Pain Is Where the Heart Is

One day, I got depressed. Really depressed. On this particular day, I had a computer in front of my instead of my notebook that I wrote in. So I vented on a blog on MySpace. I told my friends that I was going to kill myself if they didn't do anything.

I was tired of hearing about their weekend plans, the ones I always seemed to get excluded from. I was sick of hearing how depressed they were. I was sick of everybody overlooking me.

I got comments from four different people on that blog, most of them didn't sold anything. Three of them told me that they loved me, I was their friend. One got defensive and tried to place it back on my shoulders. She told me that I ignored her caring words. But to be honest, I can't believe something if you tell me once. I need it more than once.

I decided that I wouldn't kill myself that night. I was going to live another week. If nobody talked to me about it, I would do it later. Six days later, Abi confronted me about the issue and we talked it over. Very few words were exchanged before she must've tired of me and changed the subject.

Amber came next after she got sick of hearing my bitter, snide comments. We talked for hours and my shoulders felt lighter. I almost felt happier...almost. Happiness doesn't last very long, and soon enough I tripped and fell back into that same pattern of depression.

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Love, to me, is just another form of pain. That's why I fall in love with all the wrong people, all the ones who are going to cause me the greatest amounts of damage. That's why I fell back in love with Amber.

In sixth grade, I connected with Amber on a level that nobody else understood. We were the only ones who'd suffered such immense pain. We could talk about it together, we could cope together.

But in eighth grade, I grew to hate Amber with such a passion that I fell back in love with her. I despised the sound of her laugh so much that I treasured it. She made me so angry that she calmed me down. She made me so irrational that she was the only one who could make me think straight. She was everything I hated, so therefore she was everything I loved.

I don't know what made me realize this, it just sort of grew on me. Whenever we talked, we always seemed to be flirting. It raised my hopes through the roof and I dropped hints like my life depended on it. I told her that I liked her, but to no avail. She only said that she kinda knew already. I was wrong, I was embarrassed, I was hurt.

From that day on, tried to stop flirting, to make Amber think I didn't like her anymore. If anyone found out, I was paranoid that they would tell my dad, who's homophobic to the extreme. It killed me, living every day like a lie. I was just tired of being rejected.

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I live in my head. Saying this tends to make my friends angry with me. I don't think they really believe it, or want to believe it for that matter. It's true though. My mind it a place of beauty and tragedy. It's a place I'd like to live if I somehow could do that.

That's where I would hide when things got rough. Eventually, coming out, I would be scared and hurt by real life. My fantasies of love and death were so much better than real life. There, things were beautiful and wonderful. I felt so along when I came out.

In my head, sometimes I had the perfect family or boyfriend. Sometimes I would see how sad everyone would be if I died. Other times I would picture how my childhood should've been, what it would be like if I had a loving mother, what Hell was like.

I would get caught up in my mind and get angry when someone disturbed me. Reality would come flooding in and I would get depressed because nobody was in love with me, I didn't have a best friend, my dad and I were fighting, and so much more.

All those times, I would have to find some other way to make myself happy. I just couldn't do it. On those fateful nights, I would lull myself to sleep with a bottle of pills to keep my mind off life.

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My story is one without a happy ending. My life is a story that's been exhausted, so the author leaves you with a little idea of what might happen.

On May 18th, 2010, I plan on committing suicide. It's my birthday. I also plan on continuing to cut myself up until that point. I also plan on steadily keeping up my other self-destructive habits until that day.

I'm willing to admit that I need help. I'm also willing to admit that I'm too terrified to get that help on my own. I want a friend, I want hugs every day, I want to be comfortable with people. I want someone to love me and mean it. I want peace and I don't want to be stressed-out and on edge all the time. I simply want to be happy, but I can't achieve that on my own.

Sometimes, stories don't have happy endings. Sometimes, they end with a feeling of hope.