. It makes me feel shitty though, because that means that I impact people's lives without meaning to.
Ah, after God knows how long of writing depressing shit, my vision is finally blurring with tears, though they're disappearing again, as if they never existed in the first place.
...I don't care anymore. I don't care about anything that won't make the pain go away. I might still update, and I'll pretend like I'm okay, but it's all just a lie. It always is.