While I was in the hospital I told everyone that taking those pills was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. That was a lie. Of course it was. I wanted those pills to kill me, and just because they didn’t doesn’t mean that I was miraculously cured. I went to that hospital wishing that my mother had given me a hug good-bye, and hating myself for not succeeding when I wanted it so badly. I hated myself even more for letting my mother be mad at me that week. I hated myself because she hates me.
She hasn’t stopped blaming me for everything that’s happened. Things have actually gotten worse since I was released. I’m not allowed to say that I want to kill myself. I’m not allowed to say that I want to cut myself, I’m definitely not allowed to do it. I’m not allowed to hurt. If I mention one ounce of depression she asks if I took my pills. So I don’t talk anymore. I’ve bottled it up. I’m happy, or at least they think I am. And that’s enough.
Today I wore shorts around the house for the first time in forever. I knew she would say something. And she did, she told me I had to stop cutting because it made her look bad. Right now, she’s telling me that I’m not allowed on her computer, that I don’t ask, and it seems like nothing even belongs to her anymore because people have over run her life. She’s telling me how miserable she is, and why it’s my fault.
I’m going to post this, I’m going to go over there and giver her a hug, then I’m going to walk to the bathroom and cut until I can’t breathe, think, or open my eyes. That’s my goal. Bleed until I pass out, at least. If they find out, they’ll probably send me back. But everyone was happier when I was gone so I guess it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. And this way, I’ll be one less mouth to feed, one less person to clothe, one less person to support, and one less bother.
What am I going to do?
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