Sometimes I have an off day. Where I just don’t wanna do anything, but I do wanna do something. Sometimes I feel obligated to spend time with more than one person and I hate having to choose. The worst thing is letting people down, but then again I always have this suspicion that nobody expects anything of me because im not worth their time. Sometimes I want to close my eyes and never open them again.
Smoked with a guy friend from work, then rescued my drunk ass friends from a creepy guy. Had some ice cream.
Before the second semester of my ninth grade year, I was very ugly. At times, I still am. I was well into my cutting addiction, and I think people knew, but no one reached out because no one cared, because I was ugly. And then I cut my hair. I’d cut it before, but it was always straight, red, parted down the middle… I didn’t wear makeup. There was nothing special about me. But I got a cute haircut. And people started to notice me more. Talk to me more. And then I realized how shallow everyone was. Because I was the same person, and my appearance was the only thing that changed, and after it changed, more people wanted to talk to me.
My parents had just divorced and my mom was spending lots of time at the bar. Sometimes she’d bring someone home, sometimes she wouldn’t come home at all. I didn’t mind being home alone. I started listening to Tokio Hotel and wearing makeup, and I pierced my cartilage with a thumbtack because I was bored. And one night I dug through the cabinet and found some hyrdocodone, and I took it. Only a few times did I do this, but it was my first real experience with drugs. One night I took four, and it tripped me out and I called the guy I liked and he said I’d taken too many. So the next time I only took two and it made me throw up my chocolate milkshake from Sonic that my dad had bought me earlier.
I only did it a few times, and I haven’t done it since the ninth grade, but I’m scared to smoke pot now because I’ve been caught twice, not by my parents, but by the cops. I lost a dime in my car and they found it with a drug dog at school. Spent the night in jail. 30 days in DAEP. That was almost it for the consequences because our District Attorney is a softy. But then all that was over with and I didn’t learn my lesson, and they searched my car again, and found my beautiful pipe, Peter. It was so cute— glass with yellow and turquoise stripes. And I should have gone to jail, but the school cop, the same one who arrested me before, only gave me a ticket and now I have to go to court.
So tonight, the first day off I haven’t spent with my boyfriend in a long long time, I watched Donnie Darko and, I don’t know if it was my own decision or if something about the movie triggered it, but I snuck into my mom’s room and found her hydrocodone and stole four pills, but only took three. and decided I needed to take the fourth one, so I did. and now I’m… idk. It’s not like pot, but I do appreciate the feeling. The high. The dizziness.
I’m always so sad. And it’s so easy to get faded and not care about anything.
That’s how I feel, all the time. Just my luck.
Today I told my dad that I plan on killing myself before I graduate. He was furious, of course, which is his own way of caring. He tried to convince me to call the doctor, to find a therapist, to find medication. Maybe a while ago I’d be okay with it, floating from day to day, trying to find something different in the way I feel or the way I see things. Trying. Dreaming. Hoping. But I’m so tired of it all.
I was on medication for a while, around this time last year. Lexapro. But I didn’t like it, it made me feel jittery, and definitely didn’t take the edge off things. Plus I have this weird thing about medication. I don’t want it to change me. I don’t want to be happy just because of a pill, I want to be happy because I am actually capable of it. I want to be me. Which is weird, because I don’t even like myself.
I care about my parents so much, and I know they care about me. This feels like a universal truth. Parents care about their children. But.. I don’t even know what to say here. It wouldn’t be worth it to stay alive just for my parents. Just so they wouldn’t be sad. If them being happy means me being sad, where does that show care?
“I’m tired of fighting windmills and I’m tired of chasing the wind, I will not open my hands to find nothing ever again.”
A quote from my favorite poem.
I am so tired. I’ve always been tired, always been sad, always depressed. But every time I thought about killing myself before, it just made me more sad. To think of the people that would miss me, to think of all that I wouldn’t get to do. But now it almost makes me happy to think that there might actually be a way out of this darkness. Now I know I’ve given up completely because I wouldn’t be sad to die. It doesn’t make me sad to give up. Yes, I’m still sad, but more than ever I’m overcome with a sense of indifference. Yes, I’m sad, but there’s no changing it, so why hope for anything more? Through indifference I even almost feel relief. This is all going to be over soon, and I won’t have to hope, or try, or dream, or give up, or be tired. Maybe it’s the easy way out. Maybe it’s selfish. But what point is there in being selfless by staying alive? How would staying alive benefit anyone? People will be sad if I die, but they’ll get over it. Wounds will heal. Lives will pick back up. Time will still pass and eventually, they will get out of bed and move on. Me? I don’t know if I’ll ever move past this. It’s gone on too long, and I think I was off to a bad start from day one. just my luck.
