PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS NOT HOW I FEEL AT ALL.

PROCEED WITH CAUTION:

Forgive me for not letting you hear what is wrong with me, for I am mentally ill and unstable to be in this world without the right medication to prevent from doing the things that I do and have done and will continue to do.

I see now that everyone cares about me, even if I don’t know them, they know me, and they know enough about me to care for me. So I respect that. However, there are some people in this world that believe their life is worth nothing, that they would be better off if they disappeared forever and never came back, that they were better off dead.

And that’s sort of what being suicidal feels like.

You feel like you don’t try hard enough and that when you do try, it’s never enough to satisfy anyone around you. You feel like the entire world is against you and every waking moment of your life could be someone else’s—someone who wants to live. You feel like depression and anxiety and stress and fear are your only friends—your only real friends because all the human ones have gone to someone else—they replaced you because they hate your guts—they hate you for who you are.

Like nothing matters anymore except for harming yourself because it’s right and no matter how many times people tell you it’s wrong, you know that they don’t care about you. Like you’re a hideous creature with no name, no face, no identity, and you’re left behind in everything like a shadow. Like happiness is now your mortal enemy because you know it’s fake.

You feel that every time you wake up, every time you blink your eyes, every time you breathe, that you’re just bugging everyone around you. That everything you say is never heard because either nobody cares about you, or people don’t know you’re there anymore because you’ve grown so silent to the world around you.
That anyone who looks at you and comes up to you only wants to find your scars and tell you how much of a freak you are.

You feel as if you were born a mistake. As if your parents never even wanted to conceive the idea of you in the first place. As if you are stupid, ugly, fat, broken, annoying, a burden, abandoned, a freak, lost, a mistake, a failure at life and you just say that you’re fine and slap a fake smile on your face so that no one can see who you truly are. So that no one can see everything that you’ve gone through in the past years—the things that make you who you are today—what you are today. So that no one can see the bags under your eyes from the restless nights of crying because your life is the worst. So that no one can see the pain.

And they can’t tell you that they have it worse because you know that you have it worse than anything they could ever think of, multiplied by a thousand. They can’t tell you that it’s bad to harm yourself because they don’t know how you feel, even when they say that they’ve been in your shoes before. They can’t tell you that everything will be okay afterwards because you’re too focused on how you’re going to take it all away.

You feel like every time you look in the mirror, that it wants to shatter into a thousand pieces because you’re so broken on the inside, because you’re so hideous on the outside. Like the weight scale mocks you because you’re the only one who can see the numbers raising with every attempt. Like blood is the only thing you can stand anymore.

And all the “help” that everyone has issued for you can just go out the window because you don’t need it. Like nobody knows what you’re going through and you’re trapped in your own box with the lock on the outside and you’re crying—screaming—for help but nobody is coming to save you because you’re just not worth their time anymore.

That you should’ve been dead from the moment you took your first breath. That every step, every movement, every molecule in your body is being wasted.

You feel like nobody can save you from the internal death-watch clicking inside you, waiting for the last wire to be cut so that it can go off and that you’ll finally be saved from all the horror and finally make everyone happy by disappearing off the face of the Earth forever. And no matter how many times your friends say that they’re there for you, you just can’t find the time to actually believe them. No matter how many times you’re told that you should stop, you don’t listen. No matter how much help you get from the professionals, they can’t prescribe you anything to fix what you’ve become.

That you are the cause of your own problem.

But no matter times you cut, or you burn, or you scream, cry, throw, lash out completely, nothing will change you, nobody will come to save you and tell you everything will be completely, 100% okay. You have to figure it out on your own and wake up every morning, only to hear the same exact things as the days before, to see the same exact people who always make fun of you, to feel the judgement weighing heavily on you all because you want to take your life.

And to say it’s not fair could be an overstatement. They try to help you and you just let the words roll right off you shoulder. They try to stop you but you always find a way to get rid of them. They try to care for you and you always walk away. Because every waking moment of your life is just so bad that you want to throw it all away and make sure that it never comes back. That you don’t even have a life anymore because of all the damage that has been done.

So you devise all these plans of how you’re going to do it and you make lists upon lists upon lists of people who may care and people who may not care if you’re gone. So you make even more plans and sharpen your razors, fill up your lighter fluid, stash more of your pills, tie your rope tighter.

And wait.

You wait for someone to come into your room and find your stash so that they can throw it all away and hug you and say that you shouldn’t because they care way too much about you. That if you were dead, that they’d kill themselves. You wait for that one friend to arrive but nobody comes and you’re left with your depression just slowly filing that last wire away on your internal death-watch.

You constantly tell yourself that today is going to be the day, this is it, but you never do it because you’re too much of a coward. Yet you have the audacity to harm yourself over and over again, only to remind yourself how much of a burden you are to the world around you.

Depression, anxiety, fear, stress—they’re always there for you, telling you how much you suck at living, telling you how much they hate your body, telling you how much they want you to die. They nag and nag at you and you can’t push them away because you’re too weak. You’ve always been weak.

And Mom and Dad can’t do anything about it because they don’t see you—they don’t hear you. They can’t hear your silent pleas for help, for help that you need. For help that you don’t even want.

You try to write down your feeling and yeah, sometimes it helps, but all the other times it doesn’t. You feel like even your diary has turned its back on you because you’ve filled up all the pages with your suicide letters for Mom and Dad.

And the saddest part is, is that you can’t comprehend what life is anymore because you’re so broken, because you’re so torn up inside.

That’s what being suicidal feels like.

And if you think it’s anything different, then no, you haven’t been in our shoes yet. No, you don’t know how to help us. No, you don’t understand. Because only a real friend would talk you through every problem that you’ve had. Only a real friend would put up with your babbling nonsense on why it hurts. Only a real friend would be holding your hand through the entire time.

Even through death.