heartbreak in many forms

Fuck 9pm

My dad was quite stern. And ridiculous if I was honest. I would have to give my phone in at 9pm every night which meant I could only talk to him for around the quarter of the day.

But I was a bit obsessed so I suppose I did talk more than a quarter of the day. I wanted him, to sleep with him and wake up with him being the first thing I would see. But instead, an hour away, sometimes further, and a couple hours of hearing his beautiful voice through voice messages he sends talking about whatever wonderful thought comes into his head. I wanted to hear him talk until my ear drums burst. I wanted him to fill my senses with his existence and bring me endless joy with every fibre of his being and allow me to do the same for him. I wanted to please him in any way he wanted me to- I had no care for myself anyway. It's difficult to care about myself when all I care for is him. Though, I'm terrible at showing it.

Everything I do and say, it's like I'm making it about myself. But that's never the intention. It just so happens that everything that should probably be spoken about is to do with me. How I've fucked up or reacted wrong or just done anything.

He got annoyed with me once, understandably so. I did fuck up. I wouldn't do what he asked me to despite me needing to, kept arguing and when trying to explain he just got annoyed. And I guess now I can see why. He got annoyed and I said whatever and I did what he asked and about 6 hours later I come back to see panicking.

"Did I upset you??"
Yes, I was upset. Terribly upset. But it couldn't be helped.
"No you didn't upset me."
It wasn't really a lie. He didn't upset me, I upset myself. I allowed my paranoia to get the best of me. I allowed bad memories to haunt me when he was annoyed. I let my family problems hold my in a chokehold whilst he just existed. And I suppose, in that moment, the way I reacted especially, I did make it all about myself.

But I didn't mean to.

It was practically 7pm, meaning I had 2 hours left with him. But when my depression gets bad, I sleep a lot more. Which he wouldn't know since I've never told him. "I'm tired" is just a weak excuse to say "My depression got really bad and I have nothing better to do but torture myself with unprocessed trauma and visions."

I had to give my phone in at 9 but he made me sleep at 7. I must be a good actor because I've really managed to sell the fact that 'I'm just tired' rather than the reality. His depression had gotten worse, why would I add onto it?

See, I am caring. Just in a way damaging towards myself until I can't do anything but break. Countless times have I sent a lengthy paragraph of paranoia, asking, begging, pleading that he loves me, stays with me, wants me. But he'll never know that I destroy myself every other time because I'm too worried of hurting him. Of exhausting him.

God, whatever one you want to say exists, please let him stay with me. Don't let him belong to death, not tonight.

Having hardly texted the one girl I suppose I'd call my best friend, I figured I'd just not. There was no point anyway. She would just tell me to watch something or to ignore it. Or worse, to talk about it.

She's not really very nice to me, though I understand why. She finds me too much, her home life is tragic and she's in undeniable pain. But, whilst I can understand that, she consistently reminds me how horrible I am, how I can never help her, how lucky I am that he actually chose me because without him I'd be a pitiful fool.

Well, the funny part is even with him I'm a fool.