I Need to Dump This Out Now

 I'm no longer blaming myself. But after 5 months I do have something to say.

I have stated this part on my social media accounts at least once: If I hear one more person, who is practically a stranger to me, say that I'm dealing with this shit well "All things considered" I am going to scream.

No. I am not dealing with it well. The self destructive behaviors continue, just so I CANNOT feel anything. The excessive dating, the working 2 full time jobs. All it does is just stoke the fires of how absolutely exhausted I am from being angry. Do I work 80-90 hours a week for fun? Fuck no. This is a way for me to be too busy to process anything. I could survive off of 60 hours a week. 

Could I survive off 40? Again. No. Thanks to that fuck.

Which brings me to the second thing on my mind. Yes I get that I am "Handling things well" But if one more person, whether  I know them well or not, claims that they are happy my attempts at suicide failed. I may smack someone.

I know they mean well. But really? COOL! I'm sooo fucking happy that me being alive suits your needs. It does not, however, suit my needs. Nor even what I want.
Do you not realize what it is like to wake up after a mental breakdown, to see the sun rising as a taunt. Another mark on the "you've failed" list. 

Do you honestly think I want to know that I am immortal?

I don't. People could be sad. Yes... But I? Would finally be at fuckin peace. 
Take that "I'm glad you're still around." Bull shit and walk away. I'm not glad I'm still around. I'm kind of tired of living for other people's gains. 
Yay.. I'm glad that you would feel sad in a world without me, But that would only be temporary.

I've also been told that me spewing out the toxicity of the previous seven years helps nobody, me working myself until I am sick, helps nobody, and me being in a fragile state of mind helps nobody.

I'm not doing this for anybody. All of this??? Is 100% For me. The trauma dumping is me coming to terms with what I had ignored for years on end... The working 2 jobs is so that I am not homeless... I'm on newer medication to even myself out, so my mental state is going through major ebbs and flows until the cemistry gets used to it.

ALL THIS IS TO HELP ME! NOT ANYONE ELSE

So fuck off with that. 
I'm also tired of working for a big corporation where I have heard "We understand you're going through a lot but we have a business to run."
Yes a business that has seen an ungodly amount of increase in sales. To the point of shattering records.... And yet you refuse to give help or leeway. 

I was recently told that I seem to be in a better place, than when we first met.

Yeah, benefits of losing an abusive shit bag for a husband, and being free to make my own choices.

Honestly, the thoughts of my killing myself had dwindled. I just need to leave one of my places of work in order for me to be happy.

Although happy is a relative term, isn't it? I've started wirting again, started reading again, started collecting cards again.... I've had my empty two bedroom apartment newly decorated and furnished for what I want and need. 
And even with me being home just long enough to sleep.... I still feel trapped.

I don't have the serious desire to burn it to the ground though, and I assume that is a good step up. I have my car, to take me wherever I want to go, I don't have to check in with anyone about why I'm leaving.
And I am with someone who actually wants me to access my emotions and wants to figure out WHY I'm feeling the way that I am.

Not brushing it off or isolating me because it's not what he wants me to feel.

With all that being said. I am tired. 
I do want someone to come take care of me.
I'm tired of giving up things I want in order to get the things I need.

People keep telling me that these 80-90 hour weeks are temporary, I hear the hope in their voice. It's asked almost as a question, but stated as a fact.
And I, honestly, cannot say yes or no. Maybe I'll keep pushing myself to my limits for a while longer, to get the house I've always wanted. Or start the business I know I can. 
Even after my tormenting divorce is finalized and the shit bag is forced to pay just part of what he put me through. I'll use that as a nest egg and save more money. Working myself to my limits so that I can finally drag myself out of this debt and go traveling. 
Get a house with many dogs. I don't know, maybe get the fuck out of the toxicity that is Utah in general

I was told that I don't need to leave the state to get a fresh start....
But I do. I really do. The oppressive nature of this place in general has me feeling trapped, and regardless of whom I love here, it will always be the state to hold me prisoner.

My goals are all short term.... I cannot see anything past May of 2022 when I have to decide to renew the lease here, or try to find some place else to live. 

So for now, I'll work, I'll pay off debt. I'll try to save money for when  that time comes. 

And I'll hope that the meds even me out soon, because I miss being manic.

I'm Exhausted

 I'm so incredibly tired.  It's not a fatigue that I can shake. I can sleep for a full day and want more. 

I can drink a coffee and still fall asleep. 

