Diary of a Dead woman

Diary of a Dead woman

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Wed, Mar 23, 2022
I'm alive, I mean, I'm breathing, blood still runs through my veins but am I really alive, to be alive and to truly live are two different things, in my understanding, to be alive is have a heart beat and warm blood in your veins and arteries to truly live is to be conscious, with everything and everyone, to be aware, something we all seem to think we do, it's not always about an adrenaline rush nor is it to be completely happy, to me it's about being free, unchained by the laws of society, the freedom to let lose, to push past the boundaries we have set for ourselves and we have done for others, that's what being alive is to me, a feeling I never get to experience and so I sink into a deeper whole of my own demise and depression and I'm left with a mountain of fermenting anger and pain waiting to erupt
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#341
southafrica
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*Mitch POV* I knew something was wrong when I couldn't breathe. It was in the middle of our social studies lesson for the day, and I tried to take a breath. All that happened was worse suffocation. Being twelve, I didn't handle it well. I opened my mouth to try to speak, but all that came out was an odd sounding croak. My teacher hushed me. But someone sitting next to me looked at me and noticed how pale I looked, or noticed that tears were welling in my eyes and I was drooping. I wrapped my hands around my throat seconds before I blacked out. That was only the first instance. In the time that I was unconscious, my lungs filled with fluid and I almost died. I was out for nearly two days, and my parents really thought that I would die. I vaguely remember hearing my mom crying while I couldn't open my eyes, and my dad telling her that maybe it was just my time and they had to let me go. But then I woke up, and the fluid had been drained from my lungs. I spent a while more in the hospital, and in that time, my parents found out that I had cancer. It had been determined that I probably wouldn't live much longer, maybe three months at the most. The conversation was happening outside my room, where I was supposed to be asleep, but I still heard the whole thing. What I remember most is my mom's sobs.

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