• Dear Mental illness

    by  • November 22, 2016 • Depression • 0 Comments

    Dear you
    I don’t know what you are anymore. And that thought terrifies the fuck out of me. Because if I don’t know what I’m dealing with, then I’ll never cure you. For years I thought you were anxiety, then I thought you were just teenage angst and finally I came to the conclusion that you were depression. And while that didn’t make it any better, at least I could talk to other people about it, and we could feel as if someone else understood. But lately, you haven’t been coming on that strong. You still make me feel worthless, you still make me feel alienated, you still take moments from me, and you will make me feel helpless and alone,but  you don’t give me panic attacks at school anymore. You don’t push me away from my parents anymore. You don’t make me think about what I’ll put in my suicide note just to get through the day. But isn’t that what depression is about? Isn’t it about pushing away those who want to help? Isn’t it feeling suicidal all the time? I don’t know, because that’s all I know. I still carry something around with Me,something that weighs me down and doesn’t let me breathe sometimes, but I don’t know if you’re depression. And if you’re not, why do I still want to cut myself? Why do I still have to fight the urge to make myself bleed every time I’m cutting my meat, or using scissors. Why do I still have a hard time falling asleep because I feel as if I’m worthless and that its not worth it to keep going on. Why do I still try and make it through the day without paying attention to the future? Is that what you’ll take from me? My future? That’s the only thing I’m holding onto now. If I can’t have my future, my glorious future where I’m thin, pretty, smart, independent, friendly, outgoing and most of all, happy, then I have nothing. Because right now, I’m nothing. And I pray, every single day, that I’ll just stop breathing, because the future i’m holding onto isn’t mine. Because I won’t magically transform into anything that’s worth while. And no matter how happy I get, I can’t find the motivation to want to continue living. So, I don’t know what you are, but I’m too tired to deal with you. Too tired mentally, too tired from dealing with you. Thank you for killing me inside but not having the decency to kill me physically. Keeping me up all night with your stupid fucking suicidal thoughts doesn’t count because it won’t kill me. I hope that at least you’re happy with yourself. Because god know that I’m not.

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