I'm emotionally drained.  Empty. And alone.

Nobody is asking for me to be okay. But when I'm not okay. Consequences happen. My husband leaves, I lose my job, I have to find a new place to live. 

If I were okay I'd have my love, my job, and a home I loved. 

I miss my father. 

I miss having someone ask how my day was. 

I miss sharing small things with my husband. Like mailboxes shaped like dragons or a St. Bernard I see at the dog park. Or how well the dog we adopted is doing. 

But I wasn't okay. And so the person I shared my life with is gone.

I'm not playing a pity party. I dont mean I wasn't okay in the sense that me stating I was unhappy ruined everything. 

I stated I was unhappy well after I had done damage. And damage had been done to me. I am not the full fault here, but I didn't help matters. 

I'm tired of crying. I'm tired of feeling second in life. I want to MOVE. 

After Wednesday broke me. It furthered my resolve. Once I woke up to a new day. Beyond emotionally drained. Happy for that feeling of numbness. 

I'm now tired of being angry. I'm just sad. I'm lonely. 

I have amazing people in my life. And I'm grateful to them. But they fail in comparison to the one who became my everything and is now my nothing. Just so suddenly.  

I can honestly say that Wednesday was terrifying. I scared myself. I worried others. But I woke up to the alarm after a fitful sleep on the couch. 

I can be better than this right? My dreams of a forever love, with a home and dogs. My own business can still happen cant it? 

Or did I screw up everything by not being okay? 

I am tired of being alone.

Sleeping alone. 

But it seems it's where I belong. 

Good night 

One of These Days, I'll Post When I'm Happy

 I've been in a contemplative state. Neither good nor bad, it just is.

I've been wondering if everyone views themselves as the heros, or villains in their own story...

I'm the support character. On a good day. 

A martyr on a bad one.

I genuinely want others in my life to be happy. No matter the self sacrifice it costs to me. I am also needy, and attention whorey without meaning to. 
With the way that things have been going, since getting married, I've been spending more time alone. 
I chat with myself as I walk the dog. 
My internal dialogue is no longer just inside my head, but spoken aloud.
When it is all internal... I'm smoking.

I'd always imagine, someone else asking the questions, and myself answering. Between inhales of smoke, 
In this scenario, I'm chain smoking. Not cigarettes, but cigars. Which is probably brought on by the last time I had too much to drink and gave into that oral fixation.

I'm not a support character, though. I'm me, but I have no idea who that person is. Maybe nobody does. I wear too many masks. I'm that person who would do anything to make someone else happy, even if that means to alter my own personality.... Which is a personality in of itself, is it not?

The husband has been trying to get his book finished, and published. So I won't work so hard to finish mine or publish them. I have postponed honing my baking skills because I have others who want to succeed. I'd study photography more, but honestly? I don't want to be in contest with others. I'll stick with my phone pictures.

The question comes down to, in this situation, am I doing these things BECAUSE I think it would be better than others? Or because I think others are so much better than me?

The wasted potential runs in my family.

I'm getting back into Boudoir, which is more empowering than not. Someone told me that they wish they had my confidence. 
I don't have much self confidence. I do these things because, while I don't understand how or why, I know that others find it appealing. 
At the very least, my husband.

I've been manic for so long, through Covid, through the holidays, the crash has been eternal. I can't seem to find my focus. 
Especially while home alone, more often than not. 
My brain needs a hard reset. But it's been two years since I've done it. I'm proud of myself. 
There has to be another way.

This is the part where another person would ask a question, and I'd take another drag. Tossing the smoke to the black sky.

While I play this scenario in my head over and over again, even fell asleep to it, I can't remember the questions; nor my answers.


I'm not suicidal, which is a huge step for me in this phase, but I'm stuck. Just stuck.
I'm so tired of being stuck, but what would get me unstuck?

Apparently, me wanting companionship while I'm alone, so I'm not alone, is a form of manipulation and using another human.
I just want to be on someone's mind when I'm not around.
I don't think I know what that feels like. 
Out of sight, out of mind.

Maybe this is my mid-life crisis. 

I desperately need to get to the ocean. To hear something more powerful than humans, to stare into the void as if I'm at the edge of a cliff looking over, and yet not feeling fear.

I've had my feet knocked out from under me, as waves try their best to keep me submerged. I've lost footing in a river, I've been sucked down below the currents by quick sand and mud.
And yet. no fear.

