On being alone

People tell me that I should be thankful. People say I have so much to live for. People say lots and lots of things. But I don't feel that way all the time. I go on and be happy and cheerful and keep on a good face. A smart stiff upper lip, and I'm learning not to whine. "Let it all out" They say. "Trust people" they say. "Take as much as you need" they say. But when I do that they all complain. "You don't understand how you feel" they say. "I'm real busy" they say. "Its time you moved on" they say.

So as it turns out, I fake for a while. A right good liar. I speak everything on my mind, I say. I trust all my friends, I say. They all help me immensely, and are always there for me, I say. Because it turns out people don't like me.
(Perhaps not dislike, they just find so much so much better than me. I'm really just not worth the trouble anymore.)

Time certainly doesn't matter. We all change, and how could I ask for someone to care about this thing I've become! We all drift apart, that's how things are supposed to be. Promises don't matter. No one can really be taken seriously if they say that they'll make time, or that they'll be there when I need someone to talk to. Life has far too much going on to make time, and no one really means that they want to hear what you have to say. They just want to feel like a good person for offering.

I'm horribly lonely, again. It seems this is what I can come to rely on. The pain. The empty white room, with no one in it. The fall. I have become Sisyphus, with my rock, and my mountain, to bear alone. Do not tell me I need to learn to trust, you have taught me that I shouldn't. Do not tell me that things will be good, you have taught me that they won't be.

I have learned that I am here to push my boulder up towards the heavens alone. I will tone my being, with every sinew, with every fall, with every success. I will be a worker towards the better. And I will do it by myself.

I will be that lonely rock pusher. Until nothing but my company is all I will remember. For there isn't a damn soul, who has convinced me that they will help me be otherwise.
At least my cat doesn't lie about what it thinks of me. 

Still here.

I've still got a brain. I'm still here. I can see when you lie with your face too, you know. Actions speak quite loudly, you know.  I would like an explanation, I hope you know.

The fog

Then the depression sets in. The numbness is pretty strong. You just feel tired. You want to die now not because of pain but because it just seems better. Nothing because you're dead seems better than the nothing of just empty.

This used to be my favorite holdiay.

But I've worked each Halloween night for the past three years, and the only thing that made it ohkay was that you were there. Today is hell. I'm miserable, I'm tired, I'm stressed and it was a lot harder to not cry in class today than it had ever been. Blackbird came on in art class, and I'm not sure how I didn't lose it right there. It hurt so much. I hurt so much. No one even said Happy Halloween.
Wish you were here.

Its hard

Its hard to escape myself. I think about hurting myself a lot. Right now there is a push pin right next to me, and I"m writing to keep my hands from picking it up and sticking it into my side. I'm listening to cheerful music. I feel sick; I've got a thousand things to do. I can't stand myself. I imagine this is what a lemming feels like. The pull into a greater unknown, a dark sight. The fear beckoner, the sweet enticings of that void crawler. An unknowner licking its lips with my being. I'll be with you soon... Or I won't. I feel like rejecting my stomach. The brain vicegrip clamps tighter each day. To be or not to be, it is indeed the question. Oh Hamlet, I'm sure you were happy for your death in the end. That poison was sweet and warm; a sleep well earned. I've taken up not eating much. Its that slow sort of knife, a simple one, an easy one. Befitting of someone so weak. I hate myself. I hate being around me. I'd like to 'jump ship' as they said about him. Ready to drown.

Help Me

Please. Anyone. Someone. Please. I'm so empty. I dream of changing the past. I think about time travel and miracles. I beg for things to be different. I am so hurt. People keep saying they understand. I don't want that. I don't want understanding, I want him back. I want the kindness back. I want those eyes back. I want to call someone in the morning and ask them how they're doing. I want that smell back. I want the sound of you walking down the stairs. I have apples and milk that are all yours. Just swing by and have some. What were you thinking, what were the drugs thinking before you went? Did you think of me? Could I have stopped it? I was awake that night, I wish I would have called. I wish I was there. Oh please... just come back. The world keeps spinning. I don't know what to do. I hurt. I hurt. I gasp for air and everything hurts. I'm crying and shaking and I still need you. I love you. Its all gone now. No ones here. No one cares. Help. Help....I can't do this anymore. Help.

I said I won't.

I've had a lot of people in my life kill themselves. It started when I was in seventh grade, the cutting, the pills, running away. Not me, but the people I knew. The important people.The ones I cared about and knew. After the first one died I made a promise. That I would never do that. I would never leave anyone behind like that. And each time it happened again, I promised a few more people that I wouldn't. But this is the first time that I've ever desperately wanted to. Where are all those people I promised? I sure don't have anyone one here. I've still got to deal with the same people, who are only friends because they want to date me. I've mentions them before, and I'll say again that I"m not yours. I never was, I was always his, and mine. But never theirs. I've got people I see every once in a while, I have a million faces telling me that they understand. I can't stand a single one of them. I can't stand this life. I hate it, all of it. I don't even have improv to cling to. I've got my sick self that can't sleep at night, I've got a thousand pointless things to do, you know, to just stay busy. To keep my mind off of things. To keep it away from the knives, and the pills, and the running away. The cars that veer off the road, the 'accidents', the going missing. The gas mask and oxygen, or carbon monoxide, either the most humane way to go. No mess, no pain, and just like falling asleep. I want to. I've stared into the void for far too long. Its calling. I would know, if there was something after. If it just ended then it would just end, and if not I might get to know. I said I wouldn't.... I promised I'd live....
And so I'm here. A shell. A mask that has a contract scribbled onto the front in black ink. There's an expiration date on it to. I don't want to die. I need to. Its calling. Its calling. Its calling...
I never got to say goodbye, so maybe I wasn't supposed to.
All that's left is for me to say hello.