You never really realize how bad you may be until you see the horrified look on the peoples faces when you try to seek help and tell people how you are feeling.
Those faces I’ve seen a few times the last two days. One of them is my own, when I catch myself looking at myself in the mirror for a second.
It was honestly so difficult telling people what is going on in my head. It took me an hour to tell the first person. I knew that I was in a bad state, but not that bad. I had a full on anxiety/panic attack when I was with the first person yesterday. She was so afraid for me that we had an emergency well-being check up with the doctor this morning who is going to help.
I’m scared of the thoughts in my head. They’re not me.
I’ll start from the start.
It hurts to see you and it makes me excited to see you. I don’t want to love you anymore. I don’t want to feel it anymore. I don’t want to hope that you love me to. Ever since what happened to me in Vietnam, I promised myself not to get involved again, to not care again, and you made me care. You made me care so much that I wish with every part of me that you cared too. But the sad reality, is that you don’t.
I get anxious when I see the other two.
The first one at Ball last week and constantly looking for him at dinners and breakfasts. I can’t keep looking over my shoulder every little mouse noise I hear. I don’t want to be paranoid about locking my door all the time in fear of him coming into my room again, or anyone for that matter. I always thought something like that would be romantic, but it’s really not. It’s really really not.
I don’t want to hate the face I see at dinners every night. The two faced, backstabbing bitch is always there and coming into my life uninvited. I don’t want to have to leave my friend at the breakfast table after attempting to conquer my fear of setting of her anxiety, which gives me worse anxiety. So much so, that I need to lie down in bed after returning to my room breathless and squeezing my hands to calm down my racing heart with music because she makes me that stressed. I don’t faze her, she’s a liar. I understand that sounds petty, but until you or anyone can explain the feeling of having a person you really care for and wanted to genuinely help happily take your money and your trust and strip away the mental ability you have to keep myself alive and sane enough to continue to drive back home to work during the weekend, and then not bat a pretty little eye when she takes your heart and crushes it in her perfect little hands, don’t judge me.
And my dear, dear “friends.” What can I say? All but one of them acted like that two-faced backstabbing bitch the one night I really need them. I get they all have their issues, I know about them and I help when they need me, but seriously. I will always put my issues and self-worth to the side if it means that it makes the lot of them happy. I love them like family, and they all treated me like a fucking unwanted dog. I can’t believe that I look out for them and they do that to me.
I feel so deeply for people, I care way too much. I am too kind, I am too nice, I am too sweet, I am too shy. You even said so yourself, I am too honest.
I will always help people, no matter how intimidating they are, or how two faced they are. I give my everything to others so much so that there is nothing left for myself. Or the parts I leave for myself are the parts of me that I can’t give to people because they’re so sad and so dull. I can’t deal with having those little pieces of me that make me miserable all the time. It’s either this, or suicide.
I’ve been thinking of the second for a while now. The night that I cut myself, that’s what I was planning. Nights after that have been me imagining how I would do it. I know how I would do it. I didn’t care. I couldn’t live in a world where I am the only person who cares about others and no body cares about me. I can’t live in a place that really has no purpose at all. What is the point of living my life for helping others, because when I leave, no one will remember me. Human kind will be dead in the next 100,000 years anyway. Perhaps MHIS115 was a bad idea. You really shouldn’t teach an intelligent, suicidal girl about the timeline of the Universe and our insignificance. But I guess that’s the repercussions with wanting to make a better life for yourself, you open yourself up to a world of ugly and heart-breaking truths.
In my previous letters, I was asking for a switch and I guess this is it. I was hoping for a way out where I could not have to care about my feelings and just continue with what I am doing until I am out of here. I am so scared about how I will change and who I am going to change into, but also exhilarated. Isn’t it incredible, what a tiny pill every day can do… Completely change your outlook on life and hopefully make me happy again.
I wanted it to not feel anymore. I want this to numb me until I forget how you made me feel, how the other people make me feel. I don’t want to be me anymore, but I don’t want to loose myself. I don’t want to be thinking that maybe I can change into someone that you may actually have feelings for. I’m tired of the hope that you may actually care about me as much as I care about you.
Hopefully I change into someone better. Someone that doesn’t care about people anymore. Maybe then I can write properly. I can’t keep calling myself a writer if I can’t write anything.
Before Vietnam, I wrote everyday. I loved it, it was my drug. I don’t write anymore. Stories build but I give them no outlet. Maybe that’s why I think of you every day. You’re a story I want to gush out onto paper.
But I am scared or those words. I am afraid of what I need to write. Afraid of what people may think.
This is what these antidepressants are for.