TW: Self-harm, depression, graphical depictions of death, suicidal tendencies, stigmas (?)

I fear and I fear and I fear. The thoughts that haunt me at night, of those I'd left behind in this mindless pursuit of something that has long been lost.

I don't have the typical social media portrayal of depression; I don't scream, I don't cry. There is no one to push away because everyone's a continent and an ocean away. I lie there and contemplate suicide. Not that anyone knows. No one knows because I haven't told them, perhaps I never will. It's as bad as coming out, not that I've done before. The society stigmatises depression as much as it does homosexuality. At least the one I'd been brought up in. 'What right do you have to be depressed?' I too, have this, this way of thinking, that I'm wrong, wrong, wrong.

There is no reason for this. There aren't any divorced parents, there aren't abuse problems, we're not poor by any means, the family isn't falling apart at the seams, there isn't a war, no one's dead or dying or sick. I don't understand it, and only blame my mind.

Perhaps there's a genetic disposition. I suspect J has it too. But she talks about it; I don't. I can't tell her. I can tell no one. Internalised stigma. I can't tell her that I spend most days thinking about suicide and how I would carry it out. (A forceful blade down the radial artery; jumping off the roof; walking into a busy road with eyes closed; about a hundred painkillers) Can't tell my (our) parents because they won't understand. Mommy won't; she thinks depression is a choice and that it's illogical and we (I) don't know how to make her understand.

I can't tell anyone because there is nothing to tell. How do you say, with ease, that all you want is to sleep and never wake up, that nearly every waking hour is devoted to lamenting the banality of your existence, and that there is really no point in your living? How do you reconcile the contradicting facts and opinions in your head, how do you get rid of this thing that is eating away at you from the inside? How can you ever be sure that once you tell someone they would understand and not just tell you to get over it? How do you know, then, that it's not something everyone feels, considering that for the past fourteen months you have been alone in your mind?

I'd hid away for so long I lose my hold on what's normal and what's not. I've concealed this part since forever that I could almost fool myself into thinking that I'm normal, and that the scars on my arm are an accident.

At night I paint graphical depictions of my own death. 1. Run over by a car at high speeds, the loud crunching of bone on asphalt, the squelching of tissue by rubber tyres, the blood that seeps out in dark red gushes. The smell of burnt rubber, the screams of the breaks. The scatter of books and papers, fluttering away in the wind like a cheeky lover blowing a kiss. 2. The touch of a blade on pure virgin flesh. The amount of pressure placed on the index to part the flesh. The slow welling up of blood from the wound. The tingle of pain that the nerves send up to the brain. The drop of blood large enough to trickle down your arm. The taste of blood in your mouth as you lick a strip up, the coppery iron taste. The thought of your heart pumping, systole diastole. The loss of blood as you bleed out with your arm stretched across the table. The last thought you have as your life winks out.

In the day I am silent and stern, they think I'm mute. That's fine, then they don't have to know about all the thoughts I have. Would it send a chill down their spine, knowing that everyday could be my last, at my own hands? Or would they just not care? Why do you only care about people once they are gone; what's the point, they're already dead. Poor Vincent.