of rants and poems.

note

If you've found me, it's pretty easy to tell what this is.

I've been going for years, wondering what my suicide note would be if I had one. I've had a lot of time to think about this. I've written about it, daydreamed about it.

God. I've been thinking about my death for so many years. It feels like I've lived 50 years in darkness rather than 16 normal years like my classmates. And... perhaps I am.

Yes, to those reading this: you didn't notice the twitch I had. You didn't notice those ugly scars on my wrist, or the way I'd dig my thumb into an old mark to stop from freaking out publicly. You did see my outward demeanor, though. You saw me with earbuds, you saw my hesitance for conversation, you saw my gaze glued to my shoes. You probably saw my kind-of-crooked smile and lazy tone and uneven eyes. I don't claim to be much other than mellow and kind, because what else can I be? I don't have the looks to be petty, I don't have the talents to be cocky. I don't have the confidence to be anything other than silent. I ... didn't, I suppose. I keep forgetting that I'm gone.

A couple weeks ago, I gave a speech. It was just for my school's speaking contest, and it surprised a lot of people. Most had never heard me speak before. It was about a girl who landed in a hospital after her best friend killed herself, and what that meant to the main character.

I meant every word.

When I described how alone she felt, I meant it. When I described how much blood she had seen in her room it's because I have seen it too many times in my own. Anxiety has taken hold of one part of my brain and depression the other, making everything I see nerve-wracking, but exhausting. I lied to avoid situations, I'm sorry.

Speaking of lies-

Her name is Sydney.

To those I told of my boyfriend in another school, she is not a boy. She's gorgeous, and supportive, and keeps me as sane as I can be. No one is more genuine, no one is as amazing. But you wouldn't understand that, would you? Because I am already far enough out that something so small would push me over the edge. I know you would look at me differently, even if you say you wouldn't. I have learned my lesson too many times over to not keep it to myself. You have no idea how hard, how isolating it is to not be able to tell people about the one thing that keeps you happy.

I just wanted that out there before I'm truly gone. Because, really, once I have finished writing I will be quieted forever. I wonder who'll keep my sketchbooks, if my school things will be kept. What will my parents do with my room? What will happen to those books I keep under my bed, my favorite sweatshirt, my games, my favorite ring. I have so much to give.

Which kind of leads me to my point, huh?

I did well on the SATs. I have colleges interested in me. I have a volleyball team that feels kind of like a second home. I am a writer, a public speaker, an artist, a survivor. Before this moment was four years of suffering, of self-harming because I thought I deserved pain, of dragging myself out of bed to face a world that didn't want me. I have been through so many things, and have so much to live for. Why throw it away?

I am tired.

When I get home from school I go to my room, lay in bed until something calls me back up. Whether it be the next day and another round of school, or practice. Otherwise, I am alone and quiet and kind of sad but okay. And recharging in my room used to be enough.

Things change.

I am tired of being meaningless. I am tired of my art going unnoticed, tired of dragging myself to class. I am tired of my anxiety pumping waves of adrenaline through my body because I have to walk down a crowded hall, tired of feeling like my feet have weights tied to them. I am tired of feeling like I peaked in second grade because back then I was so oblivious and happy, didn't know I'd grow up to be pushed around like a doormat, get called "faggot" and "dyke" when I'm trying to mind my own business. I am exhausted of waking up, having to balance my depression stealing motivation anxiety crying out for things to be done. I am tired of being scared of school, of settling into panic at the thought of work. I am tired of tearing up when the bell rings unexpectedly because, yes, that's how jumpy I am (it was funny when I was alive, wasn't it? Is it still funny now?). I am tired of watching the people i know move on while i sit in the dust.

I am tired.

Suicide is the coward's way out. I know that. And I'm glad you didn't see before I died, because I don't want my last impression of being so cowardly. I bet I was scared in those last few minutes. I don't think I'm going to be relieved, I think I might regret it, might be terrified out of my shutting mind. That doesn't change how much of a coward I am. I'm so, so very sorry,

To those who cared about me: I'm sorry. I don't want you to be sad, I would hate you to be upset over someone like me. If there were anything I was staying for so long for, it was seeing you. I didn't mean to get this bad. I feel it even now, a real deep itch under my skin. I want my insides out, I want pain. It won't be long. It might take a while to bleed out, but at least it will be over.

Please... know that I didn't want this. I'd stay if I could. But now, here, I'm in so much emotional pain I'll do anything to stop it. Death included. But you, ... you are strong enough.

Keep creating. Whether it be art, or smiles, or your own happiness, Don't follow me- I am just as worthless as bbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbvbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbhhjhbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb