Hey there Soupy, I'm writing just to tell you that I'm sorry for letting you down…again. On days like today I just can't seem to find the Upsides no matter how hard I look. Sometimes there's nothing left to do except indulge in my selfish sorrows. I think about my pathetic life and create thin, red lines of hate across my skin. That's actually what I'm trying to avoid doing right now. A few weeks ago, my therapist suggested that I try writing whenever I feel the urge, but I don't see what good it's doing. The option is still there, and with the need left unsatisfied, it'll still be my choice.
It will still be my choice. My choice to walk to the bookshelf, my choice to pull out The Thin Executioner by Darren Shan, my choice to open it to page 290, and my choice to pull my razorblade from between the pages. Of course there are other choices too, but after those first four, the rest of them don't feel like choices. They feel like commands.
It's moments like this, pre-cut, that I turn to the musical styling's of Josh Ramsay from Marianas Trench. I've always found it funny that the first song of theirs I ever heard was from a cliché TV show about vampires. I feel like I have a lot in common with Ramsay. Almost everything except for, well ya know, that one thing. I've tried to before, on multiple occasions, and I've come to the conclusion that I have no gag-reflex. It's a depressing moment when, bent over a toilet, you realize that you're such a screw up that you can't even make yourself vomit. Not through lack of trying or lack of desire, just because your body won't let you. I curled into a ball in the bathroom and cried for an hour. I have never felt more worthless than I did at that moment.
Well, maybe that's not true. But I felt pretty damn worthless. I don't feel worthless now. Well, yeah I do, but more than that, I just don't feel anything. My world is drowning in apathy. It's probably my own fault for stopping the pills. I've always thought that no one cares if you're depressed, as long as you're not suicidal. Which is pretty fucked up, I mean, if people who were depressed felt like others actually cared about their issues, they may not become suicidal.
A girl at my school committed suicide two weeks ago. For the first week it was obvious that everyone was impacted strongly. Everywhere I went, I could see people crying and hugging, even the graffiti in the bathroom became kind and sympathetic. Though I'd never admit it, I gained a little faith in humanity.
That was a week ago. Now, the bathroom walls are back to their usual state of calling each other "bitch". This I will actually admit, I have lost faith in humanity. Since the dead are so easily forgotten, I'm positive people would not miss a nobody like me. And if I was dead, what would it matter anyway? What would anything matter? Hypothetically, if during the milliseconds between the time I pull the trigger and the bullet enters my brain, I wish to stay alive, it wouldn't matter. As soon as I realized my desire for life, I would die, and I wouldn't have to feel that momentary regret ever again. But that's just my two cents on suicide. However, next week is finals, and after that it's summer. I think that's a good enough reason to live, so I won't kill myself yet.