Maybe I need to take this time alone, and figure out just who I am. Maybe I'm tired of being the chameleon. Maybe those masks that I wear are what is weighing me down.

But it doesn't change the fact that I feel happiest, when I can help someone else feel happy.
Is it so wrong to have my identity so tied to how much I can do for others?

I suppose it is, when I feel jaded, or discouraged, when they don't return the favor. 

Welcome to the post manic crash. I've been so high for so long. It's long overdue for me to delve into the depths of me and make a nice home.

My usual self destruction has turned inward. (Would it be self destruction if it didn't?) But not in the forms of pain....
Apparently my mentality wants to attack what I am most vain about. I've had dreams of me chopping off the rest of my hair, because "It's awful, and so are you." as I stared myself down in the mirror. 
I've been fighting this urge to take it out on what I used to cherish most, for months.
I cut off 8 inches in December, I hate the cut. I hate how short it is now. I grew my hair out for years to get it to my hips. I chopped it off. 
And now I want to chop it off more.

I want to run away from who I am, and who I was. I need a new me. But why do I want to destroy everything I've valued?

I had a panic attack at work in November. 
The husband was nowhere to be found.
Just like when I was rushed to the hospital,
Just like when my father died.

I don't need someone often. But damn, if it doesn't hurt when the one human I need won't be there.
It would be FINE if I could rely on others. When my father died a good friend offered to pick me up from work and drive me to my parent's house while Doug was ignoring all my phone calls.
The guilt trip that I went to someone else, no... That someone else was coming to my rescue. Isn't worth it.

My panic attack was a rehash of all that; and just like last time; he was with someone else.

Out of sight, Out of mind.

Maybe this year I'll discover who I am.
I say that every year.


Maybe I'll pick a thing and try to hone it, attempt to not waste my own potential.
But again, I say that every year.


I had a dream where someone was telling me I was worth fighting for. Maybe I'll hold onto that dream more than the one where I wanted to cut off all my hair. 

I'm kind of bouncing back and fourth on my topics, but that is the muddied mess that my mindset is in. 

I keep going back to just settling for a physical relationship, maybe a friends with benefits isn't so bad. I have maintained a purely physical relationship for years. It seems to cut out the mess. Cut out the drama. Then it gives incentive for others to spend time with me....

Which is a thing I've been trying to fight. My company should be enough right?
I don't have to bribe with food, or sex?
With the way that I'm seeing the world....
No. It isn't enough. Bribes fully accepted.

I suppose I'll do what I've always done.
Bury all this shit so deep that I'll let it boil over and ruin lives.

Recently, I've been going back to a conversation I had with an old coworker. 

She asked if I was okay, I confessed that I had dark thoughts keep me up.  She went on to say "omg me too! I thought last night that what if i died. Like what would happen to my children?" 

I looked her, dead pan, and said "mine are. 'You could kill yourself but nobody would notice anyway so why bother?'" 

Bribes make people care 

Time to take the dog out for a walk.

adieu 

Stop Lying

As I've entered this more recent depressive state, one I haven't seen in quite a while.
I had a dream, where all I wanted to do was kill myself.

That caused me to take a step back, and evaluate. I've cut Social media out of my daily routine, and been outside more. It's helping.

Until friends who rarely speak to me, tell me they would miss me if I died.

They wouldn't even notice

Let's be honest. They might like the idea of having me around to talk to once a month or so. But not consistently.
And that's adult life. Honest.
You grow apart from friends, emotionally, even physically.
I do not think that anyone who sees me off Facebook, would even notice I've died for months.

Which is what happened when a mother figure in my life passed. Two weeks and I never knew.
She just went silent on social media.

Stop lying about how you'd notice instantly. With the current break I'm on. Nobody would know.
Not one person.
Not unless my husband went through my contacts and let them know.
My family would know, but most of them aren't friends with my friends.
My Husband is off Social media completely.

You wouldn't know, and you probably would be blissfully ignorant.
It's okay. I'm the same way. I suck at keeping in touch with people, so the only way I'd know is through the grapevine.

Just stop lying about it.
You wouldn't miss me anyway.

It's Been a Month

All the warnings galore:




There's a hole in the wall, from where I tried to smash my head through it.
A Puddle of blood, soaked through the carpet, and more than likely through the wood under it, that has dried by my bed. A box cutter, with Rust colored dried blood, is sitting open under a dirty clothes hamper.


I lost my mind.
I'm still healing physically, and emotionally.

