Disconsolate || Z.M

Disconsolate || Z.M

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Fri, Apr 29, 2016
If you would have told me years ago that I'd be the girl alone in her room crying herself to sleep each night with major depression, I'd laugh in your face. Because I havent always been like this. At least I don't think I have. I may not have had a mom and dad for a time but I never had felt like I do now. I never felt empty or alone, never wanted to kill myself. As a matter of fact I had feared death. However I think it might have been the aging part that got to me. I didn't like that when you get older, you get freedom and life but suddenly you have to take care of your body and cant eat pizza everyday. Now though, I just dont see the point. I don't see why I would go through a life of hell to get into hell. Why not just die now? There really isn't a point to stressing in life but somehow I found myself stressing over things that weren't even worth stress. I guess I felt overwhelmed and I had no way to escape my thoughts, which really revolved around stress and death by then. The start of the depression is hard to pinpoint. Because the dot moves in my timeline. It can't stay in one place for too long. And in all honesty I think if it did stay put, it'd be easier to recover.
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#106
naill
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Three things happened simultaneously: the beer bottle dropped from his hand and shattered on the floor, my father let out a deep, throaty chuckle, and his hand had struck me across the face. I put my hand on the spot he had just hit and felt the heat and sting of the impact. I looked down at the broken beer bottle, still holding my hand on my cheek, and I felt a heavy boot kick into my waist. I fought back tears and stayed silent. After a few moments, I heard the footsteps retreating and the sound of a door slamming shut. When I was sure he was gone, I looked away from the broken bottle, and tears welled up in my eyes. I never showed my weaknesses to my father, happiness was the last thing I wanted to give him. After a few minutes, I pulled myself off the floor and slowly approached my dresser, cautiously opening the top drawer and moving some socks out of the way. I pulled out a long blade, and with trembling hands, slid it across my wrist, adding to the collection of scars. I began to quietly sing a familiar tune that seemed to comfort me in times like this: “Heart beats harder, time escapes me, trembling hands touch skin, it makes it harder, and the tears stream down my face. If we could only have this life for one more day, if we could only turn back time…” My voice trailed off and I drifted to sleep.

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