Depression

Through my eyes

I don't feel sad. I don't feel anything. I'm numb. Lifeless. I used to spend my time worrying what others thought, worrying about everything in life. But I have no energy. I'm too tired to think. The only thoughts that flood my head now are thoughts of suicide. I feel as though I'm watching a movie, watching someone else slowly fade away. But it's me. My mind is fading along with my body. The only time I feel anything is when the cold metal of the needle scraps across my skin. I feel the warm blood drip down. I'm depressed but I'm not stupid. I cut my legs. No one ever checks the legs. No one in my life would care enough to even check. All these empty promises of hope. No one cares. Besides, I'm not depressed, I'm too rich to feel unhappy. I'm too privileged to be sad. I'm too fat to have an eating disorder. Yet, I cut my skin in order to feel. I starve my body, I take pills just to stop myself. I will die. It's just a matter a when. People say suicide is selfish, and it is. But it's selfish of you to hold it against them. It's like someone shooting a horse with a broken leg out in the wild. The horse is in so much pain and it's too hard to help heal the leg. You can just buy a new horse. So you take out your gun and put the horse out of its misery. Some people think it's rule to leave the animal suffering. So why can't someone decide that they are in too much pain to carry on? Why can't they just end their misery? Don't say because it will get better. Because the horses leg will heal, yet they still kill it. Depression is the same thing. Why am I depressed? That's the question of the day isn't it? To be honest, I don't know. Maybe it was the fact that my dad never truly loved me. Maybe it's the fact that I have been teased for my weight as long as I can remember. Maybe it's just pure science. I am more likely to become depressed because someone in my family suffers from a sever depression. My brother. The man I looked up to more than my father, the real male figure in my life. The one who would joke and play with me when we were little. He went through this. He shut himself off from the world. I lost him. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't the same. He never will be. I was too young to truly understand what was happening then. But now I know, first hand, the longing for death. The sweet relief from the pain that it would bring. If I long for death so much, why can't I pull the trigger? I'm worthless, I can't do anything, I'm too weak to go through with it. So maybe this is all for attention? That's why I hide my scars, that's why i put on a smile and pretend that everything is fine. That's why I write down my thoughts and throw them away after. I don't want anyone to know. So it's not attention. What is it? I just want to know where the wound is so I can fix it. But I will never know. I don't want anyone else to feel this way, so I do all I can to prevent it. Even if it means walking through this hell with a fake smile and an "I'm fine" every now and then. I don't know what to do. I'm trap with my thoughts and the demons that torture me. Every step hurts, with physical pain and emotional. I used to listen to music to try and drown out the thoughts and voices. But they just became louder. I don't have the energy to try and fight them off anymore. So I lay in my bed and hear them belittle me. Worthless. Insignificant. Fat. Stupid. No one cares, why would they? People should get to close. I try to save people the heart break for when I die, the less people around me, the less sadness I'll leave.
Trying to help someone with depression is like a burning building. There are those who walk by, they feel bad for a minute then try to dismiss it. People die in fires all the time, maybe no one is on the building, someone else will help. They make up excuses to not get involved, because that would mean risking their own life. I would expect anyone to do that anyway. Then their are those who wished they had helped. Cause when the smoke cleared and the ashes were pushed out of the way and they saw the burnt body. They feel this guilt that will haunt them the rest of their life. If only they had helped. Then there are those who go into the building. They search and search, but eventually they realize that it's hopeless. The victim is too far gone and they can't get any closer. Or they just dorm want to risk it. Then there's people like me. I went into the fire, I got close and tried to help, I did everything I could. I wasn't able to reach them, but as I turn to leave, I find myself trapped as well. The building just gets hotter and hotter and my hope that someone will come and save me fades away. Eventually I'm right where the person I was trying to help is. Now there are two people trapped. And this cycle continues. More and more people falling into the trap. I can't warn them. My lungs burn from the fire. I watch as people pass me by. Not even glancing my way. I will die like this. In this fire. With no one here. And I'm ok with it. I'm ready for death to bring me into his arms.