Some days I feel like depression is weighing me down. I feel like I need to just escape find someone to be with… some one to talk to. But I don’t because I can’t. That’s what I get for living in this hell of a town.
I hate this town. It’s too small for its own good. You can’t do anything and it’s been said before that the only good place to hang out is the post office. I mean come on! The post office?! You have to be desperate…
On those days, like today, I feel like I need to get out. Either that or I want to get under the covers and never move again. It’s like an anxiety, something I can’t explain. I get used to it after a while, but it just keeps coming back again. I feel so numb. I need to feel something anything. I know why people cut themselves, I understand it now. I’m just too much of a coward to do it myself.
I feel like I have no one to go to, but we all know that’s not true. I just don’t feel like putting my weight on someone else’s shoulders; someone who doesn’t need any extra burdens. Trying to fake a smile usually doesn’t work either, my friends just know me too well. The problem is the one’s who I actually almost tell don’t give a shit. I don’t tell them either because I know that by the end of the week there would be rumors spread around the school about me. I’d rather lay low and pretend that nothing’s wrong. We all know how well that works.
Everything has a circle, a cycle that it goes through. Plants go through different stages of life and death. Humans are born and then die again only to have a son or daughter after them then they have kids and their parents die. If I keep ignoring this feeling, it’ll keep coming back. If I keep ignoring this, I know it’s going to get worse.
I’m afraid. I’m afraid of this feeling… this urge. I don’t want it to get worse I just want it to go away. I want to be happy like the people around me. The one’s with big, genuine smiles.
I guess I can live with just making others smile and laugh hysterically while I wither away and die on the inside. That’s a depressing thought.
We’re back to the beginning again.
I hate this feeling. I can usually relieve it by writing, but at times I only relive my own pain. The pain that I’m inflicting upon myself now.
Too much emotional pain… it hurts. I wish I could be strong enough to make it go away, I want to take that pain away so badly. Like I said before… I’m a coward. I’m too weak to help myself.
I hate myself and I hate this feeling. It’s just a circle of hate: I hate to feel this way, I hate to write about how I feel, I hate making other’s feel bad, and I hate myself for writing this at all. I hate the way this feeling feels, I hate how stupid this is, I hate how I cannot utter a single word about this, and I hate how you’ll react to this… I can see it happening. I hate the sound the tapping of my fingers make against this keyboard, I hate how I jump at every small sound, I hate the music that I’m listening to… though I can’t seem to pull away or hit the stop button(there’s a faint screaming in the background). I hate the way that I feel like crying, I hate the fact that everything seems so ordinary, and I hate the fact that I have to vent to a blank screen. I hate the way that I am, the way I’m being. I hate the way I find it too easy to forgive, it made a bigger mess than what was needed. I hate the way I’m ignoring everything, I hate the way my phone sounds when it’s vibrating… I know it’s you and maybe that’s why. I hate the way that this never ends, I hate that I can’t seem to stop, and the music never ends.
Why do people always write about tragedies, what happened to ‘happily ever after’ with even a semi-realistic end?
I want to leave this with a simple “The end” but those don’t seem to fit well enough. I still feel that feeling. It’s rushing inside of me and I know for a fact that it won’t be going away until I finally fall asleep and even then it will haunt my dreams making me bolt awake in my sleep.
In the morning I would wish, hope, think… that all of this was a distant dream or a memory, but I know that wouldn’t work either. How would that make sense in this jumbled thing I call a life. In this mess I’ve made.
Sometimes I just want to die.
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