Am I Really Crazy?

I question those that say they would care about whether or not they would care if I died.  I see no good that I bring to the world.  I’m tired of pretending that my presence matters to people.  I’m tired of listening to people telling me a lie about it.  If I died, it wouldn’t really matter to anyone. 
My mom came home the other day, well actually a couple of days now, saying that she had a girl threaten to kill herself or someone slit their wrist and that they were plain crazy.  I wonder if she would think the same thing if she knew that was how I feel.  Would her daughter be crazy too?  I remember when I was younger how much pain I suffered in silence.  I remember when she told me it was a miracle I had been through so much as a child and still was sane.  I have never told her about the feelings, how much I struggle just to make it through the day alive.  What do I have to gain from that anymore?  I doubt whether or not she would care.  Or maybe she would.  Her little girl is crazy. 

I think everyone thinks I’m crazy.  I remember grad school how close I was to killing myself then.  I remember the struggle, the constant struggle of trying to figure out if life was going to get better.  The constant disappointment of finding out things weren’t going to change.  I can’t keep doing that.  I can’t keep wondering if tomorrow is going to get better.  I can’t keep doing this. 

These feelings used to scare the shit out of me.  The fact that they don’t so much anymore scares me at times; at others the feelings are peaceful.  Just the possibility that the feelings will stop, no matter what the price, is comforting.  Maybe not to anyone else, but to me it is.

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