Musings of a dumb bitch

Okay

I sat on the bath last night.
Welded to the plastic edge where the white valley slopes, a pile of clothes lay deserted. Dry, warm skin against the cool plastic. I spoke. Aloud.
To hear it and there was no one there.
Just me.
No other omnipresent force.
A performance? More a rehearsal.
And it was nice.
Somethings are hard to admit, so hard we scribble them down frantically because nobody can kill you if you're already pulling your blade from your own stomach.
I'm being facetious.
The truth is that I'm depressed.
Again.
It was okay for a while and now it's not.
Life lost its colour like a shitty box tv from 1973.
I was okay because I'd been discharged and one pill a day sorted me out.
Or because I had friends, people to laugh with and hold in July dusks.
And I was happy I really was.
I was on the bus, speaking to my friend when I told her that I realized I wanted to be alive.
I did.
I was afraid to die and be forgotten in dirt. I think I still am.
That was one of the best moments.
It glows in my mind because I remember how it felt.
It was beautiful.
And I don't want to die.
I'm scared to. Maybe that makes me small and vapid but that's okay.
Because it's the truth I'm afraid of death.

So how can I be depressed?
It's not rhetorical.
I was never ashamed before, never afraid to admit it.
I didn't care who knew.
I was happy I was. Perhaps because I knew I deserved it, maybe because I was young and romanticising the unfortunate hereditary history I'd been gifted.
I wasn't lying.
But on some level I was pleased.
Judge me because that is wrong.
I knew that, but what else did I have going for me?
Maybe because I was recovered.
That's okay I suppose.
Maybe because I don't want to be.
I'm not sure.
That's okay as well.
It didn't feel good to say out loud.
People always say that it does.
"Get it off your chest"
It didn't feel bad, yes I cried but I've cried before. It just, felt...
Because I'm depressed.
I won't go back to any mental health services, because they discharged me and I'm too proud. Or in denial, still.
They're pretty shit overall as well and never helped before.
But I haven't left the house in a week.
I'm not self harming but I disassociate in the mirror for hours. Picking at skin until it's raw and red.
Bad habits, but that's okay.
I have friends, we don't speak much.
The new friends I message sometimes and that's nice.
Old friends, friend. Only to apologise.
Even if I don't say it.
I'm sorry.
I'm a disappointment to my family.
Because I'm giving up 6th form and a levels. And they tell me how I'm throwing my life away.
Maybe I am. That's okay.
I don't really care.
I want children but deep down I know I could never be a mother.
Because I'd let them down.
I know I would. No child deserves that bad a start in life as to have me for a mother.
I want a wife but I just can't see that happening even if it did, there would be a divorce and it would be my fault.
And that's okay.
I'm lonely. Im so lonely and it hurts like pulling on the dead flesh of a wound. Slowly tugging away.
But I've been lonely before and it's okay.
And I know I won't kill myself.
I knew I would once. I walked home and I knew it was the final hour.
I told my friend a month later, to apologise. I didn't tell her why not.
My mum came home early. She didn't catch me in the act. I hadn't even got the pills yet. But the truth is I couldn't do it with her in the house.
Because I'm scared. Im scared and sometimes all I want is my mum to come and stop me.
And I've started crying as I type this and that's okay.
She's in the room next door. Asleep.
'Would I lie to you' probably still in the background.

I don't know where I'm going with this. It feels like a suicide note.
It's not though, I promise.

But it's all okay.
I'm okay.
But I need help. I know this.
I'm thinking of sending this to a friend. And I know how unfair that is.
But it hurts and I want someone to tell me it will be okay.