The Saints Of Mibba

I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to write here. Everyone else’s stories seem to have a happy ending and mine doesn’t. Nor will it. Most happy endings don’t come in the shape of pills and coffins. At least not for the people who aren’t taking the pills and sleeping endlessly in a mahogany box.

It’s never been particularly easy anyway. I’ve witnessed four parental divorces, been abused physically, verbally, and mentally. I’ve ran away from home, gotten kicked out of my house, been the victim of an online predator, been to seven hospitals, been misdiagnosed, and finally correctly diagnosed with a mood disorder. I have been sexual harassed, teased, bullied, and beaten up. I’ve cut myself, had an eating disorder, abused prescription drugs, and overdosed three times.

But I would gladly take any and all of that to what’s happening now.

I was never supposed to fall in love. It wasn’t in my plan. I was going to go to college, get a bachelor’s degree, and then get artificially inseminated at the age of twenty-four. I was supposed to have four babies and take care of them all by myself. I didn’t need any help from anybody. And I probably would have done all right. I would have been a good mom. I wish I could be. I know that’s something I’d be really good at it. I love kids. I’ve always loved kids. And I’ve always wanted to have tons of kids. But that’s not going to happen.

I should have known better. I should have . . . not.

But I did. Against all my plans, I did. I thought that there was a new plan, that there was a new reason, that it was something worth grabbing and holding onto. I never thought I wouldn’t be able to hold onto it. I never once doubted. Everyone says I must have, that I should have known better, that I shouldn’t have believed in something that was doomed. But I never once doubted, never once wavered, never once believed it wouldn’t happen. And I still believe with every fiber of my being that it would have worked. Nothing will every be able to convince me otherwise.

You get one soulmate.

It’s been exactly four months and three weeks today. Nothing has gotten better. Maybe I don’t cut as much, but that’s only because my multiple attempts to turn the house upside down in search of a razorblade or non-serrated knife have failed. I cry every day. I think about suicide so often that it’s more of a rarity for me to not be thinking about it.

I want to have sex with someone that is HIV positive. I want to get cancer. I want to swallow a bottle of pills. I want to slit my throat. I want to swallow drain cleaner. I want to blow my brains out. I want to accidentally run in front of a car. I want to drive my own car off a bridge. I want to die. I simply want to die.

I know that when I die I’ll go to Heaven and be with Andie and my babies, so what is there really to gain by staying here? I hear that word ‘selfish’ being thrown around so much and it makes me so angry. Everyone else is allowed to be selfish except me. Everyone else wants me to go through this pain, but yet they say they love me. It’s a twisted, fucked-up sort of love isn’t it? It’s no better than her fucking love. It’s disgusting and hypocritical and it makes me so angry.

I actually want all my friends to start hating me because I know it will be easier to kill myself if there’s nothing left to hold onto, but then I freak out and break down when they start to turn even the slightest from me.

And I think the thing I hate even more than the ‘selfish’ word is when people tell me that ‘everybody loves me’. No, they don’t. If everyone loved me then I wouldn’t be in this situation, would I?

I don’t know why I’m writing this even more than knowing what I’m supposed to be writing. I am not a hero, I am not a saint, I am not strong.

I live in a Dreamworld because I can’t cope with reality. I cry everyday. I have scars on my arm that will never go away. I sleep on a pair of scissors and two knives, quite literally. Every time I drive over that bridge I want to drive off. I wake up wishing I were dead. There is nothing strong or heroic about me. The fact that I’m still here just means that I haven’t gotten up the courage to die yet. That I’m not strong enough to break a promise.

I live in a world where rockstars hold me when I sleep, hold me when I cry, make sure the cuts aren’t too deep, help me find Wonderland, take care of me. I can’t take care of myself. I can’t even sleep in a bedroom. I sleep in the living room because I don’t feel safe sleeping upstairs. I don’t know why. I stopped sleeping in my bed almost immediately. Yet I masturbate in that bed. I make absolutely no sense. I doubt a psychiatrist will be able to help me.

I have virtually become a five-year-old when a situation gets too difficult to deal with. I talk like a toddler, both in vocabulary and sound. I had a psychotic break because Kristen told me that I wasn’t Brendon Urie. I sleep in until I get my afternoon phone call from her and the first thing she always says is “how were you last night”. I have to say the names of people I don’t know when I have an orgasm just so I don’t start crying because of the immense guilt I feel. I can’t put both my hands over my head at once because every time I do, I flashback to her face smiling at me.

I have so many daydreams and Dreamworlds—there is a difference—for the different ways we’ll get back together, the different ways she’ll want me back. I have plans on how to get her back. I have plans on how to murder her girlfriend and not go to prison. Nothing I’ll ever use. I already know it’s pointless and it’s over. I know she’s not coming back, but you don’t get the most amazing thing in the world and easily let go. If I let go, what was it ever really? If you can easily let go of love, then it wasn’t love to start with. And if you can expect someone to easily let go of it, then you have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.

I don’t stay in this living hell to invoke people’s pity or to get fawned over. I hate it when people say things like that. As if I have any control over other people’s actions. If I had control over other people’s actions, I wouldn’t have let my fiancé leave me for a fucking pedophile. It is so hard for me to not listen to what people say and I cry almost every time I read something bad about me. I have had former friends say shit behind my back and people I don’t even know say it directly about me, if not to me.

As soon as one brick got taken away it seems like they all decided to fall on me.

I live in constant fear, self-hatred, loathing, regret, what-ifs, anger, hatred, and suicidal thoughts. I am not happy. Anytime I am happy, there is always an underlying feeling to dampen it. I have not been truly happy in over four months. I have been suicidal for at least four months. I wasn’t originally going to kill myself, but I didn’t originally know why she left me in the first place. I hate lies, I hate liars, and I still love her with every piece of me. Which isn’t a lot. I gave her all of me and now I have nothing to show for it.

I’ve typed this and I don’t feel better. I have had no epiphany or realization or sudden desire that ‘I want to be here’. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to breathe, and I have absolutely no desire to stick it out and see what happens. I must be a selfish bitch because I still have every intention of killing myself despite what anybody says.

I am not a saint. And I am not a hero.