We live in a world where if you are not rich, beautiful or famous, then you do not matter. We live in a world where the the lost, sick and abused are left to die. We live in a world where there is more evil than good.
Imagine crying yourself to sleep every night because you know that tomorrow you will still be alive and experience the same suffering, and then, waking up the next morning and groaning for the same reason. Looking over at the rotting window sill where an empty bottle of pills sits on its side, lidless, and then sighing because it has been there for weeks and you know it is time to throw it away, but you are lethargic; paralysed by the sadness and therefore confined to your bed. Imagine wishing you were dead, every minute. Thinking of death everyday. Hearing voices that repeat your mistakes and pick out your flaws to you. Imagine having flashbacks of the suicide attempts that you could just never comprehend. Imagine just wanting to break down and cry like you're still three years old. Squeezing your eyes shut, waiting for the over-laying pain to subside, but the back of your eyelids replay a slideshow of everything you loved that turned to stone. Imagine trying to forget, but failing, crying and drowning, drowning, drowning. This is my morning.
Memories of crimson, tears and the spluttered, angry words that occupied my recent years haunt me as I walk, watching the world silently in black and white. I do not know how to deal with this. I know I bought all the pain on myself. And it is my fault. Or is it? Maybe I think this because I've never seen an opportunity to slaughter whatever it is torturing me. To move on. All the times I thought I'd moved on had been only temporary, and the drowning and anguish begins all over again. A cycle. A cycle that doesn't end. I hope for a cure, an exit, an escape, but where do I find this? I'm trapped in that cycle of sleepless nights and that feeling where the blood turns cold, and all the hair on the body stands up on end, and it's all because of something you did, like got your heart broken, and you wish it hadn't happened but it did, and you saw it coming but you had that vague hope that it wouldn't.
I can sometimes keep myself numb. If it weren't for music, I legitimately believe I would have attempted to deafen myself so that I didn't have to hear others' cruel words, the cries of young children, or the outright, everyday stupidity fresh from the minds of those deprived of an IQ. I don't like watching people cry. I don't like looking at abandoned things. They make me wonder and worry; trick me into feeling empathy for inanimate objects: maybe they are lonely as I. Who abandoned it? Why? What has the abandoned object seen in it's lifetime? It could have seen a murder. It could have witnessed a suicide. And I sit there wondering what the story behind it is and it's daft because it's irrelevant because it's an object. It doesn't have feelings. But I still wonder.
I go to places alone. I want to clear my thoughts before I drown in my own mind. Sometimes, I like to go to places where there are other people. Strangers. Like a children's play park. I like to watch the children play; I like to know that they are happy. I enjoy their happiness. But my weak, empty smile fades and the creaking of the chain on the swings descends when I know there is a possibility that one of those children may end up like me. Suicidal. Worried. Being a failure. One of those children, playing happily on the slide and laughing sweetly, could end up mentally ill and pessimistic. And then the pleasure collapses. My one positive moment is over. And then memories come rushing back, of all my mistakes. I remember that I once was a happy child; with potential, with dreams, with hope, with an idea, much like the children playing at the park in their summer dresses, their shadows singing along to their gentle, high-pitched babbling, while their parents are perched happily on a nearby wooden bench, admiring their daughters, their sons, who must seem beautiful to them.
I don't know what I am supposed to say when people ask me 'Are you okay?' Or 'Are you alright'. It makes me mad. No, of course I'm not! I am cold. I am depressed. I want to die. I am sad. I am angry. I am pathetic, weak, ugly, useless, broke, without hope. I don't want to carry on or through. I hate almost everyone I meet, but not as much as I hate myself. I want an exit. So I usually just answer the question with a quiet 'No'. And what really gets to me is when they ask me 'What's wrong?' - Do you even care? At all? My 'friends'? You have most likely never been there for me and I know you won't ever be. It has been so long since have had an actual friend. Someone who can relate and empathise. Someone who can understand. And not just someone who I am friends with because I know I have to be. But I am never anyone's choice. Not that I can blame them, though. There is nothing appealing about me. I am irritating, invasive and frankly just not ‘aesthetically’ fit for a close friend.
