I wanted to die. Like really. The kind where if you had a gun, you would be dead. I used to think I had overcome that feeling. The true feeling I mean. I’d like to think everyone must wish they were dead at some point in their life…it’d make me feel a whole lot better if they thought about it at least once a week…

I feel normal. I don’t feel whack or messed up; I know I’m psychologically fucked up because I can feel the difference, but I don’t feel like I’m as fucked up as I could be.

Sometimes I do want to die. I feel like there is just no reason to continue with the monotony. But God saved me 9 years ago and I always felt like I owed it to Him to be here; to stick it out. I always said I could never try again; that would be like a slap in God’s face, no?

But then I felt it again. Hadn’t really felt it in 9 years; that’s why it was so easy to say that I could never…I thought the fleeting thoughts were the same as the ones I had had before. I thought I had mastered that part of my mind; I thought I had control of me.

I don’t know if I can ever describe the feeling that is true, utter despair. This is not the feeling of losing your loved one, breaking up with your girlfriend or fiance, losing your job, or any one depressing thing you can think of but rather all the depressing things you can think of at one instant. It’s the epitome of despair; it’s hopelessness felt. It feels like your heart is swimming in your tears, your mind is clouded by the fog, and all you want to do is be outside of existence: death.

If I had a gun two weeks ago, idk. Like now, I don’t have that feeling. I don’t feel it in the marrow of my bones; I feel depressed, but not hopeless. I feel alone, but I don’t feel alone. I feel like crying, but I don’t need to cry.

I felt like at the time if I had one I would have just done it. I felt that truly in those days. I didn’t understand though. I hadn’t felt that way in so long that even the feeling made me even more depressed because I thought I’d lost my way again. I thought I would fall. But I didn’t. I stayed in, and actually went out for a couple of hours, and I fought myself. I made myself deal with the pain. Not deal as in I could handle it, but deal as in I could handle it enough not to end it in such a final manner. Just deal enough to make it another day.

So I exist. I’m alive. I still exist. I can’t talk to anyone because no one understands. Or they act like they do. Or they think they do, but they don’t care to find out. They don’t care to verify what they think they know. I can’t talk to anyone because I don’t care to explain myself, and I know I can go on some long tangents. I can’t talk to anyone because they don’t hear me anyhow.

I hate how people assume they know what is going on through my head. I hate how people assume period. I’m an open book. Ask. If I don’t want to tell you, I won’t, but fuck, I ask. I prod. I fucking try to show a fucking interest in people. I try to show the people I care about that I do actually care about them. I try to show them I care enough to ask before I assume; I’m not fucking perfect, I make mistakes, but shit I try. I try the best I can I think. Because I actually care. Care. Care. Care. But why? I don’t know. Maybe I don’t. I doubt myself now more than ever; I don’t know who I am if I can’t see me for me…or I don’t get it. I don’t. I thought I cared about everyone (almost everyone) before myself, but like where does the part about me being all about myself come in? I just don’t get it.

Throw me under a bus, and I don’t care. But I care because it hurts, but I don’t care to feel a void. Think I’m a liar, I care. I care because it’s the only thing I know how to do right; every time I think lying is the way to get shit in this world, I can’t wrap my head around the HOW. How does a lie form? Where does it come from? I know I’ve lied many times, but when you get into a routine of day in and day out going to work, talking with people, going home, bed, and repeat, the opportunities to lie are like nil (as far as I can see). Little practice time makes for a bad liar. The one who thinks too long to come up with a lie and ends up telling the truth as anyhow; it’s just easier for me. I don’t know why everyone doesn’t just do it. One less thing to stress about geeze. And stretch the truth? I don’t get it. Wth does that mean will someone please tell me? Is that good or bad? I mean do you say ‘hey that guy is hot’ when he’s really average or ‘you are a stud’ when he’s really a dud? One is a stretch, right? The other a lie? Then why stretch? For good reasons only? Still….why stretch? Idk. My sister lies. Everyone lies. I lie to myself.

I try to convince myself I’m stronger than I am. I’m not.

I can let whatever will be be, but it sucks when you have the perfect set of gloves and lose one of the pairs; ya can find another set, but they’ll never fit like your favorite set.

….Word vomit. I just say what comes to my head in the order that it comes and sometimes it makes sense. Sometimes it helps me see me. Sometimes I can have a revelation, but this time…it’s just word vomit–all the thoughts I had on my mind in the past half hour. Someone asked me to tell them a story, and all I could think to say was that the only one I know to tell is the truth. And it’s true. I hate to tell stories; I don’t like to give false dreams. I’m a realist; I don’t do good stories well. (I do not have the overwhelming urge to end things. I plan not to have that feeling anytime soon again if I can. I plan to do the same damn thing if I do: beat my demons.)

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