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.