yeah. i'm going to go stand in the corner shamefully for not updating for so long. there is going to be a major skimming through the session chapter next chapter, and then i'm going to focus on some of that angsty-ish Finn/Kurt things, and then we'll jump into some S02 stuff.

#13 – From Kurt, to Blaine – Part 7

I want to be strapped down to a chair and regurgitate my dinner five hundred times. This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. You fucking idiot. How the hell could you tell him that you were on the football team? Look at you. You can't do anything. You can't be on the football team, because you're a gay little snot. That is literally all you are, a stereotype. You are a stereotype, Kurt. You don't deserve anything. And he has to parade around with you as a son. You. You as a son! Burt's being patient with you. He really wants to burn you in Hell for all of the sins you've committed. Look at your wardrobe. Look at what you wear. Do you really want to be detected from Venus, you whiny little shit—

Kurt's thoughts were racing. He was lying down on his bed, panting and gripping tightly on the duvet that was spread across his bed. He'd been crying on and off for the last four hours. He can't believe what he said. How the fuck was he supposed to pull this off? He'd only spat out that he'd been on a football team on a fit of anxiety. When he heard "Single Ladies" on the radio a few minutes ago, he swore that it was a curse, and if he heard another Beyonce song in his life, he was going to lose it.

His stomach was hurting him, pulsing lightly with pain because he hadn't eaten properly. He was absolutely famished, but he also wasn't interested in food. He just curled up in his bedside, pressing his head against his pillow. Nobody quite realised how exhausting this was, how jaded and unclear the world was. It swallowed him whole, black and white, and everything was fuzzy with destructive darkness. A part of him was still breaking him down for his sexuality, which was suddenly disgusting and putrid. It was something that bothered Kurt even when he was awake, a constant thought on his mind but sometimes, he can push it away. However, times like these were times where the voice of depression was screaming at him incessantly, reminding him that he was worthless, a failure, a minute human being that didn't deserve anything. It was times like these that Kurt had to lie down on his bed, gripping tightly onto his covers in hopes that he would not end up killing himself.

Now, with the convolution of emotion he felt, a sudden surge of rage overtook his body and he grabbed the clock that he had in his nightstand that was ticking every second and threw it across the wall. It smacked, but didn't break. This only angered the brunette more as he moved towards the clock and smashed it into the wall repeatedly. He was exhausted, and the crying left his head pounding profusely with pain, but he hated everything and he wanted to make sure they realised how much of everything he hated.

The clock was in pieces when Kurt was done with it. It was then that Kurt somehow remembered that the reason he didn't throw that clock away from his room was because his grandmother had given it to him, and Burt loved that unfashionable piece of garbage so much that he thought that 'passing it down' to Kurt was going to make something. He was going to be so pissed at Kurt when he realised this, but somehow, Kurt didn't care. And another bigger part of him was burning with anxiety. He was gay, and he had a broken clock. What was he fucking complaining about? Some people actually had problems, and here he was, trying not to end his life over a stupid clock that HE INTENTIONALLY BROKE.

"Kurt?" Burt stood by the doorway before his eyes befell on the clattered mess of clock, clock and look – more clock pieces all over the floor that he recognised immediately. "What happened to the clock?"

It was just then that Kurt's fury was ignited, and not towards the fact that he broke the stupid clock, he was angry at Burt for asking that question – even if he'd asked it so lightly and innocently.

"Who cares about some stupid clock?" Kurt angrily snapped. He was not himself. This was purely the depression snapping back at his Father. This was hilarious. All these feelings were coming back, and it was all because he was actually living – because he got into Glee, and can sing now, everything was coming back – strong and sharp.

Burt can immediately tell that Kurt was in one of those episodes. This probably wasn't going to end well as far as he was concerned. "Kurt, calm down, alright? Calm down."

Kurt slowly nodded his head, and Burt placed a hand on his son's shoulder, bringing him close. Kurt was shaking ever so slightly, and his eyes were full of so much pain that Burt wished he can take it all away from him.

"Kurt, I love you, kiddo. You know that, right?"

Kurt slowly nodded his head, but then shrugged. He had to face it up to facts – his Father had a fucked up son for life that needed to be medicated to be stabilised. This was not easy on Burt either. Burt rubbed Kurt's shoulder, and brought him close. Today was one of the more so horrible days in which Kurt had just been crying on and off for most of the day.

"Come on. Come down for dinner, alright? And we'll talk."

Kurt slowly nodded his head, and they both descended downstairs together. Burt's culinary skills, or lack of, meant that his Father can only offer him pizza he brought him. He cleaved half for Kurt, and half for himself, and Kurt snorted staring at the all-meat pizza. "I don't even want to ask why I have half a pizza right in front of me. Do I really look so corpulent that I can consume half a pizza?"

Burt snorted. "'Cause I know when you're in that kinda state, you eat next to nothing."