Something else took over.
My inner demon.
The voice, that challenges every positive interaction, won.

It received validation, someone else saying I was the problem, and it got free.

I tried everything I could.
I bit myself, the bruises didn't become apparent until they faded over a week after. I was pinching, it wasn't enough.

It all happened in a blur.
I blacked out.
That voice reminded me that it was right, and I was wrong. I was so wrong.

I've been fighting my self destructive side for so long. I was exhausted mentally, emotionally, from fighting it.
Hearing someone validate that voice. Was enough, that time, to grow in power.

I blacked out.
I remember head butting the wall, in desperation, Then I regained control again when I saw the river of blood running down my leg.

That feral, blood lust part of me. Remembered where the box cutter was.
It had always taken a note of it.
Every time I saw it, I thought to myself "I need to put that away"
but I never did.

Maybe It didn't want me to.
I grabbed it, slid it opened and cut, deeply.

First time in six years.
First time hurting myself in three.
I sobbed.
I was drained.

It won.

I went to the hospital, after twelve hours it was still profusely bleeding.
They gave warnings on waiting so long for stitches, I spent three hours in the ER.
I lied to them to get me to go home.
"Do you have thoughts of suicide"
"No" I lied
"Did you do this to end your life."
"No.." I half lied.  I want to kill myself. I didn't do this to kill myself. I did this as a way to DESTROY myself.
"Do you have feelings of self loathing, self depreciation, etc?"
"No" Another lie.
I lied through my teeth to keep from being put into a hospital over night, or for a few days.
I had work. I didn't want to be alone. The fear of being alone, and being fired is greater than staying alive.

Four stitches, and five staples later...
That damn voice won. That demon had it's blood lust satisfied. So it crawled back.
But it was stronger.
I'm still fighting it.
Work is not helping.
I'm alone more often than not, and I can't get it to shut up.


I'll be seeking help when I can afford it. Maybe I'll be put on medications. Maybe a therapist is all I need.
The stitches came out, my scars are still healing.
I needed to get this out.
I needed to confront what happened.
The bill came out to over $1600, and I'm sure it's still counting.

I'm still depressed from this.
I'm still wallowing in my own self doubt.
I don't know if I can fix this
I don't even know if I truly want to fix this.

I just don't know.


z

As I Stare Down at the Brink of my Own Destruction

I will start this off by saying, I have friends who check up on me, and I love them for it. I appreciate it.
I recently met a friend who told me "I know how you feel, it sucks doesn't it?" That alone, has made this more bearable.



I crash after times of stress, happiness, and general activity. I workout, I see people, I go to things, but at this point in time it is all just temporary relief.
When I crash, it is almost as if I were going 120 miles per hour on the freeway and had to slam on the breaks to keep from hitting someone crossing the busy road.
I stop. Suddenly, and I cannot just restart.

I want to destroy all that I am. It's more than just suicidal thoughts. It's a total self destruction. I want to destroy my body, while my mind destroys itself. I want to erase myself from ever had existed.

I can tell when I'm getting closer to the inevitable breakdown. My moods flash through an assortment in a matter of an hour. My humor gets darker than normal.... Only a part of me isn't kidding.


This New Year has brought about the third year since I have self harmed, almost four years since I've taken a blade to my skin.
That is the highlight of my 2018

And it shouldn't be.

I'm getting listless, I want to sleep. Only sleep. Because if I am awake and alone, I can't deal with it.
I look forward to work, because it keeps me from breaking down.
I hate showers because it helps me to break down.
Drinking and being around friends makes me happy, but it's only temporary and in the end my brain asks me "Was it really worth it?"

I'm on the brink of my own existential crisis, and I hate it. I hate it when all I wonder is "What is the use of my being alive right now?"

As I pulled up this blog to write this, I have drafts, about how many times I've tried to kill myself and still am alive.
I feel like I shouldn't be.
I don't always feel like I shouldn't be.

I know I have people who care about me, and want me alive and well.
But right now?
Do I?


Or am I just an annoying little thing that people keep around out of pity?
My birthday, 2017 I crashed so hard from work stress, and was stuck at home, alone for a week straight. That for a few days my thoughts turned to "If I were to take a blade to my skin, and cut through the veins showing, how long would it take for me to bleed out? Would anyone notice?"

I will not ever do it.
Don't worry.

