There was relief when I first entered the my thoughts as if they were someone else's. I wrote eloquently. Specifically, the word fuck. Pencil carved like nothing else, abusing the paper like a sadist and a dog. Writing nonsense in the dark, ambience of candles on one occasion, sleeping suicidal teens another. I was sixteen when I took writing seriously. This new door that echoed my thoughts, experience, and woe in a way that dolled it up, made it seem like it was worth it. A piece of history people wish they had. A cryptic message people envied. My suffering is enjoyable and worth jealousy. But my lust for depravity towards my own body, my psyche, it began to take it's toll. I was socially inept, suicidal. Now I am scared, in true agony. Always without comfort, there is none. There is only worse. Atrocious are all of my young life experiences, that I can remember. Yet I feel nostalgia and warmth, only experiencing the PTSD I should have from then recently, but from realization, life choices, setting. Perhaps my upbringing made me who I am, impacted me negatively to be this scum I haven't grown out of. I apparently used to be cute and happy. But all I remember is a little shit. I thought I got better, but I just became more polite and less annoying. Obviously more unstable. I've had a choking relief thing since fourth grade. It developed into an obsession of hanging. I've trained myself haha. What's more grown than a kid with a grown sense of fuckery and no morals? A confused teen with uncertain morals, mood swings, lapse of conscience, guilt, desire, hatred, toxicity, a lack of knowing anything and the false perception of knowing everything. I'm ll grown up they say. There will never be a difference in me anymore. Throw me away immediately. I'll never crawl back. How can my mom be a fuckjob her entire life and halfway into her thirties become a messiah, forgiven, loved? I've never done anything as bad as her. And I'm sentenced not just to death, but a life of torture in a box. I'm terrible I know. I have always been. Unintentionally yet intentional. I don't know who I am sometimes because I keep talking to myself and we come up with maybe a bunch of different reasonings, truths, problems, personalities, what have you. Yet to settle on one. I'm not multiple people, I am one. But I feel as if and think like multiple. I don't have a Ted, Mary, and Jake. I have a Blaine, I am him, he is me, but I don't know who he is. I feel like he's terrible, deserving of death sometimes. Then he's pathetic, apologetic, "good". I feel bad for him but he doesn't try where he should, yet it also feels like he does and it doesn't matter. There's a circle. It's filled with scratchy lines to and fro but nothing's new and it all repeats. Helpless scared then authority figure. Deserving then undeserving. It's like having a friend who backstabs you but tells you they didn't and they're sorry and constantly questioning their true nature and intentions. I rid myself of all friends, I only make bad ones. How do I rid this bad friend? Is it a copout? Is it normal? Get to know yourself. Okay but shouldn't I already know myself? I am me so I should know... I didn't tip the glass over the edge but I guarantee you I will be the one who both breaks it and is blamed for it. Ive always felt guilty about killing myself. I know it'll be a cycle. But I keep finding myself trying. I don't want to die most the time, but then there's this irresistible headspace and the urge that follows. I know I could sleep it off, but I don't. Finally the courage, I tell myself I want it. I've never been strong enough to be successful, even with the stupidity and aggression. I have almost died many times, I know people who have died for things I've done. Why am I alive? I'm desired by maybe a couple members of my family by right of birth and for merely being polite. It's not that I'm always one way or always evil. It's just the shit I've done can't outweigh what little good I do by being apologetic, ignorant, or polite. I know that you're sorry but change of behavior is only known in cycles. Two minutes, two days, two yeodifjfjfjdjdndbrnrbrbrb. Drowning isn't fun, drinking isn't, drugs aren't, I'm not. I was only ever liked for things I don't enjoy. Doing drugs and drinking, breaking both my legs and biting my only tongue. My personality is either non-existent or complex. But nobody is friends with me for it, or was. My overdose is a sign of commitment to drugs, even if they were merely medical, not recreational. Still, no one wants a corpse on their couch. I run out of breath a lot now, and feel the heart problems. These instances I've tried going away or doing something stupid affect me permanently now. You can't miss what you never had but you also can't fear it. Ignorance is bliss I don't want to know anymore and maybe I don't want to do anymore. I just want to be magically better but I'm always magically worse, maybe consistent. No progress. Only deterioration. I am becoming less as I am more. But soon I will be nothing. I am deemed a menace and I should accept that fact. But I haven't killed anybody, I've only ruined myself forever, is that enough to be locked in a cage forever? No good can come from you. But I still want to have hope. Nobody is involved when I reach out for help, but maybe that's a pointless endeavor. Sentence me to death soon, not whatever the dog cage is.