Kurt shrugged before slowly nodding his head. That was true for the most bit. They didn't really talk as Burt wanted; because Kurt was able to deflect every question he'd ask. Burt asked close-ended questions and Kurt wasn't doing anything to keep the conversation going. Kurt's anxiety for the next few days was running high. He'd managed to get Finn to get him on the football team. He'd managed not to screw up the audition. But in the process, he'd also managed to humiliate himself. Even in his football uniform, he looked like a girl. This was something that he was particularly self-conscious of. He looked feminine, and no matter what he did – he still looked feminine. He sounded feminine.

He had more episodes that week than he had in a while, which was frightening. Then the game night came and Kurt thought he was about to pass out from anxiety. His heart raced, his skin was pouring with sweat, and he swore that just staring at the field made him want to projectile vomit. Somehow, everything was okay, and they won, but that was when Kurt realised that he did not feel actual happiness – just a happiness projected by everyone else's happiness. He laughed and smiled, but the emptiness, it bubbled into his body. The night ended with a bang. Kurt was somehow impressed by what he'd done, but then his mind just reminded him he'd kicked a ball. He really didn't do anything impressive. His heart wasn't into football – the only male type sport that he was ever good at and it made him feel sick.

He'd humiliated the team when they'd done Beyonce. He'd humiliated Finn. His mind was simply fixated on that, and still was even as Burt took him home. He was happy – no, he was ecstatic, and Kurt felt like a mouse caught in a mousetrap, just completely overwhelmed. Then they were at home, and that was when Kurt realised that it was a no or never moment. He spat out a lie after lie, and swore that there was a bitter taste to such immoral acts. Then he said it, he finally said it. It didn't feel real when it was said to Mercedes as it did when he said to his Father. When his Father told him he knew, all Kurt can feel was sick, but he pushed that way. His Father didn't have to know that in his mind, he was just analysing how feminine he was – how he hated it.

Was it his fault that he liked these things? It had nothing to do with his sexuality albeit, but he was a stereotype. He liked feminine things and was gay. He wondered if he'd fooled himself into thinking that he was his sexuality. That was what he was doing as he laid in bed that night, just thinking about his sexuality, thinking about what he liked, and hating himself for his interests.

He sighed, kicked off his sheets, and looked for a pen and pencil. Might as well.

Dear Blaine A.,

I am in a terrible place at the moment, and writing letters usually helps quell my so called pain. This is why I don't know if I can send any of these soon. It sounds like I'm fooling myself if I think that anyone cares about my irrational thinking but myself but really...the truth is Blaine, I don't like to complain about the bullying. It's not something that makes me feel horrible as it does. Follow my thought process now: I feel like they are doing me a favour because I deserve it, because I am a walking stereotype. Every single day, I could've chosen to wear something that will deflect the attention away from me. Instead, I wear about the most flamboyant (in both senses) clothing that anyone has ever witnessed, and then walk down the hallway as if I own the universe in the palm of my hand. Highly unlikely.

I'm not always in one of those depression episodes that seem to suck the life out of me. No. Most days I do have confidence, and I can push away these thoughts that fall into my mind about what I'm wearing and my sexuality (I say that my voice of depression is so weak it doesn't even matter), but then there are days like these, days where the voice is screaming at me and my thoughts are just running into places. I start to pick and prod at every single thing that is wrong with my life, and this makes me want to end it. In seconds, Blaine, in seconds – I can go from finding the idea of suicide insane to actually wanting to stop myself to do it. It is not a constant thought. It comes and goes, as it pleases, but in that moment that I feel like I have to die, it's strong. It's strong and it pulses into my veins until I can no longer breathe. Until I have to somehow find a way to destroy myself. Sometimes, it just gets so bad that I have to do it. The easiest way for me to do this is to pick up a cigarette from my Father's stash (of which he thinks I know nothing about, seriously, Dad) and just press it against my skin until the urge passes. Of course, when the urge passes, all you're left with is regret. I don't know why I'm writing this to you. I suppose I'm just hoping you cannot relate at all.

I can phone someone about this, but I just don't know. I'm not close enough with any of the New Directions for them to know that I'm this severely fucked up in the head. I just don't know anything at all.

I'm scared I'm going to just snap one day. This feeling that I get when I'm in one of my episodes – it is so strong. It's unbelievably strong. I don't trust myself not to do it. My Father has a handful (i.e. is me), and I don't want it to be worse on him because he's already just barely coping with my moods. I don't want to tell him that even I'm afraid that I might just snap one day and kill myself. I have various things in my room that might make this incredibly possible, and I can't take them away. My razors in the shower (I have not ever cut myself – if I do, I am convinced I will never stop), my sleeping pills in the lower drawer, my own anti-depressants that are not actually doing anything much to help (if I overdose on them, I do risk killing myself. I find this ironic that you'd give a person with a history such as mine a pill they can overdose and kill themselves with but really, you'd need something strong to stop me from thinking such things anyway).

What is the point?

Frustration (pardon me – no love was actually put into writing this letter, just a lot of negative emotion),

Kurt.