But that feeling is always nagging at me. The voice is sometimes more quiet, it is times when the levels of happy, levels of being "up" drop. It's screaming.
It's deafening.
The "Why bother trying" is all I hear.
I drink to shut it up, I drain my social batteries to be around people to quiet it down.




~~~
~~
~



Doug, doesn't understand.
He knows that this is a thing, and I hate putting him through the roller coaster of emotions. He doesn't understand that there is literally no cause.
It's not just one thing that tips me over the edge.
It is a lot of things that accumulate over time.
He understands circumstantial depression.
He doesn't understand that I don't know what's causing it. Or what can help.


Having someone say "I know how that goes." Is amazing.




I've been trying to be more honest about when I'm on the edge of the abyss.
I've started to ask friends for help.
I still feel a burden, a nuisance. There is not anything that can fix that.... I will always hear that voice.

I'm Not Depressed...... But What if I Fail?

Trigger warnings, self harm, suicide, depression, anxiety, and general uneasiness on this journey.

I’ve been reading a lot about how people with depression either don’t remember themselves before the depression, or they remember how they were and miss that.
How celebrities who have killed themselves were often told stories starting with "I never thought he was depressed."

I don’t think I have ever not been depressed. But I was told that I wasn't.

My earliest memories consisted of me telling my parents that I thought I was depressed. I was probably 8.

My mother looked at me and said “You don’t have depression.”

I asked how she knew.

 “Because you’re the first one up in the morning, you have energy, you don’t just want to lay in bed. With depression it’s a fight to get up in the morning, to want to do something. And you don’t have that”

I couldn’t tell my parents that every night I fantasized about ways I could die, just to get to sleep.

 Most nights I would think about death, my death. Would people miss me? What would they do if I died in my sleep?

Those were the thoughts that lulled me to sleep.

Since I was about 9 or 10, I figured I would die… Not from natural causes, but from either my own hand, or someone whom I loved and trusted.

I would be murdered or kill myself.

It’s just a thought that has sunk itself deeper in me as time goes on.

As I got older, I would go deeper into detail of how I could die. I would not ever do it myself. What if I failed?

I tried a few times, before I became a teenager. Half heartedly.

I wasn’t depressed, I was told that I wasn’t depressed.

When I was in Elementary school a classmates sister killed herself, and my comments (as well as actions) caused me to see the school counselor.  

She assured my 10-year-old self that everything discussed would remain between us. I immediately looked for cameras and knew she was lying. 

She kept asking me why I stated I wanted to kill myself?

I never had an answer. 

The School called my parents to let them know. My faith and trust was destroyed.

I had another incident where I confided in a friend in middle school, I was just existing, I didn't want to any more.

Again counselor, and again, my parents were notified of my "suicidal thoughts". I stopped talking about it.

I was bullied in elementary and middle school. But I never felt like I would kill myself over that.

In high school my anxiety became an issue. To myself and my father. My mother and doctor just saw it as a nuisance.

I had friends who harmed themselves, and while I dreamed of taking my life on a nightly basis, I never understood the reasoning behind just cutting.

Until I started.

My road to self harm, was a progression. After a shopping trip with my mother, hearing all the negative things she’s said about herself… While I was going through the same thing, switched something in my head.

I’ve always had self image issues. Always. Ever since I was called fat and “miss piggy” in third grade.

I tore my ACL and had to quit swimming when I was 15. I gained fat, I gained weight, and nothing fit.

If I felt thin enough to wear a tank top, my mother would point out how I needed to do crunches. If I wore shorts, or hip hugging jeans, my boyfriend at the time would see my stretch marks and assume I was cutting myself.

That summer, and shopping trip ruined me. My mother was saying how useless she was for gaining weight and why should she bother even going on shopping trips anymore?
Meanwhile I would have to go up three sizes in jeans (I went from being a skinny 115 muscled girl, to a chubby 140 lb girl) and my mother would assure me, that I will go back to my size 2.

I never did.

I got home, feeling so useless and over weight. I went to my room after dinner, and grabbed some scissors, they were dull. But the pain and the welts were enough.

Tears stung my eyes as I made red marks across my wrists. I followed the veins after a while, imagining my blood spilling out and finally ending.

But what if I failed?

They were welts, and I was still in my pop/punk phase, the wristbands covered them easily, even if they were a bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t out of the ordinary.

I don’t remember when I moved from dull scissors to a knife. I am sure it was after one of many fights I have had with my maternal unit.

