A Prose With No Direction
- Reads 1,089
- Votes 320
- Parts 100
MatureOngoing5h 29m
Last published Sat, Aug 8, 2020
A prose with no direction.
A mind with no guidance.
A human without a purpose.
That is the kind of story I hate to be.
That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
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"There comes a point where you no longer care if there's a light at the end of the tunnel or not. You're just sick of the tunnel." - Who I am doesn't matter. How I got here doesn't matter. What matters now is I'm getting help, right? That's what they tell me here. They tell me that the road to recovery feels like a terrible butt fuck, but the fact that you're on the path to begin with, is all that matters. So as I sit in this circle of fuck ups, I realize just how different I am from them. I didn't attempt suicide because my mother was a crack addict who didn't want me. My father wasn't abusive. I didn't have a sibling die in a car accident. I was never really bullied either. I attempted suicide because, for the first time in years, I thought I had found something that could make me feel again... and after not feeling much at all for far too long, perhaps I went a bit overboard
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