Ramblings.

Suicide;

Committing suicide isn’t just about someone taking away their body. It also includes killing a part of yourself. That part of you who use to run outside and dance in the rain. That part of you that would just go to a coffee shop, order a muffin and read a book, while curled up on the couch. That part of you that would think about a memory and just smile.

It is either such a tragedy that someone had killed themselves, like a beautiful person or a celebrity: what a shame, they were so depressed and we were so nosey in their lives, or it could be a pass over: they were fat and bullied. Maybe they deserved it. They were just looking for attention. They were selfish.

The time that I committed suicide was in the morning. The day before, I laid everything out to him. I was shot down. Four years, wasted. He would then go on to tell me how pathetic I was. How everything I did was my fault. How I play the victim when all I am doing is shoving the blame elsewhere. How much of a piece of shit I was.

I will admit, I cried. Loud. Hard. Ugly. I wanted to find him and punch him. I wanted to harm myself. But, I stayed strong, decided to kill off that part of me that had hope.

Hope that someday, I’ll be pretty. Someday, someone will see me as a human. Someday, I’ll get an apology. Someday, that I’ll be somebody.

I guess I could call it ironic that the day today, all day, was dark, gloomy, and rainy. It fits my life. I was never good enough for anyone. Not in any other way, but in the bedroom. Even then, I was just disposable.

I forced myself to believe that if they came back, they saw something in me. They liked me. That possibly, someday, I would earn my way next to them in public. That someone would want to hug me, just because they wanted my arms around them, my head on their chest, not because it was the awkward hug of shame.

I want someone who would look to me when I first wake up, and think that even though I’m lazy and probably not on my best looking game, that I am amazing and how lucky they were to find me.

But I gave all of that up when I committed suicide. I gave it all up, because that’s just a fairy tale. A story. It’s not real life. I could see it happening to someone who looks like a princess… but I don’t. So why would it happen to me?

Killing myself, who I was, changes everything. Before, I was content. Understanding the reality of a situation, but still having that part of me who still believed. Now, I see what is really going on out there. People are cruel, and in order to live with them, you have to kill yourself.