It was a curved paring knife. I remember grabbing it because the curve was just perfect for my wrists and ankles.

It was the first time I drew blood.

Just small scratches. Only one scarred, and that was because it got infected.

I wore a metal balled chain around my wrists as a form of bracelets normally, so again. I could hide it without any issue.

I was swimming for my high school, I was smart enough to keep my injuries hidden. Most of these instances happened over the summer months. Outside of school, and swimming.

Over the summers, nobody would know if I lived or died.

What if I failed?

Knowing what I know now, I realize what would create my low impulse in this.

It wasn’t until after high school, that my cutting went from scratches that could heal in a few days, to gashes that wouldn’t heal for weeks.

My current knowledge of first aid, comes from me having to tend to my own gashed wounds, in secret.. In my bedroom after roommates fell asleep.

I have a scar, on my left arm. I got it after about three weeks into my college time. I was alone. Tired of being tired, I took some xanex, benadryl, and sleeping pills. To get me to sleep.

I don’t remember what was going through my head, but I grabbed my bread scoring knife (it was essentially a double edged razor.) and I cut deep into the groove of my arm where my bicep met my shoulder muscles.

I needed stitches, but I grabbed some towels, put over the cut, and fell asleep.

In college, I drank, I abused my medications, and I genuinely hated myself.

I took diet pills, stopped eating, and tried to over exercise the weight I had gained from culinary school.

My first actual attempt at suicide happened when I was 22. I was isolated, alone, and on the outs with family and my boyfriend at the time.

He couldn’t handle me at my worst, and so it was my fault.

I took my xanex, (what little I had left of it) and a bottle of sleeping pills. I wrote a note, to be found on the computer, in case anyone checked up on me.

I wasn’t depressed, I still got up early in the morning, I worked two jobs, I had a social life. I wasn’t depressed. Just suicidal.

I remember my heart beating funny, and taking another hand full of pills after the first didn’t put me to sleep.

I awoke the next morning, after only a few hours of sleep.

I failed.

My road to recovery has been long, a decade. I’ve finally stopped cutting myself, I went from nearly being hospitalized, to scratches, to digging my nails in my skin, to biting my lip, to now I just clentch my fists.

It was control that I had when I needed physical pain. It snapped my brain to focus on something.

My demons are dark, I still get myself to sleep by thinking of my death. I’m not depressed. I still can’t stay in bed all day.

But every day is a fight.

Every day alone is a fight.

My demons come out when nobody else is around to keep them away.

I contemplated harming myself last year, over my 28^th birthday week. I thought about just ending it.

I had taken a week off from work, with the anticipation of spending it out and about. And while events happened. It left me home, alone, isolated, for 12 hours out of the day.

Nothing seems appealing to do after that.

I’ve always crashed after social situations, this I knew. But it was the absence of something to do. I knew this by then.

I cover my depressed and suicidal self by being overly busy. I always had as a kid too.

I had chores, I asked for more chores. I went out with friends, I’d take walks with my cousin, I’d chase away those demons with work and other people.

I still do.

I remember the pain I felt when my parents worried about my brother, for always partying, and being out with friends…

Ignoring the fact that over the summer I was isolated, I spent the time in my room, or doing chores, or in the basement….

I’m proud that I’ve gone over two years without self harming.

I’m happy that I haven’t attempted to kill myself. Either intentionally or unintentionally.

I am grateful for all my friends who helped me through this phase.

But my battle is never over. I still over use sleeping medications when I can’t get my thoughts to stop. I still use diet pills when I feel like I need to be a better form of myself.

People talk about how the celebrities who have killed themselves always seemed so happy.

So am I. It is a mask we all wear, and sometimes, the facade is far better than the reality.

I can’t be left alone to my own devices for more than a day or two, or else those demons will creep up, and try to pull me under.

I don’t know who I was before they came along.

I’ve always wanted to die, as long as I can remember.

I was always a happy, if not sometimes stubborn moody child. I would smile, laugh, and play games.

But when I was alone, my demons would come and play.

And they were (are)  always hungry.

Depression isn’t just a blanket list of symptoms.

It comes in all shapes and sizes.

For me, it’s that voice stating “why bother? You’re useless now, as you’ve always been.”

After every task I complete.
If I do the housework, those creatures are still there, “Why bother?”

I failed at taking my own life, and now they tell me “You fail at life, and death, what’s the point of you?”

I don’t know what the point of me is.

Maybe I don’t want to know.

I just want to be at peace, at some point in my life.