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For the most part,
I just wish I wasn’t alone.
But I know, all that I’ve done is push people away. Whether because I simply couldn’t stand their company, or because I felt inferior.
I’m problematic. Probably not a good friend.
Lonely, I’m my own poison.
The feeling only ever becomes more obvious at night, in silence or accompanied by music. In the stillness of my bedroom. I am alone.
I know, what teenager just has other people in their room that late? …Certainly not me.
So there’s no point in feeling this way but there’s no denying that I do. How would I get rid of it? Coming to people for help is absolutely not an option. Dunno why. Just isn’t.
I think about dying a lot. I think about carving myself to pieces and finally feeling free. I think about hanging myself or stabbing myself and bleeding out. I think about slitting my throat. Or my wrists. I think about drowning. I think about throwing myself into ditches. I think about disappearing. I think about walking into the way of a moving car. I think a lot. But in the end, I feel something.
Some type of way about thinking at all.
Do my thoughts matter if nobody else cares about them?
You could say I am a person so if I care, somebody does care, but I don’t even feel like I exist.
And it should probably stay that way.
I’m scared of being noticed. Observed. Judged.
And yet it seems I yearn for attention and to be seen and heard and talked to.
So in the end, I’m at a standstill with myself.
I don’t believe I have the strength to be a real person in the real world, so I’ll withdraw.
My thoughts matter because they’re all I have.
I don’t have anyone. Not truly.
All that I have is all that matters for me.
Because I’m the end, none of it matters.
I dread the end, and can’t wait for it to come, simultaneously. I’m so scared of living forever and I’m scared of leaving forever. One has to be worse than the other and I simply can’t tell which one it is. Is it better to live here and strive to live normally, successfully as alone and dreary as I feel?
Teenage angst. Puberty. Hormones. Phases. Emo crap. Depression. Mood swings.
Can everything I’ve ever felt and thought be reduced to these terms? Wouldn’t that be something? To think I’m ready to die, only to find out that if I wait just 4-5 more years, the worst of it will be over and it’ll be smooth sailing.
I can’t even say I’ve suffered. Just a few cuts here and there. Just some tears and sad nights. Just some horrendous body image stuff. And boom ur done. Adult time.
I can’t be serious with myself if everything I am can be called overly dramatic. Im tired. It’s not this home. It’s me. And it’s not me. Then what is it
Im tired of my thoughts.
Just a bunch of circles
Not even my own
Im tired of living, at the moment. Can’t take myself seriously. This is dumb. I feel stupid. I’m never doing this again.