Sometimes I feel so sad that I am incapable of speaking, so forlorn that being alive hurts just as much as having a broken heart. And I have had my fair share of that too.
It isn’t something I broadcast, I aim to be upbeat (or at least cynically cheerful) but the truth is that I am depressed with myself. I look at people in the street and just wish that I could be like them, to feel the joy of being normal for normality is something I am only faintly familiar with.
Sometimes I hide womblike in my bed, hoping that some miracle will happen and that I’d be taken away from my sadness. But alas I have to get up and face the day, knowing that whatever happens to me, I’ll still feel this way.
People keep saying that suicide is selfish, that what about the folks left behind, that it is better to live than to die. To that, I have only one response:
If it is selfish to hurt others by killing yourself, how is it not selfish to be emotionally blackmailed into staying alive, into spending the next sixty years of your life feeling that your heart is being slowly squeezed just so that a few people won’t feel a brief pang of sadness that will die away within a few years?
It is said that we should try to make the world a better place before we leave it but what if the world will be improved by your absence? What then? And so it occurs to me that no-one would miss me if I should disappear, to vanish into the void. Well, not no-one but only a few people would mourn my passage and then I’d be quietly forgotten, erased from the pages of history.
The truth is this: I don’t want to die alone. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hungering after the one things that alludes me. It is not fair that I should be made to suffer simply because I am unlovable, because I am worth little to nothing.
All I know is that I am tired of crying.
I think too much
I cry too much
I am too much.
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