psych ➳ muke

0.1

It is absurdly difficult to form coherent sentences when you want to die.

I, of all people, should know this.

When I was thirteen, I was diagnosed. Of course, doctors will dig deep within your mind to pick out every little detail. They will diagnose you with every possible mental illness they can.

For two reasons.

One, to make you feel as fucked up as they can. The more fucked up you are, the more treatment you'll need.

And two, they make money off of you. All the medications, therapy sessions, inpatient stays.

They profit.

And they are money driven bastards. Why else would they have a medical degree?

Just like the man above me now, sticking needles in my arms and a mask over my face. He's yelling, but I don't know what he's saying. The world is spinning and swirling, blending together in a sea of color and sound.

I am dying. Or, at least, I'm trying to.

My arms are a deep red. Blood seeping from the fresh cuts littered across my pale skin. But they aren't deep enough.

I am such a fuck up. I can't even properly kill myself.

They've told my Mum that I'll survive this. But I wish I wouldn't. I am so tired. I am ready to give up. Sleep forever, finally be free.

Four years after being diagnosed, I survived four years. Is that not enough? Four years of constant struggle, of fighting everyday.

And I am done.

"Luke, can you hear me? You're going to be okay, buddy," the man above me says, reassuring me, "Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

I squeeze his hand before everything fades to black.

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

So this story is going to be EXTREMELY triggering. I hope you figured that out from the beginning. If you cannot handle such content, I suggest stopping here.

No, this story will not be entirely sad. Its a love story. The love is coming, just be patient.

Enjoy!