something stupid.

Some days you just want it all to go away. And on those days suicide is suddenly an option, suddenly a way out, some way to make it all stop abruptly. And whatever it was that was crushing you just disappears, and you can walk down a road without feeling as if you are suffocating. True despair is worse than any disease. It’s staring out of a window at nothing and wanting to off yourself with a big knife. It’s not about seeking help anymore. After a while, you don’t want the attention. You just want it to fucking all end.

Because life isn’t a box of chocolates. Life isn’t even a brown paper package, or a bloody rose. It’s a fucking mess. Life throws you curve balls at every turn, and burns your soul with a lighter. Life doesn’t give a fuck about how you feel, or what you want.

Some things make it better. Like sitting in a quiet, clean room without any sound, just the dripping of a faucet. Or sitting in the middle of a green field that doesn’t smell like dog shit. A few friends at a dinner party. A boy with green eyes who kisses you gently.

But sometimes, not even those things can make it better.

And I hate to think of this as wallowing in self pity. Because really, I know my life is wonderful. I have nothing to complain about: I have a wonderful family, plenty of money, an education, a dog. I have the ‘American dream’.

And that’s why I can’t complain to anyone. They wouldn’t understand. I’m not ungrateful; I’m not. I love my family so much, and my life is beautiful. And when things are good, and I’m not depressed, I can see so much beauty in the world. But when I’m depressed, it’s like everything is gone and I can’t see anything at all.

And when I do try to tell someone how I feel, I’m told “oh it’s just a teenage thing, you’ll be fine in a few days”. Try a few months. I’ll be fine in a few months. I spent most of July in a fucking hole. I couldn’t breath, couldn’t hear, and it affected my work. And people could tell.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

How on earth do you explain that you’re wanting to kill yourself for no other reason than that there is something strange haunting you. And how do you tell people that you feel as if your soul has been ripped out?

I’m not a fucking emo. I don’t wear pitch-black eyeliner and die my hair black. I don’t listen to Panic! At the Fucking Disco, or the Used, and I fucking don’t pretend I’m hardcore.

I like my life, I really do.

But sometimes, death is the only thing I can think of to just end this mess inside my head. I want to scream obscenities at the top of my lungs just to be heard. But I can’t.

And I hate that I’ve come so close to actually doing the deed, and then I chicken out, oh because, how would my parents handle it?

Two years ago, I came so close. I was about to plunge a butcher knife into my gut when my sister walked in. I was scared more by the look on her face than the fact that there was a very sharp knife millimetres away from my belly button.

I’m sorry for being so fucking weak.

In a few days, if I don’t get really bad, I’ll be fine again, and it won’t get this bad for another few months and then I’ll be where I am now.

But I’ve managed to get through it before, and I fucking hope I’ll be fine. Because I really hate being weak. And I hate being at the mercy of something I can’t explain.

whatever it is in the world that hates me

Please stop.

I'm going crazy.