3am thoughts

Suicidal

Chapter 2: Suicidal

Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to be happy. To be perfectly content with life. I mean, Right now, I'm a shell of a person. A walking talking corpse. I really do wonder what it would be like to not hate myself. To not want to kill myself and actually love the life I live.

Sometimes I wish we could chose the memories we remember. But then I think about it and wonder what I would actually keep. I mean you have the all positive approach where you wipe everything and anything negative. But then I think would that really make me happy? Not remembering any of the pain? Naive yes. But happy? If all of the bad was gone would you still be human or merely a smiling robot? What experiences would you have? Your pain is what makes you who you are. Would you even be aware of yourself? I feel like removing the bad would just make you weaker. Not knowing what's out there in the world. Not being able to properly fend for yourself. Maybe you'd be so happy you wouldn't need to. But is that even real happiness or just ignorance? I feel like real happiness has to come after the pain. Through the pain even. Real happiness is being able to actually be happy even though you've experienced all the pain in the world.

But Then there's the option of removing all the good. Becoming harsh but real. Lonesome but aware of anything and everything. Maybe I would finally bring myself to pull the trigger, tie the noose. Finally be at peace. But what good would that do? Or I could just make myself a clean slate. Get rid of everything. Have another chance. Maybe in that life I would finally be happy. Honestly I don't even know why I'm thinking about this because I'm stuck here and wishing isn't going to help me.

Isn't it funny how when you were little you would always think that as a teenager you'd be partying all night and at 3am you'd be drunk out of your mind. It's actually ironic how now that you are a teenager you wish you weren't one. How now at 3am, you aren't partying but instead wondering weather or not you should take your life. I mean as a kid I always thought that I would finally be happy as a teenager. All the pain and all the hurt would go away and I would finally experience joy but now I know how wrong I really was.
Let's just say that if a car was speeding towards me at this very moment I wouldn't scream. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't run. I would just stand there, close my eyes, and hope that I don't won't wake up this time. Yes. I said 'this time'. Yes I have tried before. But it seems that the universe isn't done fucking with me just yet.
I'm a person who likes numbers. So let me give you a few. Here's a list of some of my numbers that I have collected:
Four. That's the number of times I've tried to take my life.
Twenty two. That's the number of tiny scars on my left arm.
Seventeen. That's the number of scars on my right arm.
Fifty nine. The number of days till graduation.
Three. The number of bruises I have that aren't going away.
And finally seven. The number of fresh cuts on my right arm slowly dripping blood down into the sink.
You might wonder why I'm telling you this. You. A person who could probably out me to about a million and one different people. But that's the beauty of anonymity. I will tell you about all the hurt and the pain I cause myself but you will never know who I am. You will never be allowed to try to help me. You are helplessly reading this and that's how I like it. Under control where it can't hurt me anymore than it already has.
I don't mind the pain. A lot of people don't understand that. Probably because in their eyes pain in general is bad and negative. And maybe it is, but for someone so accustomed to the pain of everyday this doesn't even come close. This is controlled. This is my choice. And that's the difference you see. I chose this. I made it happen. And I know how far it will go and how long it will go on for. This is control. This is what I make happen. Not my parents. Not my friends. Me.
I like seeing the blood stain the white of the sink. I like always wearing long sleeves knowing people who think they know me know nothing at all. I like having my little secrets. I live for these little secrets. I like being able to see my bones jut out at angles and being able to throw clothes over them making the clothes instantly over sized. What I don't like is me. I am the problem. I am the cancer.
The thing about feeling sad for no reason is that it's worse than feeling sad for a reason because there's nothing you can do to make yourself feel better. You don't know why you're feeling the way you're feeling and you don't know how to stop it. You just know that you're in a black hole underground. Every minute you're getting deeper and deeper and you don't even realize the point where you've reached rock bottom. You continuously feel like you're being trapped farther down. Not able to move, eat, say or do anything. You're broken and there's nothing you can do about it.

Here's the thing about things that break. No matter what you do, no matter how much glue you buy, that thing that broken thing can never, will never be back to the way it was. No matter what you do or try you will never restore it to what it originally was. So yes you can put me back together but I will never truly be fixed. There will always be cracks and splinters and maybe even chunks missing so don't think for one second that you can help me.

A lot of people may say shit like "I've been through just as much as you but I'm not broken". Well here's the thing, not everything that falls breaks. Sometimes something will bounce maybe it just doesn't take the fall at all. But not me. So don't expect anything.

All this is my fault. It's my fault I'm brittle and break easily. It's my fault you can't mend me. It's my fault I'm a thousand little pieces. So stop trying. It's. My. Fault.