does it make it better if you bear it and grin it and force yourself to get through what you know is the wrong choice but the best choice?
does it make it better if you know you're breathing deep and heavy and easy but feel like you're suffocating, drowning, and dying?
What constitutes as trying and what constitutes as lying when the only difference is that everyone else smiles and grins it and you break and shatter like a cracked sea shell no one wants to fill.
Where is home when you're the empty shell, the dead corpse, the hollowed out animal carcass that no one wants to touch? That no one wants to fill and make your empty existence their home and their shelter?
And I have to ask when people say that it gets better, does 'better' mean you stop questioning and you stop asking and you have answers and death isn't on the forefront of your mind and I have to ask. What fills your mind and your heart if it's not the breaths you're taking and not the words of death on your tongue, I have to ask because I don't understand.
I don't understand.
Everyone keeps asking me: "If it's so bad, why didn't you do anything to change it?"
What they don't know is that I did. I tried really hard when I was 11 to learn how to wash dishes and mop the floor.
I tried really hard when I was 12 to learn how to do my own laundry and pick up the dog's shit, and make sure I was safe from the blades and the pills and myself. I tried really hard when I was 13 to forgive myself for leaving my mom, for finding another place for me to call home, and to learn how to clean the bathroom. I tried really hard when I was 14 to learn how to cook and figuring out what was polite and right and what I wanted to do with my life. I tried really hard when I was 15 to forgive my mother for all the things she had done, and see what she saw when she looked at my father, and to come to terms with the fact that I was just starting to realize I'd be alone. I was 16 when I finally gave up, I was 16 when I handed in my resignation letter to whoever would listen, I was 16 when I thought, "Why can't I just die now?"
When I reached 17, all I could think about was that when I turned 18, everything would end. I would be free. I would be fine. All the unhappiness I built up to this moment will just tumble down and I can lie underneath it all, be okay with it, and and
and
I turned 18 last year.
I'm still here in this wretched place and I'm falling harder and faster than I can fully grasp.
The most I can do is sit here until someone comes home, and then I "fake it until I make it". The final destination of my day is to sleep.
Everyone needs to keep me from falling, and I think they know that, but they can't help me when they're not here to pull the strings.
It's a constant loop in my head now, the same constant loop of thoughts I had when I was 12, except I'm older now and I'm used to that constant buzz of monotony. The same depressing energy hovering next to my side, cradling me in my sleep, shoving me down when I walk outside.
I think people don't realize how hard I've tried to get used to the thought that I'm always going to want to die; that that's my goal; that after all this time of asking what I want to do, why I'm not doing it, how I don't know how to do anything. How do you help someone whose dream is death? Erasure. Complete. Obsolete.
I wanted to help myself, and I tried really hard. I tried hard to tell myself I haven't tried hard enough, I haven't tried at all.
But I have, and compared to others, maybe I haven't done anything, but for me, I've tried my best to finish my goal.
So it's back to fake it 'til you make it.
In this case, looking like I'm living and well and a big screw-up, until I do actually die.
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