𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 | billie eilish

003

sunday - june 7, 2020

𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧
𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝟐𝟔, 𝟐:𝟎𝟎𝐩𝐦
𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬

School starts on September 3rd. A week is left to mentally prepare myself for the rude comments, getting inattentively pushed to the side on purpose, being bullied and called a slut who should go to hell.

Don't they say all the gays go to hell already?

Funny that I'm surprisingly a part of that specific group of LGBTQ+ as well.

They all should shut their mouth, even glue their lips together to prevent such dumb statements from accidentally slipping off their snaky tongues.

Be quiet if you don't know my story. Keep
your dirty assumptions to yourself, I'm not interested in hearing fucked up theories about my own personal life, when I am the person who clearly knows it best.

Nightmares, inner uncertainty, and flashbacks kept me up all night. They find it mercilessly hilarious to see me suffer from them so badly. My health is falling apart, literally. But I'm acting like that hasn't been the obvious case for over two years now. Do you still believe my stupid acting of being okay? You must care a lot about me then, I'm impressed.

I just want him to return to Earth. With him by my side, everything would make so much more sense. I still see him, his face, I still hear his soft voice that was about to go deeper as he would've grown older over his upcoming teenage years, which were awaiting him. Our togetherness was torn apart within only a matter of minutes, our indescribably strong connection, our relationship of no other pair of siblings in the big wide world was gone. Lost in the void of his lifeless body.

Occasionally, I wake up at night. The cause is dreams that force me to watch the scene of him losing his consciousness—his life—right in front my own two eyes over and over again. It's a never-ending, repetitive story. I can't cut it out of my memory and won't ever be able to do that; I sometimes wish I could, though, even if it may sound cruel being stated by his own older sister.

The loss of him was my real world's end. My sense of wanting to stay alive vanished within a blink of an eye; my future fell to the ground and shattered like a highly expensive, huge glass mirror. Ever since his death, I've felt like I am spending days and weeks in a big, stuffy bubble. On the one hand, it keeps me safe from what is truly going on in the strange outer world, on the other one, it does nothing except cutting me off from sport events I could be participating in, parties I could go to, and know what it's like to have a life outside my bed.

If only my MDD—major depressive disorder—and PTSD wouldn't exist.

An annoyingly loud and unexpected knock on my locked door tells me that it's time to get up for the first time today. I haven't eaten yet, brushed my teeth, taken a shower, changed my clothes. Nothing.

"What?" I shout, rolling from one side to the other to have a look at the door, which I think will magically open, although that's impossible.

"Can I come in?" I hear a female's voice resound before the entrance of my spacious bedroom.

The desire to shout into her face right now is immense. I wanna throw all those hateful words back at her, I want them to suffocate her. Does she even remember the night from a few days ago? To be honest, I highly doubt it. It would be a wonder if she still had that scene saved in the lowest corner of her head.