Don’t Forget About Me

I’ve been spiraling since July. Or was it May? I don’t know. It’s hard to remember. The months coalesce into weeks, into days, into hours. It gets a lot harder to get out of the quicksand when depression and self-hate slowly drown me the more months that pass me by before I even start dreaming. I know I’ll never find myself, so what is the point anyway.

It always feels so much better wallowing in the comfort and daydreaming, made up cute faces in you’re head. I never existed, and figuring out how to make that a reality. Letting myself drown into this self-created pit of misery that’s gotten impossible to escape from.

My favorite part is the lies I tell myself: “I’m strong. I can get through this.”

But you know that the honest truth is everyone hates who you pretend to be, and you’re too afraid to be who you really are. You sneak shots down your throat behind your friends’ back because you don’t want to admit how far gone you are. You dream about everything you were supposed to be but you know that they are only pretty pictures you imagined because nothing feels better than picturing yourself as someone else. You hate who you are.

I love having a second voice in my head, someone no one knows about. I’m afraid to give her a name, because that makes her more real. She likes slowly nudging me to closer to the edge, whispering in my ear about how much I’m afraid, how much I can’t cry the pain away, how much I don’t deserve better. I’ve been crying for two days straight because I believe her, and I don’t want to exist anymore. My whole life I hoped that someone would catch me, but the only thing that follows me is my shadow and the weight on my back filled with hate, pain, and regret.

Trying to act like I’m not exhausted with living has me constantly crying in the middle of the night, and hoping that I don’t keep losing the people that I love because I’m terribly broken inside. I thought antidepressants were supposed to be numbing so why is my keyboard covered in tears and why does my heart feel like it’s about to break into a million pieces. I desperately want to be myself but I don’t know who that is anymore. I’ve been searching for years but I already know that my soul is floating way too far away from my reach, so what’s the point of existing anymore.

You keep trying to run away from it, but you know why you’re sad. You know why you broke yourself into bite sized pieces. You are chocking because you’re too much to swallow. You’re exhausted because you are too heavy to carry. Too much, too sad, too desperate, too lonely. Too overwhelming because you always want too much.

I want to die and I’m not afraid anymore. I’m tired of dreaming that I can be someone else, and the solitude of nonexistence feels so arousing. It’s just way too hard to be happy. To be content. To want to be more than the things I’m supposed to be, the image of myself that I am expected to live up to. To be crying myself to sleep, and pretending to dream about being more than I know I will ever be. Infinite darkness sounds a lot more soothing. Every day, I sink deeper into this hole, and it gets darker, and colder, and a lot more comfortable.

It’s possible that someone is going to find me and save me, but it’s a lot more likely that I will forever be spiraling through this never ending dark hole, navigating through the depth of my trauma and revisiting every moment I was heartbroken because the pain feels good. Going over every detail because I need to remind myself that I don’t want to revisit these moments but the pain feels so good. I dredge up the worst memories because it’s easier to feel pain than joy.

I’m in love with broken girls. The type with walls always up around their hearts, and too afraid to just be themselves. See, I’m broken too. And I know that they can’t disappoint me as much as I do myself. I wish I could be better but it’s really hard to do that before you love yourself.

Play my favorite songs, and don’t cry about me leaving too soon. I always hated it here anyway. It’s hard existing, but it’s so much harder fighting every thought you have had since the voice in your head started shouting loud enough for you to listen. Trying to figure out why you feel a lot more than everyone around you is exhausting, even harder to try to love you for who you are is a big waste of time. What’s the point?

So, I write this to you. Every one, the people that I’ve love, And the people who loved me. The tears I’ve shed remind me that I shouldn’t have ever fought my emotions. My heart is bursting against my rib cage trying to call to every one of you so you can hear my cry for wanting to be someone who isn’t me..

Calling out for your hands against mine as the warm blood dries against my open wrists and my eyes close forever. I know that my existence barely scratched against the surface but I hope that I left a mark, no matter how unidentifiable.