Lams Fluff [In Progress]

Untitled part

Hey.

I just wanted to start out by saying thank you to each and every one of you that set aside the hours to read my little fic. It means so much to me every time I see the notifications, because all I did was one day I sat down and started writing. I had basically resigned myself to it getting 0 (zero) reads or whatever.

And I don't want you guys to get annoyed or whatever with me venting, so please don't get mad, and I feel like I'm pissing you off if I tell you this shit.

But recently I've been... just. Depressed. I feel like I don't have the right to be depressed, though, when so many other people have it worse. So I've been self-evaluating myself.

Great idea, right?

I'm pretty sure that a big factor has been due to all of the energy I've been investing in fanfictions. I'm just emotionally and mentally exhausted from investing myself in people and relationships that don't exist, and even though I haven't been writing too much, I've been reading a lot. 

But that's not the only reason I've been feeling shitty. I don't really want to turn this into a fuck-fest, but I've been... well I haven't been doing the basic things you need to do to stay alive. 

I haven't been eating. I eat dinner. Sometimes. 

I haven't been sleeping, either. One day a 6th grader asked the last time I slept, and I actually could not remember. I still can't remember. 

I haven't been taking care of myself. I bathe, sure. But I haven't been going outside, or moving at all, except between classes and stuff. 

I have more scars than friends.

I realized a couple days ago that I was hoarding pills, and it scared me, a lot. Like, I have this jar of ibuprofen that's in the nurse's office to take in case I have a headache, and I had been asking for some every other day or so, and I was convincing myself that it was like for if I get one at home or on a trip or something, but really I realized that it was so maybe on a really bad day I could knock myself out or at worse feel floaty and uncaring and stuff. And that thought really scared me. 

I didn't stop, of course. I was taking like three a day, and I thought I was helping myself, like because when I cry, I get bad headaches, and I feel like crying all. the fucking. time. And I do, I cry whenever I get the chance, because I feel like I might shatter if I don't do anything about it. So I was taking the pills and my brain would tell me that I was feeling better, and I think I was just hoping that I would be unconscious. I rifled through our medicine cabinet and took some of my mom's pain relief meds, from when she broke her rib, and like, I took some when they were gone at work, which was a lot. And I would sit in the corner of my room, wracked with pain because I didn't eat and I had taken pills, blasting Green Day or the Misfits or whatever the hell was playing and I was like this is it this is where it ends, and I'd start crying when the pains would stop and I could see again, because I just wanted to stop being conscious so bad. 

So I started really cherishing sleep. I didn't want to die, per say, like I knew if I could be happy in the past I could be happy in the future and all that shit, but I just loved being unconscious. I didn't have to feel anything, I didn't have to do anything, I could generally lie there and be at peace, and I wanted to be like that all time. The only reason I wasn't asleep all the time was because I didn't want to disappoint my parents. Which, now that I think about it, sounds a lot like wanting to be dead. 

The ironic thing is that even though I wanted to be asleep, I didn't, because I knew that would keep me healthier, and I didn't want to be healthy. I think at some point I wasn't stuck on the pills or whatever else I was on, it was just like the self-destruction, and that became what I was hooked on, because I kept seeing like the beauty of it, of death and moving on and self-destruction and pain or whatever, and I guess that might seem kind of weird or whatever, but that's where I was. 

And so I kept crying, and listening to music, and drawing, and staying awake, and I was taking all the pills and not doing my schoolwork, and I became so sickly, and it got even worse when I got a cold. And we were going to Illinois, which I was absolutely dreading, because my aunts were there, and they were both doctors. 

Anyway, I was in the bathroom, and I caught myself in the mirror, and I just. I couldn't stop looking. I looked awful. But I thought I looked sort of awesome too. Not like awesome in the tense that it's used to day, but like "It's amazing I've survived this long". I really thought I would be dead by now. 

I wasn't sure what to think about who I'd become. I didn't really recognize myself. I was so pale, and my face was so hollow, my everything was hollow. I was so skinny, and the cuts on my forearms stood up so sharply against the paleness of my skin. I could see my ribs through my shirt, and I thought I looked a little yellow. But the part that scared me most was my eyes. They looked so dead and glossy and gross and they somehow looked like they were drained of color. I looked like I was drained of color. 

And I just really really hated myself. I still kind of hate myself. I'm so tired of coming home, and reading, and listening to dead bands, and not doing my homework because I'm just so bored, and going online and opening the same apps over and over and doing the same things because there's nothing else I can do, because everything I do is literally pointless because all I am going to do is just fail at life. And when I do, when I finally give up and they find my body off a building or in a bathtub or whatever I am going to shatter the lives of everyone that knows me, my friends, my family, everyone and I am just in a place now that it's only a matter of time before that happens, so all I really want to do now is just stop living and shrink back into my little corner to minimize the casualties because nothing I do is going to help people, and it's only a matter of time before I explode and obliterate everything in my path.

And I'm just really tired of being on the Internet. I'm tired of logging onto here and being like okay I'm going to write and people are going to love me, because that really isn't the case and I really do not want to write about these people because it is killing me it is literally killing me. I have no friends, and all I started caring about was my music and these stupid fucking imaginary people. 

Having anxiety and depression is like being scared and tired at the same time. It's the fear of failure, but no energy to be productive. It's wanting friends but dreading being social. It's wanting to be alone, but not wanting to be lonely. It's caring about everything and caring about nothing at the same time. It's feeling everything at once and being completely numb at the same time, and I'm tired of being in this hell that I call my life. 

I just.

I'm so sorry. 

I just don't want to do this anymore.

At least not right now. I'm not saying that I'm going to stop writing, I'm going to try, I really am. But I just need. A while. So right now, I'm officially going on hiatus. 

Don't hate me. 

And if you guys have anything to say, please, just do it. I need a reason to stop crying. 

P.S. @Ollyven I drew some Frerard if you want some pictures or something I can send them to you. I don't know if you'd care or not, but whatever.