wtf why are you reading this shit

Please love me.

I’m so lonely, and I would really like someone to hold me while I cry. I can’t hold myself for much longer. Its lonely, trying to be strong when you’re not. Its frustrating, feeling like no one cares, because they don’t. It makes me cry to think that no matter what I do, I cannot make a single person care about me. Not for long.

And I can cry all I want. It still doesn’t change the fact that no one cares I’m crying.

Years. Years trying to build up a sense of self worth. Self esteem. Self love.

Its tough, trying to convince yourself that you’re worth something when you’re not. Its tough, trying to love yourself when there’s nothing to love.

Hate. That’s the best word for it. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.

I hate myself.

~

In terms of all of sad things to happen in a person’s life, I’ve gone through a decent amount. Not enough to be impressive. I’ve never witnessed a murder, I’ve never had any near-death experiences, I’ve never been horrifically tortured or mistreated.

But its the little things. The little things break me down from the inside.

Things I’ve gone through, they’re small enough that I should be able to overcome them. Maybe my parents are divorced, maybe I was bullied in elementary school. Surely, people have gone through worse. But the things I’ve gone through, however small, are enough to hurt. Enough to leave small bruises here and there. Enough to leave traces of tiny, insignificant scars.

To be honest, I would much rather go through some horrific, significantly traumatic event then these tiny, miniscule, insignificant emotional bruises. I’d rather lose an entire leg than to have these tiny paper cuts that dully hurt and sting all over.

My dad says I just want there to be something wrong with me. And he’s right. Of course I want something to be wrong with me. What is there is nothing wrong with me? Then it would mean, yes, I really am just that worthless and terrible of a person.

More than anything else, I am angry at myself. I am frustrated at myself. I am disappointed in myself. I hate myself. 

And I hate my thoughts.

I hate it when I think about killing myself. I hate it when I think about killing my family, and then killing myself. I hate it when I think about killing my friends, then my family, and then myself. I hate it when I think about how easy it would be to just get a gun and shoot. Shoot everyone I was ever angry with. Or hurt by.

Angry and hurt, mostly because they don’t really care.

But I can’t do that. I couldn’t kill someone just because they don’t care about me. Its not their fault they don’t care. How can you care about someone who doesn’t even care about themselves? Maybe I have the right to kill myself, I don’t have the right to kill them too. They didn’t really do anything wrong to me.

They just ignore me.

Why does everyone ignore me?

Maybe I should just kill myself. I wonder if they’d ignore that, too.

They probably would.

Someone, please, prove me wrong.

To be honest, I don’t think a lot of my friends would even go to the funeral.

And I hate my thoughts. Why do I keep thinking about dying?

I think about it a lot. 

My dad says I’m not really suicidal, because he’s seen suicidal. He said I’m nothing near suicidal. He’s seen people who have shot their parents, and then put the gun to their own heads. But he’s never seen my thoughts. And I think about it a lot.

I remember screaming at my sister, and I telling her to go to hell. She told me she’d see me there, cause that’s where the people who kill themselves go.

That is, probably, the biggest reason I haven’t yet. I don’t know if there is a god, but I do know I don’t want to go to hell. Not that I would make it to heaven even if I didn’t commit suicide, either way.

But if there is a merciful god, he should strike me dead himself. 

Please just kill me, because I can’t bare the shame of doing it myself.

I hate myself.

~

Perhaps what is most frustrating is that, deep down, I know its my fault. It is my fault I am the way I am. Its my fault I am so weak. I could be better. If I really wanted to, I could go out and do something, and be better. I could be the best.

I remember, at my first competition, I lost. I tried to hold it in, hold back my disappointment and anger at myself for losing, but I couldn’t. I cried. And I cried. And my parents, they said it was good that I cried. It was good that I was angry. It was good that I was frustrated. It meant I wanted to be the best.

But that’s the trouble with wanting to be the best. If you can’t win first place, you’d rather not win at all. Second isn’t good enough. At least if you don’t try, you can’t say that you wouldn’t have won. Well, if I had tried, I could have, I just didn’t feel like trying. Go big or go home, I suppose is the best way to describe it.

Eventually, I stopped going to competitions. I stopped going to lessons, too. 

I can’t handle second place.

I had a friend who said the worst thing about me was that I liked to be very very right.

He was wrong. It wasn’t that I liked to be right- I just wanted to be the best. All the time. In everything.

But you can’t be the best all the time in everything. There will always be someone better than you. It is a fact I learned more and more as I got older, and, perhaps in relation, as I got older, I grew more and more miserable.

I can’t be the best. No matter how hard I try, I cannot be the best, I will never be best, and I never was the best. I’m not special enough to be the best. 

But I know, deep down inside, if I tried, I could be.

I hate myself.

~

There are times I cry in my room, and I think about dying, and I know how easy it would be. There are pills and knives and alcohol all over the house, so easily accessible. Illegal drugs, even. My sister, though I am sure she has never touched anything past marijuana, would know exactly how to get stronger drugs. Ones that you could overdose and die from. 

But even I know there are things in life that are still good and worth living for. Reading is good. Music is good. Art is good. Love is good.

So there are times when I cry in my room and I think about dying and I know how easy it would be, but I don’t try to. Instead, I wrap myself in a blanket and hold myself, rocking back and forth, and I pretend I am talking to you. I pretend I am crying to you, and you are right there next to me, and I have a conversation with you in my head. You are saying all the things I think you would say if you were really there. 

But the things you are saying in our imaginary conversation, they are not incredibly sympathetic or loving. You aren’t like that. Instead, my mind has you tell me things like, it could be worse, just stop dwelling on things and move on. Its not that bad, just stop it, you shouldn’t need someone else to tell you you’ll be okay. You need to learn how to be okay by yourself.

And it is almost sad how true to your character your part of our imaginary conversation stays. I take comfort in the words I am making you say in my head, because I know, those are truly the words you would say. It is almost like you are here. 

And though I would like to make you say, instead, it’ll be okay, I love you- you wouldn’t say that. You would say, it could be worse, don’t dwell on it, move on, just like you are saying in my imaginary conversation with you, and just like you have said to me in real conversations in the past. 

I would like for you to love me and to say you love me, because I love you, and I have told you that I love you. But you don’t love me. You never will. And its okay, because I understand why.

And even though I take comfort in my imaginary conversation with you, when I stop and remember you aren’t there, it makes me just as sad that I need your memory to make me feel better. It makes me feel just as lonely, knowing its just in my head, and it isn’t real. It makes me feel just as empty that I could love someone for this long, knowing they will never love me back or care for me or be there for me. 

I will never be as important to you as you are to me. And I know that. But still, the next morning I want to say thank you to you, because you were the reason I didn’t kill myself last night, even though you really didn’t do anything, and even though it was all in my head.

I hate myself.

~

Someone, please love me. I want to be the best. Not in everything. Just to someone. I want to be important to someone, anyone. I want someone to care. I want there to be someone who would miss me if I died. 

I hate myself.

But its the little things, the little things that keep me alive.