S.
warning: this piece may sound like it’s about my romances, but it’s actually just about suicide. again.
It’s been a while since I last sat down with my feelings. I should have been writing a little more.
If I had maybe everything would be different, right now.
Every second there’s quiet around me I see J’s face. The disgusted expression he had when we talked really got to me. I hate that it’s what he feels when he thinks about me. I’m not saying he’s wrong, just that it’s not what I wanted. What kills me is that after that disgusted face I see flashbacks of that one other face, the one he did in bed. I ruined that. I did that.
I feel empty. I got what I’ve wanted for months. And yet, I can’t be happy about it.
Why did it take me so little to fuck up a perfectly good thing?
The truth is I know why. I do not truly believe I deserve to be happy and as carefree as I felt with him.
I am still in love with L. This is the one and only reason.
I thought I was ready, ready to let go of him, ready to start something new, ready to be someone different. I was not. I am not. I am still the same fucked up kid. I am still unable to regulate my emotions, still unable to live without pain.
I say I stopped self-harming, but I’m actually lying. I pain stim. And I can’t feel pain anymore, so. So I opened up my index finger with my nail in two different points. You can see raw flesh in there. I still don’t feel much. I put a band aid on it, just not to bleed all over campus, but I keep pushing into it, just to feel a fragment of the stimulation.
I wish I could feel more pain. Both physically and emotionally. Unfortunately I am dull and empty. Oh, don’t I love depression.
I keep thinking J deserves better. Just in general, he deserves someone who can be happy, not someone who thinks about suicide even while having sex. And I’m not saying I’m not lovable cause I’m severely depressed, nor that he couldn’t handle it, I’m just saying he deserves to not think about it.
I had this same thought about L. a few months ago. I guess he’s kinda used to my ramblings about suicide. I know he still gets scared, I see it in his eyes. He thinks he can do something about it, that he has an influence in wether I kill myself or I don’t. But he doesn’t. Not really. I just will do it. At some point. I know I will die in a bloody mess. It’s either someone else that opens me up like in my dreams, or I’ll do it. I’ve known this since I was 9. I hate how some people tell me I’m romanticising suicide when I say stuff like this. I’m not. These are just facts to me.
Love doesn’t change much. The dread that I feel about life has just always been there, unfazed by any emotional state I’ve ever been in.
I hope I can be happy. I hope I’ve made the right choice.
I think it’s the only choice I could have made.
(I didn’t think there would have been a choice. I thought this wasn’t an option.)
The only thing that made sense was following my feelings.
But I also really believe in the universe. Everything will unfold how it’s meant to. Every atom will interact with the others exactly how it’s supposed to. Entropy will increase and decrease for me when it has to. For J when it has to. For L when it has to. But our lives connected, even if for a brief moment, and that doesn’t happen without a purpose.
We’ll find out, one day.
Or they will, by the river, with the burned remains of my body.
Do not cry for me when I’m dead. Know that it’s finally quiet and peaceful.